For some time little alteration appeared in the countenances of either
of the suicide-rivals; but they had now drunk to that final point of
excess at which wine either acts as its own antidote, or overwhelms in
fatal suffocation the pulses of life. The crisis in the strife was
approaching for both, and the first to experience it was Marcus.
Vetranio, as he watched him, observed a dark purple flush overspreading
his face, hitherto pale, almost colourless. His eyes suddenly dilated;
he panted for breath. The vase of wine, when he strove with a last
effort to fill his cup from it, rolled from his hand to the floor. The
stare of death was in his face as he half-raised himself and for one
instant looked steadily on his companion; the moment after, without word
or groan, he dropped backward over his couch.
The contest of the night was decided! The host of the banquet and the
master of the palace had been reserved to end the one and to fire the
other!
A smile of malignant triumph parted Vetranio's lips as he now arose and
extinguished the last lamp burning besides his own.
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