Not without much show of wrath did Heliodora yield.  As she left the room, her eyes turned to Sagaris, who had shrunk into a corner, coward fear and furious passion distorting his face.  The lady having been borne away, a few soldiers remained in the house, where they passed the night.  On the morrow Bessas himself paid a visit to that famous museum of sculpture, and after an inspection, which left no possible hiding-place unsearched, sent away to the Palatine everything that seemed to him worth laying hands upon.

Meanwhile the domestics had all been held under guard.  Sagaris, who heard his relations with Heliodora jested over by the slaves and soldiers, passed a night of terror, and when he knew of the commander’s arrival, scarce had strength to stand.  To his surprise, nothing ill befell him.  During the pillage of the house he was disregarded, and when Bessas had gone he only had to bear the scoffs of his fellow-slaves.  These unfortunates lived together as long as the scant provisions lasted, then scattered in search of sustenance.  The great house on the Quirinal stood silent, left to its denizens of marble and of bronze.

Sagaris, who suspected himself to have been tricked by Heliodora in the matter of her removal to the Palatine, and had not the least faith in her power to beguile Bessas, swore by all the saints that the day of his revenge should come; but for the present he had to think of how to keep himself alive.  Money he had none; it was idle to hope of attaching himself to another household, and unless he escaped to the Goths, there was no resource but to beg from one or other of those few persons who, out of compassion and for their souls’ sake, gave alms to the indigent.  Wandering in a venomous humour, he chanced to approach the Via Lata, and out of curiosity turned to the house of Marcian.  Not knowing whether it was still inhabited, he knocked at the door, and was surprised to hear a dog’s bark, for nearly all the dogs in Rome had already been killed and eaten.  The wicket opened, and a voice spoke which he well remembered.

’You alive still, old Stephanus?  Who feeds you?  Open and teach me the art of living on nothing.’

He who opened looked indeed the image of Famine—­a fleshless, tottering creature, with scarce strength left to turn the key in the door.  His only companions in the house were his daughter and the dog.  Till not long ago there had been also the daughter’s child, whom she had borne to Marcian, but this boy was dead.

‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Stephanus mysteriously, drawing his visitor into the atrium, and speaking as if the house were full of people who might overhear him.  ’Your coming to-day is a strange thing.  Have you, perchance, had a dream?’

‘What dream should I have had?’ answered Sagaris, his superstition at once stirring.