Vergilius ran to the still form of the slave-girl.

He knelt beside her and kissed her lifeless hand.
"Poor child of God!" he whispered.

"If indeed you loved me, I have no wonder that you knelt here to die." The master brought a wreath of laurel to the young tribune, saying: "'Tis from the king." Vergilius seemed not to hear.

Tenderly he raised the lifeless body of Cyran in his arms.

The spectators were cheering.