“Then prepare for torture.”
“O Gyges, Gyges!” cried Psyche. “Would that thou wert here to help me!”
“No one can help thee,” said the implacable tyrant.
“But have I not suffered enough?” she said, breathing quickly and stamping nervously with her foot on the marble floor. “Do not press my thumbs! I have told thee the truth! I know nothing! Ah!” she screamed suddenly, as a new thought surged in her mind. “I understand. Gannon did not fall. He was killed, ay, killed!”
“Come, O pretty maid; not so loud. Pray be calm.”
“Ay, killed, for knowing what? My parents are in prison for the same cause—what? And I am to be tortured to confess—what?”
“Time will show,” said Sejanus, grimly, as he noticed the hysterical condition of Psyche. He called a soldier and said: “Place this prisoner in a private cell. Go!”
“May I not see my parents?” cried Psyche, beseechingly.
“No,” he abruptly replied. As she left the office, moaning and crying, he said to himself, “A very fair maiden, and perchance—” A smile passed over his evil face as he thought of Psyche alone and in his power.
Shortly after, the soldier who had been despatched for Gannon’s tunic returned and handed it to his master. After reading Gannon’s writing, Sejanus craftily said, “Art thou content with thy position?”