Again she tramped up and down the room. She could endure to have no one with her. She sent all her servants away.
But the air within was stifling. She could not breathe, the ceiling came down on her head, and again she went forth.
Now she could hear voices below in the Sacred Way. She could see lights, coming from several quarters, and drawing together to one point where they formed a cluster, and from this point rose a wail—the wail of the dead.
She wiped her brow. She was sick at heart, and again went within, and found Eboracus there, cast down and silent.
“Speak,” she said hoarsely.
“It was too late. He had been stabbed in the back, whilst leaving the palace, and a pupil was assassinated at the same time, because somewhat resembling him.”
Domitia stood cold as marble. She covered her mouth for a moment with her right hand, and then in a hard voice said:—
“Inform Euphrosyne. I cannot.”
Then she turned away, went to her bed-chamber, and was seen of none again that night. Several of her female slaves sought admission to undress her, but were somewhat roughly dismissed.
In that long night, Domitia felt as one drowning in a dark sea. She stretched out her hands to lay hold of something—to stay her up, and found nothing. She had nothing to look forward to, no shore to which she might attain by swimming, nothing to care for, nothing to cling to. There was no light above, only the unsympathetic stars that looked down on the evil there was, the wrong that was done, and cared not. The pulsation of their light was not quickened by sense of injustice, they did not veil their rays so as to hide from them the horrors committed on earth. There was no light below, save the reflection of the same passionless eyes of heaven.