At the same moment rose a long-drawn, desolate wail, rising, falling, ebbing, flowing—a sea of sound infinitely sad, heart-thrilling, blood-congealing.
For one awful moment, one of those moments that seems an eternity, Domitia remained motionless.
She could hear articulate words, voices now.
“Come back! O Cnæus! Come, thou mighty warrior! Come, thou pillar of thy race! Come back, thou shadow! Return, O fleeted soul! See, see! thy tabernacle is still warm. Return, O soul! return!”
She knew it—the conclamatio; that cry uttered about the dead in the hopes of bringing back the spirit that has fled.
Then, before Lamia could stop her, Domitia started from the margin of the pool, startling the fish again and sending them flying as rays from where she had been seated, and ran to the house.
The gardener, with the timidity of a slave, did not venture to forbid passage.
A soldier who was withdrawing extended his arm to bar the doorway. Quick as thought she dived below this barrier, and next moment with a cry that cut through the wail of the mourners, she cast herself on the body of her father, that lay extended on the mosaic floor, with a blood-stained sword at his side, and a dark rill running from his breast over the enamelled pavement.
Next moment Lamia entered.
Around the hall were mourners, slaves of the house, as also some of those of Longa Duilia, raising their arms and lowering them, uttering their cries of lamentation and invocations to the departed soul, some rending their garments, others making believe to tear their hair and scratch their faces.