“Has the noble Vinicius returned?” inquired Petronius.
“Yes, lord, a moment ago,” replied the slave.
“He has not rescued her,” thought Petronius. And casting aside his toga, he ran into the atrium. Vinicius was sitting on a stool; his head bent almost to his knees with his hands on his head; but at the sound of steps he raised his stony face, in which the eyes alone had a feverish brightness.
“Thou wert late?” asked Petronius.
“Yes; they seized her before midday.”
A moment of silence followed.
“Hast thou seen her?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“In the Mamertine prison.”
Petronius trembled and looked at Vinicius with an inquiring glance. The latter understood.
“No,” said he. “She was not thrust down to the Tullianum [The lowest part of the prison, lying entirely underground, with a sin
