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2062	----	Comments on the preparation of this e-text SQUARE BRACKETS: The square brackets, i.e. [ ] are copied from the printed book, without change, except that a closing bracket "]" has been added to the stage directions. CHANGES TO THE TEXT: Character names have been expanded. For Example, CLEOPATRA was CLEO. Three words in the preface were written in Greek Characters. These have been transliterated into Roman characters, and are set off by angle brackets, for example, <melichroos>. All for Love by John Dryden INTRODUCTORY NOTE The age of Elizabeth, memorable for so many reasons in the history of England, was especially brilliant in literature, and, within literature, in the drama. With some falling off in spontaneity, the impulse to great dramatic production lasted till the Long Parliament closed the theaters in 1642; and when they were reopened at the Restoration, in 1660, the stage only too faithfully reflected the debased moral tone of the court society of Charles II. John Dryden (1631-1700), the great representative figure in the literature of the latter part of the seventeenth century, exemplifies in his work most of the main tendencies of the time. He came into notice with a poem on the death of Cromwell in 1658, and two years later was composing couplets expressing his loyalty to the returned king. He married Lady Elizabeth Howard, the daughter of a royalist house, and for practically all the rest of his life remained an adherent of the Tory Party. In 1663 he began writing for the stage, and during the next thirty years he attempted nearly all the current forms of drama. His "Annus Mirabilis" (1666), celebrating the English naval victories over the Dutch, brought him in 1670 the Poet Laureateship. He had, meantime, begun the writing of those admirable critical essays, represented in the present series by his Preface to the "Fables" and his Dedication to the translation of Virgil. In these he shows himself not only a critic of sound and penetrating judgment, but the first master of modern English prose style. With "Absalom and Achitophel," a satire on the Whig leader, Shaftesbury, Dryden entered a new phase, and achieved what is regarded as "the finest of all political satires." This was followed by "The Medal," again directed against the Whigs, and this by "Mac Flecknoe," a fierce attack on his enemy and rival Shadwell. The Government rewarded his services by a lucrative appointment. After triumphing in the three fields of drama, criticism, and satire, Dryden appears next as a religious poet in his "Religio Laici," an exposition of the doctrines of the Church of England from a layman's point of view. In the same year that the Catholic James II. ascended the throne, Dryden joined the Roman Church, and two years later defended his new religion in "The Hind and the Panther," an allegorical debate between two animals standing respectively for Catholicism and Anglicanism. The Revolution of 1688 put an end to Dryden's prosperity; and after a short return to dramatic composition, he turned to translation as a means of supporting himself. He had already done something in this line; and after a series of translations from Juvenal, Persius, and Ovid, he undertook, at the age of sixty-three, the enormous task of turning the entire works of Virgil into English verse. How he succeeded in this, readers of the "Aeneid" in a companion volume of these classics can judge for themselves. Dryden's production closes with the collection of narrative poems called "Fables," published in 1700, in which year he died and was buried in the Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey. Dryden lived in an age of reaction against excessive religious idealism, and both his character and his works are marked by the somewhat unheroic traits of such a period. But he was, on the whole, an honest man, open minded, genial, candid, and modest; the wielder of a style, both in verse and prose, unmatched for clearness, vigor, and sanity. Three types of comedy appeared in England in the time of Dryden--the comedy of humors, the comedy of intrigue, and the comedy of manners--and in all he did work that classed him with the ablest of his contemporaries. He developed the somewhat bombastic type of drama known as the heroic play, and brought it to its height in his "Conquest of Granada"; then, becoming dissatisfied with this form, he cultivated the French classic tragedy on the model of Racine. This he modified by combining with the regularity of the French treatment of dramatic action a richness of characterization in which he showed himself a disciple of Shakespeare, and of this mixed type his best example is "All for Love." Here he has the daring to challenge comparison with his master, and the greatest testimony to his achievement is the fact that, as Professor Noyes has said, "fresh from Shakespeare's 'Antony and Cleopatra,' we can still read with intense pleasure Dryden's version of the story." DEDICATION To the Right Honourable, Thomas, Earl of Danby, Viscount Latimer, and Baron Osborne of Kiveton, in Yorkshire; Lord High Treasurer of England, one of His Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. My Lord, The gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that you are often in danger of your own benefits: for you are threatened with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to compound for their silence whom you have obliged. Yet, I confess, I neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and noble have ever had-- Carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit. There is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy and describe from you. It is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which can happen to them, is to be forgotten. But such who, under kings, are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after ages. Your lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of the English annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it. His Majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. All things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method, if not reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression might be allowed me) to create them. Your enemies had so embroiled the management of your office, that they looked on your advancement as the instrument of your ruin. And as if the clogging of the revenue, and the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. Your friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of aiding you; no further help or counsel was remaining to you, but what was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought most surely within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. The highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to God and nature. This then, my lord, is your just commendation, and that you have wrought out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed for your destruction: You have not only restored but advanced the revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been established in a certainty of satisfaction. An action so much the more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted and beyond the narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less able hand. It is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues, his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and compassion to the wanting. The disposition of princes towards their people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body, participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which is betwixt them. A king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who rules according to the laws, whom God has made happy by forming the temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, I say, of so excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men, could not better have conveyed himself into his people's apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of him. Moderation is doubtless an establishment of greatness; but there is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and lawless anarchy. The undertaking would be difficult to any but an extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits; to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the crown. These, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble Englishman, as indeed they are properly English virtues; no people in the world being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born under so equal, and so well-poised a government;--a government which has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. Both my nature, as I am an Englishman, and my reason, as I am a man, have bred in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such as are subjects to an absolute dominion. For no Christian monarchy is so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive power is in the law-makers, there is no further check upon them; and the people must suffer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by their representatives. If I must serve, the number of my masters, who were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. The nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its dominions on the Continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the seas, it could not so easily preserve: And, therefore, neither the arbitrary power of One, in a monarchy, nor of Many, in a commonwealth, could make us greater than we are. It is true, that vaster and more frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their dominions farthest. Since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war, at least, a land war, the model of our government seems naturally contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it. Felices nimium, bona si sua norint, Angligenae! And yet there are not wanting malcontents among us, who, surfeiting themselves on too much happiness, would persuade the people that they might be happier by a change. It was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than he was; that is more free than his nature would allow, or, if I may so say, than God could make him. We have already all the liberty which freeborn subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. But if it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. In the meantime, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt innovation in church or state? Who made them the trustees, or to speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty of England? If their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb the government under which they were born, and which protects them. He who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people for tools to work his fortune. Yet the experience of all ages might let him know, that they who trouble the waters first, have seldom the benefit of the fishing; as they who began the late rebellion enjoyed not the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the usurpation of their own instrument. Neither is it enough for them to answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience. Every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet are safe from the punishment of the laws. These, my lord, are considerations, which I should not pass so lightly over, had I room to manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a true Englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation, and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. And to whom could I more fitly apply myself than to your lordship, who have not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty? The memorable constancy and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for the royal cause, were an earnest of that which such a parent and such an institution would produce in the person of a son. But so unhappy an occasion of manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present majesty, the providence of God, and the prudence of your administration, will, I hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may participate of the better fate which attends his son. The relation which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to confirm to you both this happy augury. For what can deserve a greater place in the English chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince and country? The honour and gallantry of the Earl of Lindsey is so illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he was the protomartyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate royal master. Yet after all, my lord, if I may speak my thoughts, you are happy rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and given you up into the possession of the public. You are robbed of your privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call your own. Those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid, would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so clamorous a train. Pardon me, my lord, if I speak like a philosopher on this subject; the fortune which makes a man uneasy, cannot make him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his actions are in his choice. This last consideration has brought me to another, and a very seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while I pity your want of leisure, I have impertinently detained you so long a time. I have put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late, that I am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore I will say nothing of the poem, which I present to you, because I know not if you are like to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in perusing it; and for the author, I have only to beg the continuance of your protection to him, who is, My Lord, Your Lordship's most obliged, Most humble, and Most obedient, servant, John Dryden. PREFACE The death of Antony and Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of Ulysses amongst the crowd of suitors, and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I mean the excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. I have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Cassius would give me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater height, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power. The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only one of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. The greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of Octavia; for, though I might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself and children was destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by making Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and therefore I might have let it pass, if I could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The faults my enemies have found are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: They would not, for example, have suffered Cleopatra and Octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. This objection I foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for I judged it both natural and probable, that Octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out Cleopatra to triumph over her; and that Cleopatra, thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as I have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. It is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. If I have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond, it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. They betray themselves who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet. Honest Montaigne goes yet further: Nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses. Nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. Nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement a faire: Nous n'osons appeller a droit nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer a toute sorte de debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit. My comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come. Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French poetry consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. But as the civilest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners make you sleep. They are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance that there is little left either for censure or for praise: For no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by glass. But while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolytus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his stepmother to his father; and my critics I am sure will commend him for it. But we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. But take Hippolytus out of his poetic fit, and I suppose he would think it a wiser part to set the saddle on the right horse, and choose rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken, honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain. In the meantime we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry, sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the Hippolytus of Euripides into Monsieur Hippolyte. I should not have troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our Chedreux critics wholly form their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little sonneteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, I shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct of what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right of judging. But to press it yet further, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry-- Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa Fortuna. And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster? We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied with his own condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with writers: If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty. Dionysius and Nero had the same longings, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. The audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. It was known beforehand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureates; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled, with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a-making it. In the meantime the true poets were they who made the best markets: for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions. They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. Lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. No man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. Maecenas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far gone in poetry, which Seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyrics of him still remain. But they who should be our patrons are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of Maecenas, but little of his liberality. They are for prosecuting Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. Some of their little zanies yet go further; for they are persecutors even of Horace himself, as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority, and turning his artillery against his friends. But how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! I dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with Crispinus, their forefather, in the Holy Way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and Tigellius the buffoon; ------- Demetri, teque, Tigelli, Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. With what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggerel of his Latin, mistake his meaning, misapply his censures, and often contradict their own? He is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry-- ------- Saxum antiquum, ingens,-- Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis. But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against enemies-- Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis. Tum lapis ipse viri, vacuum per inane volatus, Nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum. For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they whom he condemns would be thankful to him, they whom he praises would choose to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination. The sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. If he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, Horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue-- Vellem in amicitia sic erraremus; et isti Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. But he would never allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge, as Juvenal explains it-- ------- Canibus pigris, scabieque vestusta Laevibus, et siccae lambentibus ora lucernae, Nomen erit, Pardus, Tigris, Leo; si quid adhuc est Quod fremit in terris violentius. Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress-- Nigra <melichroos> est, immunda et foetida <akosmos> Balba loqui non quit, <traylizei>; muta pudens est, etc. But to drive it ad Aethiopem cygnum is not to be endured. I leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on the other side, and without further considering him, than I have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. It remains that I acquiant the reader, that I have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as Mr. Rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters. Horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry-- ------- Vos exemplaria Graeca Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna. Yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for English tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. I could give an instance in the Oedipus Tyrannus, which was the masterpiece of Sophocles; but I reserve it for a more fit occasion, which I hope to have hereafter. In my style, I have professed to imitate the divine Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have disencumbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. I hope I need not to explain myself, that I have not copied my author servilely: Words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and as Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. The occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and Fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. But since I must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and Ventidius in the first act, to anything which I have written in this kind. PROLOGUE What flocks of critics hover here to-day, As vultures wait on armies for their prey, All gaping for the carcase of a play! With croaking notes they bode some dire event, And follow dying poets by the scent. Ours gives himself for gone; y' have watched your time: He fights this day unarmed,--without his rhyme;-- And brings a tale which often has been told; As sad as Dido's; and almost as old. His hero, whom you wits his bully call, Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all; He's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind; Weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind. In short, a pattern, and companion fit, For all the keeping Tonies of the pit. I could name more: a wife, and mistress too; Both (to be plain) too good for most of you: The wife well-natured, and the mistress true. Now, poets, if your fame has been his care, Allow him all the candour you can spare. A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day; Like Hectors in at every petty fray. Let those find fault whose wit's so very small, They've need to show that they can think at all; Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below. Fops may have leave to level all they can; As pigmies would be glad to lop a man. Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light, We scarce could know they live, but that they bite. But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts, For change, become their next poor tenant's guests; Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls, And snatch the homely rasher from the coals: So you, retiring from much better cheer, For once, may venture to do penance here. And since that plenteous autumn now is past, Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste, Take in good part, from our poor poet's board, Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford. ALL FOR LOVE or THE WORLD WELL LOST A TRAGEDY DRAMATIS PERSONAE MARK ANTONY. VENTIDIUS, his General. DOLABELLA, his Friend. ALEXAS, the Queen's Eunuch. SERAPION, Priest of Isis. MYRIS, another Priest. Servants to Antony. CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt. OCTAVIA, Antony's Wife. CHARMION, Cleopatra's Maid. IRAS, Cleopatra's Maid. Antony's two little Daughters. SCENE.--Alexandria. Act I Scene I.--The Temple of Isis Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis SERAPION. Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent, That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce, That the wild deluge overtook the haste Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew On the utmost margin of the water-mark. Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward, It slipt from underneath the scaly herd: Here monstrous phocae panted on the shore; Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails, Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them, Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud, Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them. Enter ALEXAS behind them MYRIS. Avert these omens, Heaven! SERAPION. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so unfinished left the horrid scene. ALEXAS. And dreamed you this? or did invent the story, [Showing himself.] To frighten our Egyptian boys withal, And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood? SERAPION. My lord, I saw you not, Nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what I uttered was most true. ALEXAS. A foolish dream, Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts, And holy luxury. SERAPION. I know my duty: This goes no further. ALEXAS. 'Tis not fit it should; Nor would the times now bear it, were it true. All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp Hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm Just breaking on our heads. SERAPION. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony; But in their servile hearts they own Octavius. MYRIS. Why then does Antony dream out his hours, And tempts not fortune for a noble day, Which might redeem what Actium lost? ALEXAS. He thinks 'tis past recovery. SERAPION. Yet the foe Seems not to press the siege. ALEXAS. Oh, there's the wonder. Maecenas and Agrippa, who can most With Caesar, are his foes. His wife Octavia, Driven from his house, solicits her revenge; And Dolabella, who was once his friend, Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin: Yet still war seems on either side to sleep. SERAPION. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past, Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra; But here, in Isis' temple, lives retired, And makes his heart a prey to black despair. ALEXAS. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence To cure his mind of love. SERAPION. If he be vanquished, Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil. While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat), And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus, Could fix an equal foot of empire here. ALEXAS. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature, Who lord it o'er mankind, rhould perish,--perish, Each by the other's sword; But, since our will Is lamely followed by our power, we must Depend on one; with him to rise or fall. SERAPION. How stands the queen affected? ALEXAS. Oh, she dotes, She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man, And winds herself about his mighty ruins; Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up, This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands, She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-- This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels, And makes me use all means to keep him here. Whom I could wish divided from her arms, Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know The state of things; no more of your ill omens And black prognostics; labour to confirm The people's hearts. Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY'S SERAPION. These Romans will o'erhear us. But who's that stranger? By his warlike port, His fierce demeanour, and erected look, He's of no vulgar note. ALEXAS. Oh, 'tis Ventidius, Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East, Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered. When Antony returned from Syria last, He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers. SERAPION. You seem to know him well. ALEXAS. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first, When Cleopatra there met Antony: A mortal foe was to us, and Egypt. But,--let me witness to the worth I hate,-- A braver Roman never drew a sword; Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave, He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels: In short the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue, Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him. His coming bodes I know not what of ill To our affairs. Withdraw to mark him better; And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here, And what's our present work. [They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS, with the other, comes forward to the front.] VENTIDIUS. Not see him; say you? I say, I must, and will. GENTLEMAN. He has commanded, On pain of death, none should approach his presence. VENTIDIUS. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits, Give him new life. GENTLEMAN. He sees not Cleopatra. VENTIDIUS. Would he had never seen her! GENTLEMAN. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use Of anything, but thought; or if he talks, 'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving: Then he defies the world, and bids it pass, Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth Into a scornful smile, and cries, "Take all, The world's not worth my care." VENTIDIUS. Just, just his nature. Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide, And bounds into a vice, that bears him far From his first course, and plunges him in ills: But, when his danger makes him find his faults, Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse, He censures eagerly his own misdeeds, Judging himself with malice to himself, And not forgiving what as man he did, Because his other parts are more than man.-- He must not thus be lost. [ALEXAS and the Priests come forward.] ALEXAS. You have your full instructions, now advance, Proclaim your orders loudly. SERAPION. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command. Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease; To pomp and triumphs give this happy day, That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's. Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live! Be this the general voice sent up to heaven, And every public place repeat this echo. VENTIDIUS. Fine pageantry! [Aside.] SERAPION. Set out before your doors The images of all your sleeping fathers, With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts, And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine, And call the gods to join with you in gladness. VENTIDIUS. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy! Can they be friends of Antony, who revel When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame, You Romans, your great grandsires' images, For fear their souls should animate their marbles, To blush at their degenerate progeny. ALEXAS. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony, Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven Laboured for him, when each propitious star Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour And shed his better influence. Her own birthday Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate, That passed obscurely by. VENTIDIUS. Would it had slept, Divided far from his; till some remote And future age had called it out, to ruin Some other prince, not him! ALEXAS. Your emperor, Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than To upbraid my queen for loving him too well. VENTIDIUS. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest! He knows him not his executioner. Oh, she has decked his ruin with her love, Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter, And made perdition pleasing: She has left him The blank of what he was. I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him. Can any Roman see, and know him now, Thus altered from the lord of half mankind, Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy, Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours, And crampt within a corner of the world? O Antony! Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends! Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God! Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them, As bounty were thy being! rough in battle, As the first Romans when they went to war; Yet after victory more pitiful Than all their praying virgins left at home! ALEXAS. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues, His truth to her who loves him. VENTIDIUS. Would I could not! But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee! Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine, Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen, Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms. Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone, Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets, You dare not fight for Antony; go pray And keep your cowards' holiday in temples. [Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION.] Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY 2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands, On pain of death, that none presume to stay. 1 Gent. I dare not disobey him. [Going out with the other.] VENTIDIUS. Well, I dare. But I'll observe him first unseen, and find Which way his humour drives: The rest I'll venture. [Withdraws.] Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks ANTONY. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. Why was I raised the meteor of the world, Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled, 'Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, To be trod out by Caesar? VENTIDIUS. [aside.] On my soul, 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful! ANTONY. Count thy gains. Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this? Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starved thy wanting age. VENTIDIUS. How sorrow shakes him! [Aside.] So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots, And on the ground extends the noble ruin. [ANTONY having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place thou pressest on thy mother earth Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn, Shrunk to a few ashes; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar; Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. ANTONY. Give me some music, look that it be sad. I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell, And burst myself with sighing.-- [Soft music.] 'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece as I grew from it; My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot. VENTIDIUS. Methinks I fancy Myself there too. ANTONY. The herd come jumping by me, And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen. More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts. [Soft music again.] VENTIDIUS. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer. [Stands before him.] ANTONY. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius? VENTIDIUS. Are you Antony? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last. ANTONY. I'm angry. VENTIDIUS. So am I. ANTONY. I would be private: leave me. VENTIDIUS. Sir, I love you, And therefore will not leave you. ANTONY. Will not leave me! Where have you learnt that answer? Who am I? VENTIDIUS. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven: If I said more, I think 'twere scare a sin: You're all that's good, and god-like. ANTONY. All that's wretched. You will not leave me then? VENTIDIUS. 'Twas too presuming To say I would not; but I dare not leave you: And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you. ANTONY. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough; And, if a foe, too much. VENTIDIUS. Look, emperor, this is no common dew. [Weeping.] I have not wept this forty years; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes; I cannot help her softness. ANTONY. By heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death, they set my shame, That caused them, full before me. VENTIDIUS. I'll do my best. ANTONY. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine.--Nay, father! VENTIDIUS. Emperor. ANTONY. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory; The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so; but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. VENTIDIUS. I warrant you. ANTONY. Actium, Actium! Oh!-- VENTIDIUS. It sits too near you. ANTONY. Here, here it lies a lump of lead by day, And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers, The hag that rides my dreams.-- VENTIDIUS. Out with it; give it vent. ANTONY. Urge not my shame. I lost a battle,-- VENTIDIUS. So has Julius done. ANTONY. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly. But Antony-- VENTIDIUS. Nay, stop not. ANTONY. Antony-- Well, thou wilt have it,--like a coward, fled, Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius. Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave. I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. VENTIDIUS. I did. ANTONY. I'll help thee.--I have been a man, Ventidius. VENTIDIUS. Yes, and a brave one! but-- ANTONY. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier, with inglorious ease. In the full vintage of my flowing honours, Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it, And purple greatness met my ripened years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs; The wish of nations, and the willing world Received me as its pledge of future peace; I was so great, so happy, so beloved, Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains, And worked against my fortune, child her from me, And returned her loose; yet still she came again. My careless days, and my luxurious nights, At length have wearied her, and now she's gone, Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who laboured to be wretched: Pr'ythee, curse me. VENTIDIUS. No. ANTONY. Why? VENTIDIUS. You are too sensible already Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings; And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds, Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. ANTONY. I know thou would'st. VENTIDIUS. I will. ANTONY. Ha, ha, ha, ha! VENTIDIUS. You laugh. ANTONY. I do, to see officious love. Give cordials to the dead. VENTIDIUS. You would be lost, then? ANTONY. I am. VENTIDIUS. I say you are not. Try your fortune. ANTONY. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate, Without just cause? No, when I found all lost Beyond repair, I hid me from the world, And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do So heartily, I think it is not worth The cost of keeping. VENTIDIUS. Caesar thinks not so; He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. You would be killed like Tully, would you? do, Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely. ANTONY. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve. VENTIDIUS. I can die with you too, when time shall serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, To fight, to conquer. ANTONY. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius. VENTIDIUS. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief: By painful journeys I led them, patient both of heat and hunger, Down form the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces, Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them. They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. ANTONY. Where left you them? VENTIDIUS. I said in Lower Syria. ANTONY. Bring them hither; There may be life in these. VENTIDIUS. They will not come. ANTONY. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. VENTIDIUS. Most firm and loyal. ANTONY. Yet they will not march To succour me. O trifler! VENTIDIUS. They petition You would make haste to head them. ANTONY. I'm besieged. VENTIDIUS. There's but one way shut up: How came I hither? ANTONY. I will not stir. VENTIDIUS. They would perhaps desire A better reason. ANTONY. I have never used My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march? VENTIDIUS. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. ANTONY. What was't they said? VENTIDIUS. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer, And make you more a slave? to gain you kingdoms, Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast, You'll sell to her? Then she new-names her jewels, And calls this diamond such or such a tax; Each pendant in her ear shall be a province. ANTONY. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence On all my other faults; but, on your life, No word of Cleopatra: she deserves More worlds than I can lose. VENTIDIUS. Behold, you Powers, To whom you have intrusted humankind! See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance, And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman! I think the gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands. ANTONY. You grow presumptuous. VENTIDIUS. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. ANTONY. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence! Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor; Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall. O that thou wert my equal; great in arms As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee Without a stain to honour! VENTIDIUS. You may kill me; You have done more already,--called me traitor. ANTONY. Art thou not one? VENTIDIUS. For showing you yourself, Which none else durst have done? but had I been That name, which I disdain to speak again, I needed not have sought your abject fortunes, Come to partake your fate, to die with you. What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor, And not have been so called. ANTONY. Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate. VENTIDIUS. You thought me false; Thought my old age betrayed you: Kill me, sir, Pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness Has left your sword no work. ANTONY. I did not think so; I said it in my rage: Pr'ythee, forgive me. Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery Of what I would not hear? VENTIDIUS. No prince but you Could merit that sincerity I used, Nor durst another man have ventured it; But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, Were sure the chief and best of human race, Framed in the very pride and boast of nature; So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered At their own skill, and cried--A lucky hit Has mended our design. Their envy hindered, Else you had been immortal, and a pattern, When Heaven would work for ostentation's sake To copy out again. ANTONY. But Cleopatra-- Go on; for I can bear it now. VENTIDIUS. No more. ANTONY. Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st; Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. VENTIDIUS. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word! May I believe you love me? Speak again. ANTONY. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. [Hugging him.] Thy praises were unjust; but, I'll deserve them, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory! thou know'st the way. VENTIDIUS. And, will you leave this-- ANTONY. Pr'ythee, do not curse her, And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I love Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour; But I will leave her. VENTIDIUS. That's my royal master; And, shall we fight? ANTONY. I warrant thee, old soldier. Thou shalt behold me once again in iron; And at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud--Come, follow me! VENTIDIUS. Oh, now I hear my emperor! in that word Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day, And, if I have ten years behind, take all: I'll thank you for the exchange. ANTONY. O Cleopatra! VENTIDIUS. Again? ANTONY. I've done: In that last sigh she went. Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear. VENTIDIUS. Methinks, you breathe Another soul: Your looks are more divine; You speak a hero, and you move a god. ANTONY. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms, And mans each part about me: Once again, That noble eagerness of fight has seized me; That eagerness with which I darted upward To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears Sung round my head, and planted on my shield; I won the trenches, while my foremost men Lagged on the plain below. VENTIDIUS. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour! ANTONY. Come on, my soldier! Our hearts and arms are still the same: I long Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I, Like Time and Death, marching before our troops, May taste fate to them; mow them out a passage, And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield, Begin the noble harvest of the field. [Exeunt.] Act II Scene I Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn? Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go. ALEXAS. He goes to fight for you. CLEOPATRA. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight: Flatter me not: If once he goes, he's lost, And all my hopes destroyed. ALEXAS. Does this weak passion Become a mighty queen? CLEOPATRA. I am no queen: Is this to be a queen, to be besieged By yon insulting Roman, and to wait Each hour the victor's chain? These ills are small: For Antony is lost, and I can mourn For nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius, I have no more to lose! prepare thy bands; I'm fit to be a captive: Antony Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave. IRAS. Call reason to assist you. CLEOPATRA. I have none, And none would have: My love's a noble madness, Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man: But I have loved with such transcendent passion, I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view, And now am lost above it. No, I'm proud 'Tis thus: Would Antony could see me now Think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me? Sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured, And bears a tender heart: I know him well. Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once, But now 'tis past. IRAS. Let it be past with you: Forget him, madam. CLEOPATRA. Never, never, Iras. He once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone, Leaves a faint image of possession still. ALEXAS. Think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful. CLEOPATRA. I cannot: If I could, those thoughts were vain. Faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be, I still must love him. Enter CHARMION Now, what news, my Charmion? Will he be kind? and will he not forsake me? Am I to live, or die?--nay, do I live? Or am I dead? for when he gave his answer, Fate took the word, and then I lived or died. CHARMION. I found him, madam-- CLEOPATRA. A long speech preparing? If thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me, For never was more need. IRAS. I know he loves you. CLEOPATRA. Had he been kind, her eyes had told me so, Before her tongue could speak it: Now she studies, To soften what he said; but give me death, Just as he sent it, Charmion, undisguised, And in the words he spoke. CHARMION. I found him, then, Encompassed round, I think, with iron statues; So mute, so motionless his soldiers stood, While awfully he cast his eyes about, And every leader's hopes or fears surveyed: Methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased. When he beheld me struggling in the crowd, He blushed, and bade make way. ALEXAS. There's comfort yet. CHARMION. Ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage Severely, as he meant to frown me back, And sullenly gave place: I told my message, Just as you gave it, broken and disordered; I numbered in it all your sighs and tears, And while I moved your pitiful request, That you but only begged a last farewell, He fetched an inward groan; and every time I named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking, But, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down: He seemed not now that awful Antony, Who shook and armed assembly with his nod; But, making show as he would rub his eyes, Disguised and blotted out a falling tear. CLEOPATRA. Did he then weep? And was I worth a tear? If what thou hast to say be not as pleasing, Tell me no more, but let me die contented. CHARMION. He bid me say,--He knew himself so well, He could deny you nothing, if he saw you; And therefore-- CLEOPATRA. Thou wouldst say, he would not see me? CHARMION. And therefore begged you not to use a power, Which he could ill resist; yet he should ever Respect you, as he ought. CLEOPATRA. Is that a word For Antony to use to Cleopatra? O that faint word, RESPECT! how I disdain it! Disdain myself, for loving after it! He should have kept that word for cold Octavia. Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing, That dull, insipid lump, without desires, And without power to give them? ALEXAS. You misjudge; You see through love, and that deludes your sight; As, what is straight, seems crooked through the water: But I, who bear my reason undisturbed, Can see this Antony, this dreaded man, A fearful slave, who fain would run away, And shuns his master's eyes: If you pursue him, My life on't, he still drags a chain along. That needs must clog his flight. CLEOPATRA. Could I believe thee!-- ALEXAS. By every circumstance I know he loves. True, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour; Yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out Many a long look for succour. CLEOPATRA. He sends word, He fears to see my face. ALEXAS. And would you more? He shows his weakness who declines the combat, And you must urge your fortune. Could he speak More plainly? To my ears, the message sounds-- Come to my rescue, Cleopatra, come; Come, free me from Ventidius; from my tyrant: See me, and give me a pretence to leave him!-- I hear his trumpets. This way he must pass. Please you, retire a while; I'll work him first, That he may bend more easy. CLEOPATRA. You shall rule me; But all, I fear, in vain. [Exit with CHARMION and IRAS.] ALEXAS. I fear so too; Though I concealed my thoughts, to make her bold; But 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it! [Withdraws.] Enter Lictors with Fasces; one bearing the Eagle; then enter ANTONY with VENTIDIUS, followed by other Commanders ANTONY. Octavius is the minion of blind chance, But holds from virtue nothing. VENTIDIUS. Has he courage? ANTONY. But just enough to season him from coward. Oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge, The most deliberate fighter! if he ventures (As in Illyria once, they say, he did, To storm a town), 'tis when he cannot choose; When all the world have fixt their eyes upon him; And then he lives on that for seven years after; But, at a close revenge he never fails. VENTIDIUS. I heard you challenged him. ANTONY. I did, Ventidius. What think'st thou was his answer? 'Twas so tame!-- He said, he had more ways than one to die; I had not. VENTIDIUS. Poor! ANTONY. He has more ways than one; But he would choose them all before that one. VENTIDIUS. He first would choose an ague, or a fever. ANTONY. No; it must be an ague, not a fever; He Has not warmth enough to die by that. VENTIDIUS. Or old age and a bed. ANTONY. Ay, there's his choice, He would live, like a lamp, to the last wink, And crawl the utmost verge of life. O Hercules! Why should a man like this, Who dares not trust his fate for one great action, Be all the care of Heaven? Why should he lord it O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one Is braver than himself? VENTIDIUS. You conquered for him: Philippi knows it; there you shared with him That empire, which your sword made all your own. ANTONY. Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, And now he mounts above me. Good heavens, is this,--is this the man who braves me? Who bids my age make way? Drives me before him, To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish? VENTIDIUS. Sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all. ANTONY. Then give the word to march: I long to leave this prison of a town, To join thy legions; and, in open field, Once more to show my face. Lead, my deliverer. Enter ALEXAS ALEXAS. Great emperor, In mighty arms renowned above mankind, But, in soft pity to the opprest, a god; This message sends the mournful Cleopatra To her departing lord. VENTIDIUS. Smooth sycophant! ALEXAS. A thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers, Millions of blessings wait you to the wars; Millions of sighs and tears she sends you too, And would have sent As many dear embraces to your arms, As many parting kisses to your lips; But those, she fears, have wearied you already. VENTIDIUS. [aside.] False crocodile! ALEXAS. And yet she begs not now, you would not leave her; That were a wish too mighty for her hopes, Too presuming For her low fortune, and your ebbing love; That were a wish for her more prosperous days, Her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness. ANTONY. [aside.] Well, I must man it out:--What would the queen? ALEXAS. First, to these noble warriors, who attend Your daring courage in the chase of fame,-- Too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,-- She humbly recommends all she holds dear, All her own cares and fears,--the care of you. VENTIDIUS. Yes, witness Actium. ANTONY. Let him speak, Ventidius. ALEXAS. You, when his matchless valour bears him forward, With ardour too heroic, on his foes, Fall down, as she would do, before his feet; Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death: Tell him, this god is not invulnerable; That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him; And, that you may remember her petition, She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn, Which, at your wished return, she will redeem [Gives jewels to the Commanders.] With all the wealth of Egypt: This to the great Ventidius she presents, Whom she can never count her enemy, Because he loves her lord. VENTIDIUS. Tell her, I'll none on't; I'm not ashamed of honest poverty; Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see These and the rest of all her sparkling store, Where they shall more deservingly be placed. ANTONY. And who must wear them then? VENTIDIUS. The wronged Octavia. ANTONY. You might have spared that word. VENTIDIUS. And he that bribe. ANTONY. But have I no remembrance? ALEXAS. Yes, a dear one; Your slave the queen-- ANTONY. My mistress. ALEXAS. Then your mistress; Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul, But that you had long since; she humbly begs This ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts, The emblems of her own, may bind your arm. [Presenting a bracelet.] VENTIDIUS. Now, my best lord,--in honour's name, I ask you, For manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,-- Touch not these poisoned gifts, Infected by the sender; touch them not; Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them, And more than aconite has dipt the silk. ANTONY. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius: A lady's favours may be worn with honour. What, to refuse her bracelet! On my soul, When I lie pensive in my tent alone, 'Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights, To tell these pretty beads upon my arm, To count for every one a soft embrace, A melting kiss at such and such a time: And now and then the fury of her love, When----And what harm's in this? ALEXAS. None, none, my lord, But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever. ANTONY. [going to tie it.] We soldiers are so awkward--help me tie it. ALEXAS. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward In these affairs: so are all men indeed: Even I, who am not one. But shall I speak? ANTONY. Yes, freely. ALEXAS. Then, my lord, fair hands alone Are fit to tie it; she, who sent it can. VENTIDIUS. Hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you. You will not see her? [ALEXAS whispers an ATTENDANT, who goes out.] ANTONY. But to take my leave. VENTIDIUS. Then I have washed an Aethiop. You're undone; Y' are in the toils; y' are taken; y' are destroyed: Her eyes do Caesar's work. ANTONY. You fear too soon. I'm constant to myself: I know my strength; And yet she shall not think me barbarous neither, Born in the depths of Afric: I am a Roman, Bred in the rules of soft humanity. A guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell. VENTIDIUS. You do not know How weak you are to her, how much an infant: You are not proof against a smile, or glance: A sigh will quite disarm you. ANTONY. See, she comes! Now you shall find your error.--Gods, I thank you: I formed the danger greater than it was, And now 'tis near, 'tis lessened. VENTIDIUS. Mark the end yet. Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS ANTONY. Well, madam, we are met. CLEOPATRA. Is this a meeting? Then, we must part? ANTONY. We must. CLEOPATRA. Who says we must? ANTONY. Our own hard fates. CLEOPATRA. We make those fates ourselves. ANTONY. Yes, we have made them; we have loved each other, Into our mutual ruin. CLEOPATRA. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes; I have no friends in heaven; and all the world, As 'twere the business of mankind to part us, Is armed against my love: even you yourself Join with the rest; you, you are armed against me. ANTONY. I will be justified in all I do To late posterity, and therefore hear me. If I mix a lie With any truth, reproach me freely with it; Else, favour me with silence. CLEOPATRA. You command me, And I am dumb. VENTIDIUS. I like this well; he shows authority. ANTONY. That I derive my ruin From you alone---- CLEOPATRA. O heavens! I ruin you! ANTONY. You promised me your silence, and you break it Ere I have scarce begun. CLEOPATRA. Well, I obey you. ANTONY. When I beheld you first, it was in Egypt. Ere Caesar saw your eyes, you gave me love, And were too young to know it; that I settled Your father in his throne, was for your sake; I left the acknowledgment for time to ripen. Caesar stept in, and, with a greedy hand, Plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red, Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my lord, And was, beside, too great for me to rival; But, I deserved you first, though he enjoyed you. When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia, An enemy to Rome, I pardoned you. CLEOPATRA. I cleared myself---- ANTONY. Again you break your promise. I loved you still, and took your weak excuses, Took you into my bosom, stained by Caesar, And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you, And hid me from the business of the world, Shut out inquiring nations from my sight, To give whole years to you. VENTIDIUS. Yes, to your shame be't spoken. [Aside.] ANTONY. How I loved. Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours, That danced away with down upon your feet, As all your business were to count my passion! One day passed by, and nothing saw but love; Another came, and still 'twas only love: The suns were wearied out with looking on, And I untired with loving. I saw you every day, and all the day; And every day was still but as the first, So eager was I still to see you more. VENTIDIUS. 'Tis all too true. ANTONY. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous, (As she indeed had reason) raised a war In Italy, to call me back. VENTIDIUS. But yet You went not. ANTONY. While within your arms I lay, The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour, And left me scarce a grasp--I thank your love for't. VENTIDIUS. Well pushed: that last was home. CLEOPATRA. Yet may I speak? ANTONY. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not. Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died, (Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died); To set the world at peace, I took Octavia, This Caesar's sister; in her pride of youth, And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady, Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her. You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons: This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours. I would have fought by land, where I was stronger; You hindered it: yet, when I fought at sea, Forsook me fighting; and (O stain to honour! O lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled; But fled to follow you. VENTIDIUS. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails! And, to appear magnificent in flight, Drew half our strength away. ANTONY. All this you caused. And, would you multiply more ruins on me? This honest man, my best, my only friend, Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes; Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits. And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes To seize them too. If you have aught to answer, Now speak, you have free leave. ALEXAS. [aside.] She stands confounded: Despair is in her eyes. VENTIDIUS. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage: Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions; 'Tis like they shall be sold. CLEOPATRA. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge, Already have condemned me? Shall I bring The love you bore me for my advocate? That now is turned against me, that destroys me; For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten; But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty. But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you, That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes, Into my faults, severe to my destruction, And watching all advantages with care, That serve to make me wretched? Speak, my lord, For I end here. Though I deserved this usage, Was it like you to give it? ANTONY. Oh, you wrong me, To think I sought this parting, or desired To accuse you more than what will clear myself, And justify this breach. CLEOPATRA. Thus low I thank you; And, since my innocence will not offend, I shall not blush to own it. VENTIDIUS. After this, I think she'll blush at nothing. CLEOPATRA. You seem grieved (And therein you are kind) that Caesar first Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better: I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you; For, had I first been yours, it would have saved My second choice: I never had been his, And ne'er had been but yours. But Caesar first, You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord: He first possessed my person; you, my love: Caesar loved me; but I loved Antony. If I endured him after, 'twas because I judged it due to the first name of men; And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant, What he would take by force. VENTIDIUS. O Syren! Syren! Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true, Has she not ruined you? I still urge that, The fatal consequence. CLEOPATRA. The consequence indeed-- For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe, To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you, And kept you far from an uneasy wife,-- Such Fulvia was. Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me;-- And, can you blame me to receive that love, Which quitted such desert, for worthless me? How often have I wished some other Caesar, Great as the first, and as the second young, Would court my love, to be refused for you! VENTIDIUS. Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium. CLEOPATRA. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not. I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear; Would I had been a man, not to have feared! For none would then have envied me your friendship, Who envy me your love. ANTONY. We are both unhappy: If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us. Speak; would you have me perish by my stay? CLEOPATRA. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go; If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish-- 'Tis a hard word--but stay. VENTIDIUS. See now the effects of her so boasted love! She strives to drag you down to ruin with her; But, could she 'scape without you, oh, how soon Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore, And never look behind! CLEOPATRA. Then judge my love by this. [Giving ANTONY a writing.] Could I have borne A life or death, a happiness or woe, From yours divided, this had given me means. ANTONY. By Hercules, the writing of Octavius! I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand, Young as it was, that led the way to mine, And left me but the second place in murder.-- See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt, And joins all Syria to it, as a present; So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes, And join her arms with his. CLEOPATRA. And yet you leave me! You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you, Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom; That is a trifle; For I could part with life, with anything, But only you. Oh, let me die but with you! Is that a hard request? ANTONY. Next living with you, 'Tis all that Heaven can give. ALEXAS. He melts; we conquer. [Aside.] CLEOPATRA. No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence; Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these Weak arms to hold you here. [Takes his hand.] Go; leave me, soldier (For you're no more a lover): leave me dying: Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom, And, when your march begins, let one run after, Breathless almost for joy, and cry--She's dead. The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh, And muster all your Roman gravity: Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up, As I had never been. ANTONY. Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear. CLEOPATRA. What is't for me then, A weak, forsaken woman, and a lover?-- Here let me breathe my last: envy me not This minute in your arms: I'll die apace, As fast as e'er I can, and end your trouble. ANTONY. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven, And fall the skies, to crush the nether world! My eyes, my soul, my all! [Embraces her.] VENTIDIUS. And what's this toy, In balance with your fortune, honour, fame? ANTONY. What is't, Ventidius?--it outweighs them all; Why, we have more than conquered Caesar now: My queen's not only innocent, but loves me. This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin! "But, could she 'scape without me, with what haste Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore, And never look behind!" Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art, And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence. VENTIDIUS. I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go? ANTONY. Go! whither? Go from all that's excellent? Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid, That I should go from her, who sets my love Above the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Caesar, This rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra. CLEOPATRA. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love, in public; and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad. VENTIDIUS. O women! women! women! all the gods Have not such power of doing good to man, As you of doing harm. [Exit.] ANTONY. Our men are armed:-- Unbar the gate that looks to Caesar's camp: I would revenge the treachery he meant me; And long security makes conquest easy. I'm eager to return before I go; For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick On my remembrance.--How I long for night! That both the sweets of mutual love may try, And triumph once o'er Caesar ere we die. [Exeunt.] Act III Scene I At one door enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS, a Train of EGYPTIANS: at the other ANTONY and ROMANS. The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the trumpets first sounding on Antony's part: then answered by timbrels, etc., on CLEOPATRA'S. CHARMION and IRAS hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of EGYPTIANS. After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY. ANTONY. I thought how those white arms would fold me in, And strain me close, and melt me into love; So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards, And added all my strength to every blow. CLEOPATRA. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms! You've been too long away from my embraces; But, when I have you fast, and all my own, With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs, I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you, And mark you red with many an eager kiss. ANTONY. My brighter Venus! CLEOPATRA. O my greater Mars! ANTONY. Thou join'st us well, my love! Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains, Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword, And mountain-tops paired off each other blow, To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess! Let Caesar spread his subtle nets; like Vulcan, In thy embraces I would be beheld By heaven and earth at once; And make their envy what they meant their sport Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on, With awful state, regardless of their frowns, As their superior gods. There's no satiety of love in thee: Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls, And blossoms rise to fill its empty place; And I grow rich by giving. Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart ALEXAS. Oh, now the danger's past, your general comes! He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs; But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on, As envying your success. ANTONY. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me: He never flattered me in any vice, But awes me with his virtue: even this minute, Methinks, he has a right of chiding me. Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence; It checks too strong upon me. [Exeunt the rest.] [As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe.] VENTIDIUS. Emperor! ANTONY. 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me. [Looking back.] VENTIDIUS. But this one hearing, emperor. ANTONY. Let go My robe; or, by my father Hercules-- VENTIDIUS. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater, I bring you somewhat you would wish to know. ANTONY. Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here, And I'll return. [Exit.] VENTIDIUS. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him; I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin; And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him: His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes, As would confound their choice to punish one, And not reward the other. Enter ANTONY ANTONY. We can conquer, You see, without your aid. We have dislodged their troops; They look on us at distance, and, like curs Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off, And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war. Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward, Lie breathless on the plain. VENTIDIUS. 'Tis well; and he, Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more. Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain An easier peace, while Caesar doubts the chance Of arms-- ANTONY. Oh, think not on't, Ventidius! The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace; His malice is considerable in advantage. Oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch, He kills, and keeps his temper. VENTIDIUS. Have you no friend In all his army, who has power to move him? Maecenas, or Agrippa, might do much. ANTONY. They're both too deep in Caesar's interests. We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish. VENTIDIUS. Fain I would find some other. ANTONY. Thank thy love. Some four or five such victories as this Will save thy further pains. VENTIDIUS. Expect no more; Caesar is on his guard: I know, sir, you have conquered against odds; But still you draw supplies from one poor town, And of Egyptians: he has all the world, And, at his beck, nations come pouring in, To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again. ANTONY. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to search For foreign aids?--to hunt my memory, And range all o'er a waste and barren place, To find a friend? The wretched have no friends. Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome, Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women: He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax, From that hard rugged image melt him down, And mould him in what softer form he pleased. VENTIDIUS. Him would I see; that man, of all the world; Just such a one we want. ANTONY. He loved me too; I was his soul; he lived not but in me: We were so closed within each other's breasts, The rivets were not found, that joined us first. That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt, As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost; We were one mass; we could not give or take, But from the same; for he was I, I he. VENTIDIUS. He moves as I would wish him. [Aside.] ANTONY. After this, I need not tell his name;--'twas Dolabella. VENTIDIUS. He's now in Caesar's camp. ANTONY. No matter where, Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly, That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight, Because I feared he loved her: he confessed, He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled; For 'twere impossible that two, so one, Should not have loved the same. When he departed, He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts. VENTIDIUS. It argues, that he loved you more than her, Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous, And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you. ANTONY. I should have seen him, then, ere now. VENTIDIUS. Perhaps He has thus long been labouring for your peace. ANTONY. Would he were here! VENTIDIUS. Would you believe he loved you? I read your answer in your eyes, you would. Not to conceal it longer, he has sent A messenger from Caesar's camp, with letters. ANTONY. Let him appear. VENTIDIUS. I'll bring him instantly. [Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with DOLABELLA.] ANTONY. 'Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship! [Runs to embrace him.] Art thou returned at last, my better half? Come, give me all myself! Let me not live, If the young bridegroom, longing for his night, Was ever half so fond. DOLABELLA. I must be silent, for my soul is busy About a nobler work; she's new come home, Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er Each room, a stranger to her own, to look If all be safe. ANTONY. Thou hast what's left of me; For I am now so sunk from what I was, Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark. The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes, Are all dried up, or take another course: What I have left is from my native spring; I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks. DOLABELLA. Still you are lord of all the world to me. ANTONY. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all. If I had any joy when thou wert absent, I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella! Thou has beheld me other than I am. Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me? With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun, To worship my uprising?--menial kings Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard, Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes, And, at my least command, all started out, Like racers to the goal. DOLABELLA. Slaves to your fortune. ANTONY. Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I? VENTIDIUS. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter. ANTONY. Is this friendly done? DOLABELLA. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him; Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide; Why am I else your friend? ANTONY. Take heed, young man, How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes, And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember, When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first, As accessary to thy brother's death? DOLABELLA. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day, And still the blush hangs here. ANTONY. To clear herself, For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt. Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed, The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold; The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay. DOLABELLA. No more; I would not hear it. ANTONY. Oh, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if, secure of all beholders' hearts, Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds. That played about her face. But if she smiled A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad, That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more; For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes And whisper in my ear--Oh, tell her not That I accused her with my brother's death? DOLABELLA. And should my weakness be a plea for yours? Mine was an age when love might be excused, When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth Made it a debt to nature. Yours-- VENTIDIUS. Speak boldly. Yours, he would say, in your declining age, When no more heat was left but what you forced, When all the sap was needful for the trunk, When it went down, then you constrained the course, And robbed from nature, to supply desire; In you (I would not use so harsh a word) 'Tis but plain dotage. ANTONY. Ha! DOLABELLA. 'Twas urged too home.-- But yet the loss was private, that I made; 'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions; I had no world to lose, no people's love. ANTONY. This from a friend? DOLABELLA. Yes, Antony, a true one; A friend so tender, that each word I speak Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear. Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide! To Caesar I excuse you. ANTONY. O ye gods! Have I then lived to be excused to Caesar? DOLABELLA. As to your equal. ANTONY. Well, he's but my equal: While I wear this he never shall be more. DOLABELLA. I bring conditions from him. ANTONY. Are they noble? Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him; For nature meant him for an usurer: He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms. VENTIDIUS. Then, granting this, What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper To honourable terms? ANTONY. I was my Dolabella, or some god. DOLABELLA. Nor I, nor yet Maecenas, nor Agrippa: They were your enemies; and I, a friend, Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed. ANTONY. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man, Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour; Let me but see his face. VENTIDIUS. That task is mine, And, Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing. [Exit VENTIDIUS.] DOLABELLA. You'll remember To whom you stand obliged? ANTONY. When I forget it Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse. My queen shall thank him too, DOLABELLA. I fear she will not. ANTONY. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella! Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever? DOLABELLA. I would not see her lost. ANTONY. When I forsake her, Leave me my better stars! for she has truth Beyond her beauty. Caesar tempted her, At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me; But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me For loving her too well. Could I do so? DOLABELLA. Yes; there's my reason. Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA, leading ANTONY'S two little DAUGHTERS ANTONY. Where?--Octavia there! [Starting back.] VENTIDIUS. What, is she poison to you?--a disease? Look on her, view her well, and those she brings: Are they all strangers to your eyes? has nature No secret call, no whisper they are yours? DOLABELLA. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them With kinder eyes. If you confess a man, Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you. Your arms should open, even without your knowledge, To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings, To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips. ANTONY. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither. VENTIDIUS. I sent for them; I brought them in unknown To Cleopatra's guards. DOLABELLA. Yet, are you cold? OCTAVIA. Thus long I have attended for my welcome; Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect. Who am I? ANTONY. Caesar's sister. OCTAVIA. That's unkind. Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sister, Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp: But your Octavia, your much injured wife, Though banished from your bed, driven from your house, In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours. 'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness, And prompts me not to seek what you should offer; But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride. I come to claim you as my own; to show My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness: Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it. [Taking his hand.] VENTIDIUS. Do, take it; thou deserv'st it. DOLABELLA. On my soul, And so she does: she's neither too submissive, Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too. ANTONY. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life. OCTAVIA. Begged it, my lord? ANTONY. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress; Poorly and basely begged it of your brother. OCTAVIA. Poorly and basely I could never beg: Nor could my brother grant. ANTONY. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say, Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down And cry,--Forgive me, Caesar! Shall I set A man, my equal, in the place of Jove, As he could give me being? No; that word, Forgive, would choke me up, And die upon my tongue. DOLABELLA. You shall not need it. ANTONY. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,-- My friend too!--to receive some vile conditions. My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears; And now I must become her branded slave. In every peevish mood, she will upbraid The life she gave: if I but look awry, She cries--I'll tell my brother. OCTAVIA. My hard fortune Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes. But the conditions I have brought are such, Your need not blush to take: I love your honour, Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said, Octavia's husband was her brother's slave. Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe; For, though my brother bargains for your love, Makes me the price and cement of your peace, I have a soul like yours; I cannot take Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve. I'll tell my brother we are reconciled; He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens; No matter where. I never will complain, But only keep the barren name of wife, And rid you of the trouble. VENTIDIUS. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! [Apart] Both scorn to be obliged. DOLABELLA. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part;[Apart] See how he reddens with despite and shame, To be outdone in generosity! VENTIDIUS. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear, [Apart] That fain would fall! ANTONY. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise The greatness of your soul; But cannot yield to what you have proposed: For I can ne'er be conquered but by love; And you do all for duty. You would free me, And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so? OCTAVIA. It was, my lord. ANTONY. Then I must be obliged To one who loves me not; who, to herself, May call me thankless and ungrateful man:-- I'll not endure it; no. VENTIDIUS. I am glad it pinches there. [Aside.] OCTAVIA. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue? That pride was all I had to bear me up; That you might think you owed me for your life, And owed it to my duty, not my love. I have been injured, and my haughty soul Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed. ANTONY. Therefore you love me not. OCTAVIA. Therefore, my lord, I should not love you. ANTONY. Therefore you would leave me? OCTAVIA. And therefore I should leave you--if I could. DOLABELLA. Her soul's too great, after such injuries, To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it. Her modesty and silence plead her cause. ANTONY. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn? I find a secret yielding in my soul; But Cleopatra, who would die with me, Must she be left? Pity pleads for Octavia; But does it not plead more for Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia; For Cleopatra, neither. One would be ruined with you; but she first Had ruined you: The other, you have ruined, And yet she would preserve you. In everything their merits are unequal. ANTONY. O my distracted soul! OCTAVIA. Sweet Heaven compose it!-- Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you, Methinks you should accept it. Look on these; Are they not yours? or stand they thus neglected, As they are mine? Go to him, children, go; Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him; For you may speak, and he may own you too, Without a blush; and so he cannot all His children: go, I say, and pull him to me, And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman. You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms; And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist: If he will shake you off, if he will dash you Against the pavement, you must bear it, children; For you are mine, and I was born to suffer. [Here the CHILDREN go to him, etc.] VENTIDIUS. Was ever sight so moving?--Emperor! DOLABELLA. Friend! OCTAVIA. Husband! BOTH CHILDREN. Father! ANTONY. I am vanquished: take me, Octavia; take me, children; share me all. [Embracing them.] I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves, And run out much, in riot, from your stock; But all shall be amended. OCTAVIA. O blest hour! DOLABELLA. O happy change! VENTIDIUS. My joy stops at my tongue; But it has found two channels here for one, And bubbles out above. ANTONY. [to OCTAVIA] This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt; Even to thy brother's camp. OCTAVIA. All there are yours. Enter ALEXAS hastily ALEXAS. The queen, my mistress, sir, and yours-- ANTONY. 'Tis past.-- Octavia, you shall stay this night: To-morrow, Caesar and we are one. [Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the CHILDREN follow.] VENTIDIUS. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch, Be sure to be the first; haste forward: Haste, my dear eunuch, haste. [Exit.] ALEXAS. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero, This blunt, unthinking instrument of death, With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit. Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy; The luxury of others robbed my cradle, And ravished thence the promise of a man. Cast out from nature, disinherited Of what her meanest children claim by kind, Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone. Had Cleopatra followed my advice, Then he had been betrayed who now forsakes. She dies for love; but she has known its joys: Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys, Must die, because she loves? Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and Train O madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes! Octavia's here. CLEOPATRA. Peace with that raven's note. I know it too; and now am in The pangs of death. ALEXAS. You are no more a queen; Egypt is lost. CLEOPATRA. What tell'st thou me of Egypt? My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!-- O fatal name to Cleopatra's love! My kisses, my embraces now are hers; While I--But thou hast seen my rival; speak, Does she deserve this blessing? Is she fair? Bright as a goddess? and is all perfection Confined to her? It is. Poor I was made Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished, The gods threw by for rubbish. ALEXAS. She is indeed a very miracle. CLEOPATRA. Death to my hopes, a miracle! ALEXAS. A miracle; [Bowing.] I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam, You make all wonders cease. CLEOPATRA. I was too rash: Take this in part of recompense. But, oh! [Giving a ring.] I fear thou flatterest me. CHARMION. She comes! she's here! IRAS. Fly, madam, Caesar's sister! CLEOPATRA. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove, And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes, Thus would I face my rival. [Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA bears up to her. Their Trains come up on either side.] OCTAVIA. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra; Your haughty carriage-- CLEOPATRA. Shows I am a queen: Nor need I ask you, who you are. OCTAVIA. A Roman: A name, that makes and can unmake a queen. CLEOPATRA. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman. OCTAVIA. He was a Roman, till he lost that name, To be a slave in Egypt; but I come To free him thence. CLEOPATRA. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno. When he grew weary of that household clog, He chose my easier bonds. OCTAVIA. I wonder not Your bonds are easy: you have long been practised In that lascivious art: He's not the first For whom you spread your snares: Let Caesar witness. CLEOPATRA. I loved not Caesar; 'twas but gratitude I paid his love: The worst your malice can, Is but to say the greatest of mankind Has been my slave. The next, but far above him In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours, But whom his love made mine. OCTAVIA. I would view nearer. [Coming up close to her.] That face, which has so long usurped my right, To find the inevitable charms, that catch Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord. CLEOPATRA. Oh, you do well to search; for had you known But half these charms, you had not lost his heart. OCTAVIA. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady, Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex, Dost thou not blush to own those black endearments, That make sin pleasing? CLEOPATRA. You may blush, who want them. If bounteous nature, if indulgent Heaven Have given me charms to please the bravest man, Should I not thank them? Should I be ashamed, And not be proud? I am, that he has loved me; And, when I love not him, Heaven change this face For one like that. OCTAVIA. Thou lov'st him not so well. CLEOPATRA. I love him better, and deserve him more. OCTAVIA. You do not; cannot: You have been his ruin. Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra? Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra? At Actium, who betrayed him? Cleopatra. Who made his children orphans, and poor me A wretched widow? only Cleopatra. CLEOPATRA. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra. If you have suffered, I have suffered more. You bear the specious title of a wife, To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world To favour it: the world condemns poor me. For I have lost my honour, lost my fame, And stained the glory of my royal house, And all to bear the branded name of mistress. There wants but life, and that too I would lose For him I love. OCTAVIA. Be't so, then; take thy wish. [Exit with her Train.] CLEOPATRA. And 'tis my wish, Now he is lost for whom alone I lived. My sight grows dim, and every object dances, And swims before me, in the maze of death. My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up; They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn! But now she's gone, they faint. ALEXAS. Mine have had leisure To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel, To ruin her, who else must ruin you. CLEOPATRA. Vain promiser! Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras. My grief has weight enough to sink you both. Conduct me to some solitary chamber, And draw the curtains round; Then leave me to myself, to take alone My fill of grief: There I till death will his unkindness weep; As harmless infants moan themselves asleep. [Exeunt.] Act IV Scene I Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA DOLABELLA. Why would you shift it from yourself on me? Can you not tell her, you must part? ANTONY. I cannot. I could pull out an eye, and bid it go, And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella, How many deaths are in this word, DEPART! I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so: One look of hers would thaw me into tears, And I should melt, till I were lost again. DOLABELLA. Then let Ventidius; He's rough by nature. ANTONY. Oh, he'll speak too harshly; He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou. DOLABELLA. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould, That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure, Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes, And robs me of my manhood. I should speak So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart, She'd not believe it earnest. ANTONY. Therefore,--therefore Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me; And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long), Take off the edge from every sharper sound, And let our parting be as gently made, As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this? DOLABELLA. What you have said so sinks into my soul, That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so. ANTONY. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell. I sent her word to meet you. [Goes to the door, and comes back.] I forgot; Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine, Her crown and dignity shall be preserved, If I have power with Caesar.--Oh, be sure To think on that. DOLABELLA. Fear not, I will remember. [ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back.] ANTONY. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained; I did not this, but with extremest force. Desire her not to hate my memory, For I still cherish hers:--insist on that. DOLABELLA. Trust me. I'll not forget it. ANTONY. Then that's all. [Goes out, and returns again.] Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more? Tell her, though we shall never meet again, If I should hear she took another love, The news would break my heart.--Now I must go; For every time I have returned, I feel My soul more tender; and my next command Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both. [Exit.] DOLABELLA. Men are but children of a larger growth; Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain; And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room, Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing: But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind, Works all her folly up, and casts it outward To the world's open view: Thus I discovered, And blamed the love of ruined Antony: Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined. Enter VENTIDIUS above VENTIDIUS. Alone, and talking to himself? concerned too? Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once, And may pursue it still. DOLABELLA. O friendship! friendship! Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse: Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win; And if I win, undone: mere madness all. And yet the occasion's fair. What injury To him, to wear the robe which he throws by! VENTIDIUS. None, none at all. This happens as I wish, To ruin her yet more with Antony. Enter CLEOPATRA talking with ALEXAS; CHARMION, IRAS on the other side. DOLABELLA. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face! Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness; Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night, And shows a moment's day. VENTIDIUS. If she should love him too! her eunuch there? That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer, Sweet devil, that I may hear. ALEXAS. Believe me; try [DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS; seems to talk with them.] To make him jealous; jealousy is like A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt; If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it. CLEOPATRA. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine; It puts out the disease, and makes it show, But has no power to cure. ALEXAS. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too: And then this Dolabella, who so fit To practise on? He's handsome, valiant, young, And looks as he were laid for nature's bait, To catch weak women's eyes. He stands already more than half suspected Of loving you: the least kind word or glance, You give this youth, will kindle him with love: Then, like a burning vessel set adrift, You'll send him down amain before the wind, To fire the heart of jealous Antony. CLEOPATRA. Can I do this? Ah, no, my love's so true, That I can neither hide it where it is, Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit; But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me, Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished Of falsehood to be happy. ALEXAS. Force yourself. The event will be, your lover will return, Doubly desirous to possess the good Which once he feared to lose. CLEOPATRA. I must attempt it; But oh, with what regret! [Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.] VENTIDIUS. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach. CLEOPATRA. [to DOLABELLA.] Discoursing with my women! might not I Share in your entertainment? CHARMION. You have been The subject of it, madam. CLEOPATRA. How! and how! IRAS. Such praises of your beauty! CLEOPATRA. Mere poetry. Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus, Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia. DOLABELLA. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt; Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung: I, who have seen--had I been born a poet, Should choose a nobler name. CLEOPATRA. You flatter me. But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you. I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words. DOLABELLA. No, madam; yet he sent me-- CLEOPATRA. Well, he sent you-- DOLABELLA. Of a less pleasing errand. CLEOPATRA. How less pleasing? Less to yourself, or me? DOLABELLA. Madam, to both; For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it. CLEOPATRA. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.-- Hold up, my spirits. [Aside.]--Well, now your mournful matter; For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too. DOLABELLA. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office, To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex, Most fear displeasing you. CLEOPATRA. Of all your sex, I soonest could forgive you, if you should. VENTIDIUS. Most delicate advances! Women! women! Dear, damned, inconstant sex! CLEOPATRA. In the first place, I am to be forsaken; is't not so? DOLABELLA. I wish I could not answer to that question. CLEOPATRA. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you: I should have been more grieved another time. Next I'm to lose my kingdom--Farewell, Egypt! Yet, is there ary more? DOLABELLA. Madam, I fear Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason. CLEOPATRA. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune: And love may be expelled by other love, As poisons are by poisons. DOLABELLA. You o'erjoy me, madam, To find your griefs so moderately borne. You've heard the worst; all are not false like him. CLEOPATRA. No; Heaven forbid they should. DOLABELLA. Some men are constant. CLEOPATRA. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain. DOLABELLA. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope. VENTIDIUS. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough: But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider. [Exit.] DOLABELLA. I came prepared To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear: But you have met it with a cheerfulness, That makes my task more easy; and my tongue, Which on another's message was employed, Would gladly speak its own. CLEOPATRA. Hold, Dolabella. First tell me, were you chosen by my lord? Or sought you this employment? DOLABELLA. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend, He charged me with his words. CLEOPATRA. The message then I know was tender, and each accent smooth, To mollify that rugged word, DEPART. DOLABELLA. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words; With fiery eyes, and contracted brows, He coined his face in the severest stamp; And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake; He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Aetna, In sounds scarce human--"Hence away for ever, Let her begone, the blot of my renown, And bane of all my hopes!" [All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.] "Let her be driven, as far as men can think, From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre." CLEOPATRA. Oh, I can bear no more! DOLABELLA. Help, help!--O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch! What have I done! CHARMION. Help, chafe her temples, Iras. IRAS. Bend, bend her forward quickly. CHARMION. Heaven be praised, She comes again. CLEOPATRA. Oh, let him not approach me. Why have you brought me back to this loathed being; The abode of falsehood, violated vows, And injured love? For pity, let me go; For, if there be a place of long repose, I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord Can never break that quiet; nor awake The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb Such words as fright her hence.--Unkind, unkind! DOLABELLA. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak; [Kneeling.] That sure desires belief; I injured him: My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen How often he came back, and every time With something more obliging and more kind, To add to what he said; what dear farewells; How almost vanquished by his love he parted, And leaned to what unwillingly he left! I, traitor as I was, for love of you (But what can you not do, who made me false?) I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels This self-accused, self-punished criminal. CLEOPATRA. With how much ease believe we what we wish! Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty, I have contributed, and too much love Has made me guilty too. The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned, To call back fleeting love by jealousy; But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose, Than so ignobly trifle with his heart. DOLABELLA. I find your breast fenced round from human reach, Transparent as a rock of solid crystal; Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend, What endless treasure hast thou thrown away; And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean, Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence! CLEOPATRA. Could you not beg An hour's admittance to his private ear? Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds And yet foreknows no hospitable inn Is near to succour hunger, eats his fill, Before his painful march; So would I feed a while my famished eyes Before we part; for I have far to go, If death be far, and never must return. VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind VENTIDIUS. From hence you may discover--oh, sweet, sweet! Would you indeed? The pretty hand in earnest? DOLABELLA. I will, for this reward. [Takes her hand.] Draw it not back. 'Tis all I e'er will beg. VENTIDIUS. They turn upon us. OCTAVIA. What quick eyes has guilt! VENTIDIUS. Seem not to have observed them, and go on. [They enter.] DOLABELLA. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius? VENTIDIUS. No. I sought him; but I heard that he was private, None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman. DOLABELLA. Know you his business? VENTIDIUS. Giving him instructions, And letters to his brother Caesar. DOLABELLA. Well, He must be found. [Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA.] OCTAVIA. Most glorious impudence! VENTIDIUS. She looked, methought, As she would say--Take your old man, Octavia; Thank you, I'm better here.