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Updated: May 6, 2025
Meanwhile the ineffable blind look of Dea's eyes met those of Ursus. He started. "Well!" he cried; "what are you about? Vinos! Fibi! Do you not hear your mistress? Are you deaf? Quick! the play is going to begin." The two women looked at Ursus in stupefaction. Ursus shouted, "Do you not hear the audience coming in? Fibi, dress Dea. Vinos, take your tambourine." Fibi was obedient; Vinos, passive.
Soon the old woman returned with a basin full of water in her hands and a white cloth over her arm. With her wonted loving care she washed Dea's hands between her own and dried them on the towel. Dea allowed her to perform this kindly office for her, standing quite still and gazing absently out into vacancy. "What can I do now for thee, my precious?" asked Licinia anxiously.
It was Licinia who rubbed Dea's exquisite limbs with unguents after the bath, and she who trimmed the rose-tinted nails into their perfect, pointed shape. To-night Dea Flavia was lying on a couch covered with crimson silk.
He said nothing, nor expressed his thought except by the rapid movement of his eyelids, which were opening and closing convulsively, as if to prevent a flood of tears from bursting out. "What is the matter?" asked Gwynplaine. Ursus placed his ear against Dea's left side. Gwynplaine repeated his question eagerly, fearful of the answer. Ursus looked at Gwynplaine, then at Dea. He was livid. He said,
Suddenly he ceased in his ravings; a loud crash as of crumbling walls had rent the air, followed by shrieks and loud hissing sounds and that perpetual cry, awesome in its weird monotony: "Death to the Cæsar! Death!" Caligula's face was contorted with terror, his cheeks were grey like those of the dead. He made a quick movement forward and suddenly clutched Dea's wrist.
Licinia was highly privileged in the house of Dea Flavia. She had nursed the daughter of proud Claudius Octavius at her breast, and between the wizened old woman and the fresh young girl there existed perfect friendship and the confidence born of years. Dea's first tooth was in Licinia's keeping and so was the first lock of hair cut from Dea's head.
And the poor old man, as if crushed by his despair, bowed his bald head and buried his swollen face in the folds of the gown which covered Dea's feet. He lay there in a swoon. Then Gwynplaine became awful. He arose, lifted his eyes, and gazed into the vast gloom above him.
And the poor old philosopher, crushed by his despair, bowed his head, and buried his face in the folds of the gown which covered Dea's feet. He lay there unconscious. Gwynplaine started up, stretched his hands on high, and said, "I come." He strode across the deck, towards the side of the vessel, as if beckoned by a vision. A smile came upon his face, such as Dea had just worn. One step more.
They breakfasted as they supped, in the centre compartment. From the position in which the narrow table was placed, Dea's back was turned towards the aperture in the partition which was opposite the entrance door of the Green Box. Their knees were touching. Gwynplaine was pouring out tea for Dea. Dea blew gracefully on her cup. Suddenly she sneezed.
Homo, having come from under the van, was going from one to the other discreetly, exacting no attention, licking them left and right now Ursus's thick shoes, now Gwynplaine's cape, now Dea's dress, now the mattress. This was his way of giving his blessing. They had passed Chatham and the mouth of the Medway. They were approaching the sea.
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