But none wore the girdle which Vergilius had cut in twain.
The king stood before them, raging like a man possessed of demons.
Fate, which had whispered through lips of beauty in the palace at Caesarea, now thundered in the voice of power.
"Serpents, murderers, children of the devil!" he roared.

"Soon shall your souls wander in hell and your bodies rot in the valley of Hinnom.
Take them to the torture, and make it slow for such as give us no further knowledge.

Away with them! Let their food be fear and their drink be the sweat of agony and their end be death at the games of Caesar!" The will of that graceful and voluptuous maiden had been well if only partially expressed.
A guard of soldiers led the unfortunate men away.
Herod, now weak and trembling, took the arm of Vergilius.
"To my palace!" said he, and they made their way to his litter.
"It will do no good to put them to torture," said Vergilius.

"You have heard all.

They have met in darkness and the leaders have disguised their voices.