Let not the rav’nous monster leap and lacerate the soul.
And then on son of Tartarus advance with pity sweet,
The fluttering, frightened, parted soul, approaching gently greet!”
“Enough,” said Domitian, and waved his hand. “How likest thou that, Domitia?”
“Methinks, sire, the words are ominous. Suffer me I pray thee to retire—for I am not well.”
As she rose, she looked at Paris. Their eyes met, and at once a horror—a premonition of evil fell on her, and turned her blood to ice.
He raised his hand to his lips and said in a low tone as she passed him:—
“Morituri te salutant.”
“I’ faith it is an excellent jest!” said Messalinus—“I relish it vastly.”