Drusus was standing under the Athena, with the keen steel in his hand--its blade dyed crimson; and at his feet lay Ahenobarbus's favourite valet--the wretch literally disembowelled by one deadly stroke.
"Fly, fly!" she implored; "they will bring arms! They will never let you escape." "I'll pay you for letting him kill Croesus," howled Lucius, facing himself resolutely toward his enemy.

"How can he fly when the house is full of servants, and his boat is away from the landing?
You give yourself trouble for no purpose, my lady! Lentulus's people will be here with swords in a moment!" But as he spoke a blow of some unseen giant dashed him prostrate, and upon the terrace from below came Cappadox, foaming with anxious rage, his brow blacker than night, his brawny arms swinging a heavy paddle with which he clubbed the cowering slaves right and left.
"Have they killed him! Have the gods spared him!" These two demands came bounding in a breath from the honest servant's lips.

And when he saw Drusus, bleeding, but still standing, he rushed forward to fling his arms about his master's neck.
"Fly! fly!" urged Cornelia, and out of the building, armed now with swords and staves, came flocking the freedmen of the house and as many slaves as they could muster.
"_Salve!_ carissima," and Drusus, who never at the instant gave thought to the blood all over him, pressed her in one last kiss.

He gained the terrace steps by a single bound ahead of his armed attackers.

Cappadox smote down the foremost freedman with a buffet of the oar.