He stood motionless, expecting every breath to feel a
point plunging into his flesh. Suddenly some one blew a sharp whistle
close beside him. Then, for a little, it seemed as if the doors were
being rent by thunderbolts. Crowding forms and cries of terror filled
the darkness. The young Vergilius kept his place after the first
outbreak. Men, rushing past him, had torn the toga from his back. The
hands which had clung upon him now held his wrist with a grip
immovable. Doors fell and lights were flashing in. He saw now, on
every side, a gleam of helmet and cuirass. Men, retreating from the
lights, huddled in a dark corner. Some began to weep and cry to God.
The scene was awful with swiftness and terror. The crowding group
moved like caving sand. It sank suddenly, every man going to his
knees. Quick as the serpent, a line of soldiers flung itself around
them. Vergilius, with the man who clung to him, stood apart near the
middle of the chamber.
Suddenly he heard an impatient, wrathful shout close beside him:
"Lights here, ye laggards!"
Vergilius jumped as if he had felt the prick of steel.
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