Steadily, almost guiltily, averting his face
from his master's countenance, he stood by Vetranio's couch, a frail and
fallen being, a mournful spectacle of perverted docility and degraded
youth.
Still true, however, to the duties of his vocation, he ran his thin,
trembling fingers over the lyre, and mechanically preluded the
commencement of the ode. But during the silence of attention which now
prevailed, the confused noises from the people in the street penetrated
more distinctly into the banqueting-room; and at this moment, high above
them all--hoarse, raving, terrible, rose the voice of one man.
'Tell me not,' it cried, 'of perfumes wafted from the palace!--foul
vapours flow from it!--see, they sink, suffocating over me!--they bathe
sky and earth, and men who move around us, in fierce, green light!'
Then other voices of men and women, shrill and savage, broke forth in
interruption together:--'Peace, Davus! you awake the dead about you!'
'Hide in the darkness; you are plague-struck; your skin is shrivelled;
your gums are toothless!' 'When the palace is fired you shall be flung
into the flames to purify your rotten carcass!'
'Sing!' cried Vetranio furiously, observing the shudders that ran over
the boy's frame and held him speechless.
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