In the midst lay the dead general, and his child clung to him, kissed him, chafed his hands, endeavored to stanch his wound, and addressed him with endearments.
But all was in vain. The spirit was beyond recall, and were it to return would again be expelled. Corbulo was dead.
The poor child clasped him, convulsed with tears; her copious chestnut hair had become unbound, and was strewed about her, and even dipped in her father’s blood. She was as though frantic with despair; her gestures, her cry very different from the formal expressions and utterances of the servile mourners.
But Lamia at length touched her, and said—
“Come away, Domitia. You cannot prevent Fate.”
Suddenly she reared herself on her knees, and put back the burnished rain of hair that shrouded her face, and said in harsh tones:—
“Who slew him?”
“He fell on his own sword.”
“Why! He was happy?”
Before an answer was given, she reeled and fell unconscious across her father’s body.