Without another word he went forward, holding his lamp down that those who followed might see the steps and not stumble at them.
“This way,” said he, “and bow your heads, the entrance is low; but most of them that pass this way have to hold their heads still lower when they are taken out. Look at these stones—great blocks built by the Kings—by Servius Tullus, they say. By Hercules! this is not a tavern where men tarry long, nor do they relish our fare. One thing I must say in our favor, we make no charge for our hospitality.” Thus the jailer muttered as he went along.
“Look there—on your right—there is the cell where Simon Bar Gioras, the Jew, was strangled—he who was the last to maintain the struggle against the God Titus, in defence of Jerusalem; and see—” he threw open a door. “Here is the Bath of Mamertius in which Jugurtha was starved, all in blackness of darkness and soaking in ice-cold water. What! Impatient—do you not care to see the sights and hear my gossip? Well, well—but I have pretty things to show. I have a shankbone of Appius Claudius, who committed suicide in yon cell, and a garment of Sejanus, and the very bowstring wherewith—I am going on as fast as may be. See! we have had Christians here also. There was another Jew, Simon Petrus by name, he was in this cell, and I have the chain whereby he was bound, and I sell the links to the followers of the Nazarene,” he began to cackle. “By Hercules! the chain is long enough. They come for more links than there would be, were the chain to reach across the Tiber. But any bit of old iron will serve, and they are not particular—take any scrap and pay in silver. I am going as fast as may be. I am not young. Fast enough I warrant. He is in no hurry—not Lamia. He can wait. All the same to him whether we reach him now or an hour hence.”
Then Domitia, whose brow was beaded with cold sweat, like the stones of the vault that ran with moisture, laid hold of the prison-keeper’s arm and said:—“Tell me—is he—” she could not say the word, her heart beat so furiously, and everything swam before her eyes.
“Aye, aye, you shall see for yourself. Come from the Augustus to satisfy him that we do our work properly, I trow. I have not much strength in these old-hands, but my two sons are lusty—and say the word—they will bend your back and snap the spine, smite and shear off your head like a pumpkin under a scythe, twist, and the life is throttled out of you. Here—here we are. Go in and see for yourself that we are good workmen.”
He threw open a door and raised his lamp.
A low vaulted chamber was faintly illumined by the flame, the torch held by Eboracus was behind Domitia and the jailer; he had taken it from the link boy at the prison door. He and Euphrosyne attended their mistress, the boy was left without.
The old prison-keeper stood on one side.
“The order came yesterday,” said he, “and we are not slack in the execution.”
Domitia saw the figure of a man lying on the stone floor. She started forward—