-- Well, but what use Make we of this discovery? OCTAVIA. Let it die. VENTIDIUS. I pity Dolabella; but she's dangerous: Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms, To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence, The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery; And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day, Unmarked of those that hear. Then she's so charming, Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth: The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles; And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity, They bless her wanton eyes: Even I, who hate her, With a malignant joy behold such beauty; And, while I curse, desire it. Antony Must needs have some remains of passion still, Which may ferment into a worse relapse, If now not fully cured. I know, this minute, With Caesar he's endeavouring her peace. OCTAVIA. You have prevailed:--But for a further purpose [Walks off.] I'll prove how he will relish this discovery. What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart: It must not, shall not be. VENTIDIUS. His guards appear. Let me begin, and you shall second me. Enter ANTONY ANTONY. Octavia, I was looking you, my love: What, are your letters ready? I have given My last instructions. OCTAVIA. Mine, my lord, are written. ANTONY. Ventidius. [Drawing him aside.] VENTIDIUS. My lord? ANTONY. A word in private.-- When saw you Dolabella? VENTIDIUS. Now, my lord, He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him. ANTONY. Speak softly.--'Twas by my command he went, To bear my last farewell. VENTIDIUS. It looked indeed [Aloud.] Like your farewell. ANTONY. More softly.--My farewell? What secret meaning have you in those words Of--My farewell? He did it by my order. VENTIDIUS. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose [Aloud.] You bid him do it with all gentleness, All kindness, and all--love. ANTONY. How she mourned, The poor forsaken creature! VENTIDIUS. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting As she did Caesar's, as she would another's, Were a new love to come. ANTONY. Thou dost belie her; [Aloud.] Most basely, and maliciously belie her. VENTIDIUS. I thought not to displease you; I have done. OCTAVIA. You seemed disturbed, my Lord. [Coming up.] ANTONY. A very trifle. Retire, my love. VENTIDIUS. It was indeed a trifle. He sent-- ANTONY. No more. Look how thou disobey'st me; [Angrily.] Thy life shall answer it. OCTAVIA. Then 'tis no trifle. VENTIDIUS. [to OCTAVIA.] 'Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it, As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret. ANTONY. She saw it! VENTIDIUS. Yes: She saw young Dolabella-- ANTONY. Young Dolabella! VENTIDIUS. Young, I think him young, And handsome too; and so do others think him. But what of that? He went by your command, Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message; For she received it graciously; she smiled; And then he grew familiar with her hand, Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses; She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again; At last she took occasion to talk softly, And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his; At which, he whispered kisses back on hers; And then she cried aloud--That constancy Should be rewarded. OCTAVIA. This I saw and heard. ANTONY. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw So playful with my friend? Not Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Even she, my lord. ANTONY. My Cleopatra? VENTIDIUS. Your Cleopatra; Dolabella's Cleopatra; every man's Cleopatra. ANTONY. Thou liest. VENTIDIUS. I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change? You know she's not much used to lonely nights. ANTONY. I'll think no more on't. I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.-- You needed not have gone this way, Octavia. What harms it you that Cleopatra's just? She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive: Urge it no further, love. OCTAVIA. Are you concerned, That she's found false? ANTONY. I should be, were it so; For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world Should tax my former choice, that I loved one Of so light note; but I forgive you both. VENTIDIUS. What has my age deserved, that you should think I would abuse your ears with perjury? If Heaven be true, she's false. ANTONY. Though heaven and earth Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted. VENTIDIUS. I'll bring you, then, a witness From hell, to prove her so.--Nay, go not back; [Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back.] For stay you must and shall. ALEXAS. What means my lord? VENTIDIUS. To make you do what most you hate,--speak truth. You are of Cleopatra's private counsel, Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours; Are conscious of each nightly change she makes, And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon, Can tell what signs she passes through, what day. ALEXAS. My noble lord! VENTIDIUS. My most illustrious pander, No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods, But a plain homespun truth, is what I ask. I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know, By your confession, what more passed betwixt them; How near the business draws to your employment; And when the happy hour. ANTONY. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it offend Or please Ventidius, care not: Justify Thy injured queen from malice: Dare his worst. OCTAVIA. [aside.] See how he gives him courage! how he fears To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth, Willing to be misled! ALEXAS. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty, Urged by desert and greatness of the lover, So far, divine Octavia, may my queen Stand even excused to you for loving him Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ventidius, May her past actions hope a fair report. ANTONY. 'Tis well, and truly spoken: mark, Ventidius. ALEXAS. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion Stands not excused, but wholly justified. Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown, From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps, To choose where she would reign: She thought a Roman only could deserve her, And, of all Romans, only Antony; And, to be less than wife to you, disdained Their lawful passion. ANTONY. 'Tis but truth. ALEXAS. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert, Have drawn her from the due regard of honour, At last Heaven opened her unwilling eyes To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia, Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped. The sad effects of this improsperous war Confirmed those pious thoughts. VENTIDIUS. [aside.] Oh, wheel you there? Observe him now; the man begins to mend, And talk substantial reason.--Fear not, eunuch; The emperor has given thee leave to speak. ALEXAS. Else had I never dared to offend his ears With what the last necessity has urged On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered. ANTONY. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not Pronounce that fatal word! OCTAVIA. Must I bear this? Good Heaven, afford me patience. [Aside.] VENTIDIUS. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half-man, proceed. ALEXAS. Yet Dolabella Has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord, Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion, Rejected, as she is, by him she loved---- ANTONY. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more: Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes; Then join thou too, and help to torture her! [Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.] OCTAVIA. 'Tis not well. Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me, To show this passion, this extreme concernment, For an abandoned, faithless prostitute. ANTONY. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered: Leave me, I say. OCTAVIA. My lord! ANTONY. I bid you leave me. VENTIDIUS. Obey him, madam: best withdraw a while, And see how this will work. OCTAVIA. Wherein have I offended you, my lord, That I am bid to leave you? Am I false, Or infamous? Am I a Cleopatra? Were I she, Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you; But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses, And fawn upon my falsehood. ANTONY. 'Tis too much. Too much, Octavia; I am pressed with sorrows Too heavy to be borne; and you add more: I would retire, and recollect what's left Of man within, to aid me. OCTAVIA. You would mourn, In private, for your love, who has betrayed you. You did but half return to me: your kindness Lingered behind with her, I hear, my lord, You make conditions for her, And would include her treaty. Wondrous proofs Of love to me! ANTONY. Are you my friend, Ventidius? Or are you turned a Dolabella too, And let this fury loose? VENTIDIUS. Oh, be advised, Sweet madam, and retire. OCTAVIA. Yes, I will go; but never to return. You shall no more be haunted with this Fury. My lord, my lord, love will not always last, When urged with long unkindness and disdain: Take her again, whom you prefer to me; She stays but to be called. Poor cozened man! Let a feigned parting give her back your heart, Which a feigned love first got; for injured me, Though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay, My duty shall be yours. To the dear pledges of our former love My tenderness and care shall be transferred, And they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights: So, take my last farewell; for I despair To have you whole, and scorn to take you half. [Exit.] VENTIDIUS. I combat Heaven, which blasts my best designs; My last attempt must be to win her back; But oh! I fear in vain. [Exit.] ANTONY. Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart, Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness, But bears its workings outward to the world? I should have kept the mighty anguish in, And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood: Octavia had believed it, and had stayed. But I am made a shallow-forded stream, Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned, And all my faults exposed.--See where he comes, Enter DOLLABELLA Who has profaned the sacred name of friend, And worn it into vileness! With how secure a brow, and specious form, He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face Was meant for honesty; but Heaven mismatched it, And furnished treason out with nature's pomp, To make its work more easy. DOLABELLA. O my friend! ANTONY. Well, Dolabella, you performed my message? DOLABELLA. I did, unwillingly. ANTONY. Unwillingly? Was it so hard for you to bear our parting? You should have wished it. DOLABELLA. Why? ANTONY. Because you love me. And she received my message with as true, With as unfeigned a sorrow as you brought it? DOLABELLA. She loves you, even to madness. ANTONY. Oh, I know it. You, Dolabella, do not better know How much she loves me. And should I Forsake this beauty? This all-perfect creature? DOLABELLA. I could not, were she mine. ANTONY. And yet you first Persuaded me: How come you altered since? DOLABELLA. I said at first I was not fit to go: I could not hear her sighs, and see her tears, But pity must prevail: And so, perhaps, It may again with you; for I have promised, That she should take her last farewell: And, see, She comes to claim my word. Enter CLEOPATRA ANTONY. False Dolabella! DOLABELLA. What's false, my lord? ANTONY. Why, Dolabella's false, And Cleopatra's false; both false and faithless. Draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents, Whom I have in my kindly bosom warmed, Till I am stung to death. DOLABELLA. My lord, have I Deserved to be thus used? CLEOPATRA. Can Heaven prepare A newer torment? Can it find a curse Beyond our separation? ANTONY. Yes, if fate Be just, much greater: Heaven should be ingenious In punishing such crimes. The rolling stone, And gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented When Jove was young, and no examples known Of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin, To such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods To find an equal torture. Two, two such!-- Oh, there's no further name,--two such! to me, To me, who locked my soul within your breasts, Had no desires, no joys, no life, but you; When half the globe was mine, I gave it you In dowry with my heart; I had no use, No fruit of all, but you: A friend and mistress Was what the world could give. O Cleopatra! O Dolabella! how could you betray This tender heart, which with an infant fondness Lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept, Secure of injured faith? DOLABELLA. If she has wronged you, Heaven, hell, and you revenge it. ANTONY. If she has wronged me! Thou wouldst evade thy part of guilt; but swear Thou lov'st not her. DOLABELLA. Not so as I love you. ANTONY. Not so? Swear, swear, I say, thou dost not love her. DOLABELLA. No more than friendship will allow. ANTONY. No more? Friendship allows thee nothing: Thou art perjured-- And yet thou didst not swear thou lov'st her not; But not so much, no more. O trifling hypocrite, Who dar'st not own to her, thou dost not love, Nor own to me, thou dost! Ventidius heard it; Octavia saw it. CLEOPATRA. They are enemies. ANTONY. Alexas is not so: He, he confessed it; He, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it. Why do I seek a proof beyond yourself? [To DOLABELLA.] You, whom I sent to bear my last farewell, Returned, to plead her stay. DOLABELLA. What shall I answer? If to have loved be guilt, then I have sinned; But if to have repented of that love Can wash away my crime, I have repented. Yet, if I have offended past forgiveness, Let not her suffer: She is innocent. CLEOPATRA. Ah, what will not a woman do, who loves? What means will she refuse, to keep that heart, Where all her joys are placed? 'Twas I encouraged, 'Twas I blew up the fire that scorched his soul, To make you jealous, and by that regain you. But all in vain; I could not counterfeit: In spite of all the dams my love broke o'er, And drowned by heart again: fate took the occasion; And thus one minute's feigning has destroyed My whole life's truth. ANTONY. Thin cobweb arts of falsehood; Seen, and broke through at first. DOLABELLA. Forgive your mistress. CLEOPATRA. Forgive your friend. ANTONY. You have convinced yourselves. You plead each other's cause: What witness have you, That you but meant to raise my jealousy? CLEOPATRA. Ourselves, and Heaven. ANTONY. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship! You have no longer place in human breasts, These two have driven you out: Avoid my sight! I would not kill the man whom I have loved, And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me: I do not know how long I can be tame; For, if I stay one minute more, to think How I am wronged, my justice and revenge Will cry so loud within me, that my pity Will not be heard for either. DOLABELLA. Heaven has but Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights To pardon erring man: Sweet mercy seems Its darling attribute, which limits justice; As if there were degrees in infinite, And infinite would rather want perfection Than punish to extent. ANTONY. I can forgive A foe; but not a mistress and a friend. Treason is there in its most horrid shape, Where trust is greatest; and the soul resigned, Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more; Hence from my sight for ever! CLEOPATRA. How? for ever! I cannot go one moment from your sight, And must I go for ever? My joys, my only joys, are centred here: What place have I to go to? My own kingdom? That I have lost for you: Or to the Romans? They hate me for your sake: Or must I wander The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman, Banished for love of you; banished from you? Ay, there's the banishment! Oh, hear me; hear me, With strictest justice: For I beg no favour; And if I have offended you, then kill me, But do not banish me. ANTONY. I must not hear you. I have a fool within me takes your part; But honour stops my ears. CLEOPATRA. For pity hear me! Would you cast off a slave who followed you? Who crouched beneath your spurn?--He has no pity! See, if he gives one tear to my departure; One look, one kind farewell: O iron heart! Let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us, If he did ever love! ANTONY. No more: Alexas! DOLABELLA. A perjured villain! ANTONY. [to CLEOPATRA.] Your Alexas; yours. CLEOPATRA. Oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous design, To engage you in my love by jealousy. Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak. ANTONY. I have; I have. CLEOPATRA. And if he clear me not-- ANTONY. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles! Watches your eye, to say or to unsay, Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved. CLEOPATRA. Then must we part? Farewell, my cruel lord! The appearance is against me; and I go, Unjustified, for ever from your sight. How I have loved, you know; how yet I love, My only comfort is, I know myself: I love you more, even now you are unkind, Then when you loved me most; so well, so truly I'll never strive against it; but die pleased, To think you once were mine. ANTONY. Good heaven, they weep at parting! Must I weep too? that calls them innocent. I must not weep; and yet I must, to think That I must not forgive.-- Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should, Who made me so: Live from each other's sight: Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth, And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves: View nothing common but the sun and skies. Now, all take several ways; And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore; That you were false, and I could trust no more. [Exeunt severally.] Act V Scene I Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS CHARMION. Be juster, Heaven; such virtue punished thus, Will make us think that chance rules all above, And shuffles, with a random hand, the lots, Which man is forced to draw. CLEOPATRA. I could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart, And had not power to keep it. O the curse Of doting on, even when I find it dotage! Bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go; You, whom he mocked with imprecating vows Of promised faith!--I'll die; I will not bear it. You may hold me-- [She pulls out her dagger, and they hold her.] But I can keep my breath; I can die inward, And choke this love. Enter ALEXAS IRAS. Help, O Alexas, help! The queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her With all the agonies of love and rage, And strives to force its passage. CLEOPATRA. Let me go. Art thou there, traitor!--O, O for a little breath, to vent my rage, Give, give me way, and let me loose upon him. ALEXAS. Yes, I deserve it, for my ill-timed truth. Was it for me to prop The ruins of a falling majesty? To place myself beneath the mighty flaw, Thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms, By its o'erwhelming weight? 'Tis too presuming For subjects to preserve that wilful power, Which courts its own destruction. CLEOPATRA. I would reason More calmly with you. Did not you o'errule, And force my plain, direct, and open love, Into these crooked paths of jealousy? Now, what's the event? Octavia is removed; But Cleopatra's banished. Thou, thou villain, Hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove, At my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back. It cannot be; I'm lost too far; I'm ruined: Hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!-- I can no more: Thou, and my griefs, have sunk Me down so low, that I want voice to curse thee. ALEXAS. Suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore, Dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff, If, from above, some charitable hand Pull him to safety, hazarding himself, To draw the other's weight; would he look back, And curse him for his pains? The case is yours; But one step more, and you have gained the height. CLEOPATRA. Sunk, never more to rise. ALEXAS. Octavia's gone, and Dolabella banished. Believe me, madam, Antony is yours. His heart was never lost, but started off To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert; Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence, And listening for the sound that calls it back. Some other, any man ('tis so advanced), May perfect this unfinished work, which I (Unhappy only to myself) have left So easy to his hand. CLEOPATRA. Look well thou do't; else-- ALEXAS. Else, what your silence threatens.--Antony Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose turret, He stands surveying our Egyptian galleys, Engaged with Caesar's fleet. Now death or conquest! If the first happen, fate acquits my promise; If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours. [A distant shout within.] CHARMION. Have comfort, madam: Did you mark that shout? [Second shout nearer.] IRAS. Hark! they redouble it. ALEXAS. 'Tis from the port. The loudness shows it near: Good news, kind heavens! CLEOPATRA. Osiris make it so! Enter SERAPION SERAPION. Where, where's the queen? ALEXAS. How frightfully the holy coward stares As if not yet recovered of the assault, When all his gods, and, what's more dear to him, His offerings, were at stake. SERAPION. O horror, horror! Egypt has been; our latest hour has come: The queen of nations, from her ancient seat, Is sunk for ever in the dark abyss: Time has unrolled her glories to the last, And now closed up the volume. CLEOPATRA. Be more plain: Say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face, Which from the haggard eyes looks wildly out, And threatens ere thou speakest. SERAPION. I came from Pharos; From viewing (spare me, and imagine it) Our land's last hope, your navy-- CLEOPATRA. Vanquished? SERAPION. No: They fought not. CLEOPATRA. Then they fled. SERAPION. Nor that. I saw, With Antony, your well-appointed fleet Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high, And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back: 'Twas then false Fortune, like a fawning strumpet, About to leave the bankrupt prodigal, With a dissembled smile would kiss at parting, And flatter to the last; the well-timed oars, Now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run To meet the foe; and soon indeed they met, But not as foes. In few, we saw their caps On either side thrown up; the Egyptian galleys, Received like friends, passed through, and fell behind The Roman rear: And now, they all come forward, And ride within the port. CLEOPATRA. Enough, Serapion: I've heard my doom.--This needed not, you gods: When I lost Antony, your work was done; 'Tis but superfluous malice.--Where's my lord? How bears he this last blow? SERAPION. His fury cannot be expressed by words: Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen Full on his foes, and aimed at Caesar's galley: Withheld, he raves on you; cries,--He's betrayed. Should he now find you-- ALEXAS. Shun him; seek your safety, Till you can clear your innocence. CLEOPATRA. I'll stay. ALEXAS. You must not; haste you to your monument, While I make speed to Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Caesar! No, I have no business with him. ALEXAS. I can work him To spare your life, and let this madman perish. CLEOPATRA. Base fawning wretch! wouldst thou betray him too? Hence from my sight! I will not hear a traitor; 'Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.-- Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me: But haste, each moment's precious. SERAPION. Retire; you must not yet see Antony. He who began this mischief, 'Tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you: And, since he offered you his servile tongue, To gain a poor precarious life from Caesar, Let him expose that fawning eloquence, And speak to Antony. ALEXAS. O heavens! I dare not; I meet my certain death. CLEOPATRA. Slave, thou deservest it.-- Not that I fear my lord, will I avoid him; I know him noble: when he banished me, And thought me false, he scorned to take my life; But I'll be justified, and then die with him. ALEXAS. O pity me, and let me follow you. CLEOPATRA. To death, if thou stir hence. Speak, if thou canst, Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save; While mine I prize at--this! Come, good Serapion. [Exeunt CLEOPATRA, SERAPION, CHARMION, and IRAS.] ALEXAS. O that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snowball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away. Poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou! For still, in spite of thee, These two long lovers, soul and body, dread Their final separation. Let me think: What can I say, to save myself from death? No matter what becomes of Cleopatra. ANTONY. Which way? where? [Within.] VENTIDIUS. This leads to the monument. [Within.] ALEXAS. Ah me! I hear him; yet I'm unprepared: My gift of lying's gone; And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised, Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay; Yet cannot far go hence. [Exit.] Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS ANTONY. O happy Caesar! thou hast men to lead: Think not 'tis thou hast conquered Antony; But Rome has conquered Egypt. I'm betrayed. VENTIDIUS. Curse on this treacherous train! Their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness: And their young souls come tainted to the world With the first breath they draw. ANTONY. The original villain sure no god created; He was a bastard of the sun, by Nile, Aped into man; with all his mother's mud Crusted about his soul. VENTIDIUS. The nation is One universal traitor; and their queen The very spirit and extract of them all. ANTONY. Is there yet left A possibility of aid from valour? Is there one god unsworn to my destruction? The least unmortgaged hope? for, if there be, Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate Of such a boy as Caesar. The world's one half is yet in Antony; And from each limb of it, that's hewed away, The soul comes back to me. VENTIDIUS. There yet remain Three legions in the town. The last assault Lopt off the rest; if death be your design,-- As I must wish it now,--these are sufficient To make a heap about us of dead foes, An honest pile for burial. ANTONY. They are enough. We'll not divide our stars; but, side by side, Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes Survey each other's acts: So every death Thou giv'st, I'll take on me, as a just debt, And pay thee back a soul. VENTIDIUS. Now you shall see I love you. Not a word Of chiding more. By my few hours of life, I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate, That I would not be Caesar, to outlive you. When we put off this flesh, and mount together, I shall be shown to all the ethereal crowd,-- Lo, this is he who died with Antony! ANTONY. Who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops, And reach my veterans yet? 'tis worth the 'tempting, To o'erleap this gulf of fate, And leave our wandering destinies behind. Enter ALEXAS, trembling VENTIDIUS. See, see, that villain! See Cleopatra stamped upon that face, With all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood! How she looks out through those dissembling eyes! How he sets his countenance for deceit, And promises a lie, before he speaks! Let me despatch him first. [Drawing.] ALEXAS. O spare me, spare me! ANTONY. Hold; he's not worth your killing.--On thy life, Which thou may'st keep, because I scorn to take it, No syllable to justify thy queen; Save thy base tongue its office. ALEXAS. Sir, she is gone. Where she shall never be molested more By love, or you. ANTONY. Fled to her Dolabella! Die, traitor! I revoke my promise! die! [Going to kill him.] ALEXAS. O hold! she is not fled. ANTONY. She is: my eyes Are open to her falsehood; my whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship; But, now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking, And all his wealth cast over. Ungrateful woman! Who followed me, but as the swallow summer, Hatching her young ones in my kindly beams, Singing her flatteries to my morning wake: But, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings, And seeks the spring of Caesar. ALEXAS. Think not so; Her fortunes have, in all things, mixed with yours. Had she betrayed her naval force to Rome, How easily might she have gone to Caesar, Secure by such a bribe! VENTIDIUS. She sent it first, To be more welcome after. ANTONY. 'Tis too plain; Else would she have appeared, to clear herself. ALEXAS. Too fatally she has: she could not bear To be accused by you; but shut herself Within her monument; looked down and sighed; While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting. Some indistinguished words she only murmured; At last, she raised her eyes; and, with such looks As dying Lucrece cast-- ANTONY. My heart forebodes-- VENTIDIUS. All for the best:--Go on. ALEXAS. She snatched her poniard, And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow, Plunged it within her breast; then turned to me: Go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell; And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith. More she was saying, but death rushed betwixt. She half pronounced your name with her last breath, And buried half within her. VENTIDIUS. Heaven be praised! ANTONY. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love, And art thou dead? O those two words! their sound should be divided: Hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived, And hadst been true--But innocence and death! This shows not well above. Then what am I, The murderer of this truth, this innocence! Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid As can express my guilt! VENTIDIUS. Is't come to this? The gods have been too gracious; And thus you thank them for it! ANTONY. [to ALEXAS.] Why stayest thou here? Is it for thee to spy upon my soul, And see its inward mourning? Get thee hence; Thou art not worthy to behold, what now Becomes a Roman emperor to perform. ALEXAS. He loves her still: His grief betrays it. Good! the joy to find She's yet alive, completes the reconcilement. I've saved myself, and her. But, oh! the Romans! Fate comes too fast upon my wit, Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double. [Aside.] [Exit.] VENTIDIUS. Would she had died a little sooner, though! Before Octavia went, you might have treated: Now 'twill look tame, and would not be received. Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together. ANTONY. I will not fight: there's no more work for war. The business of my angry hours is done. VENTIDIUS. Caesar is at your gates. ANTONY. Why, let him enter; He's welcome now. VENTIDIUS. What lethargy has crept into your soul? ANTONY. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire To free myself from bondage. VENTIDIUS. Do it bravely. ANTONY. I will; but not by fighting. O Ventidius! What should I fight for now?--my queen is dead. I was but great for her; my power, my empire, Were but my merchandise to buy her love; And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead, Let Caesar take the world,-- An empty circle, since the jewel's gone Which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous; For all the bribes of life are gone away. VENTIDIUS. Would you be taken? ANTONY. Yes, I would be taken; But, as a Roman ought,--dead, my Ventidius: For I'll convey my soul from Caesar's reach, And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world Should have a lord, and know whom to obey. We two have kept its homage in suspense, And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod, Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part. My torch is out; and the world stands before me, Like a black desert at the approach of night: I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on. VENTIDIUS. I could be grieved, But that I'll not outlive you: choose your death; For, I have seen him in such various shapes, I care not which I take: I'm only troubled, The life I bear is worn to such a rag, 'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed, We threw it from us with a better grace; That, like two lions taken in the toils, We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound The hunters that inclose us. ANTONY. I have thought on it. Ventidius, you must live. VENTIDIUS. I must not, sir. ANTONY. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me? To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches From the ill tongues of men? VENTIDIUS. Who shall guard mine, For living after you? ANTONY. Say, I command it. VENTIDIUS. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves And need no living witness. ANTONY. Thou hast loved me, And fain I would reward thee. I must die; Kill me, and take the merit of my death, To make thee friends with Caesar. VENTIDIUS. Thank your kindness. You said I loved you; and in recompense, You bid me turn a traitor: Did I think You would have used me thus?--that I should die With a hard thought of you? ANTONY. Forgive me, Roman. Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death, My reason bears no rule upon my tongue, But lets my thoughts break all at random out. I've thought better; do not deny me twice. VENTIDIUS. By Heaven I will not. Let it not be to outlive you. ANTONY. Kill me first, And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve Thy friend, before thyself. VENTIDIUS. Give me your hand. We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!-- [Embrace.] Methinks that word's too cold to be my last: Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend! That's all-- I will not make a business of a trifle; And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you; Pray turn your face. ANTONY. I do: strike home, be sure. VENTIDIUS. Home as my sword will reach. [Kills himself.] ANTONY. Oh, thou mistak'st; That wound was not of thine; give it me back: Thou robb'st me of my death. VENTIDIUS. I do indeed; But think 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you, If that may plead my pardon.--And you, gods, Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured, Rather than kill my friend. [Dies.] ANTONY. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death! My queen and thou have got the start of me, And I'm the lag of honour.--Gone so soon? Is Death no more? he used him carelessly, With a familiar kindness: ere he knocked, Ran to the door, and took him in his arms, As who should say--You're welcome at all hours, A friend need give no warning. Books had spoiled him; For all the learned are cowards by profession. 'Tis not worth My further thought; for death, for aught I know, Is but to think no more. Here's to be satisfied. [Falls on his sword.] I've missed my heart. O unperforming hand! Thou never couldst have erred in a worse time. My fortune jades me to the last; and death, Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait For my admittance.-- [Trampling within.] Some, perhaps, from Caesar: If he should find me living, and suspect That I played booty with my life! I'll mend My work, ere they can reach me. [Rises upon his knees.] Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS CLEOPATRA. Where is my lord? where is he? CHARMION. There he lies, And dead Ventidius by him. CLEOPATRA. My tears were prophets; I am come too late. O that accursed Alexas! [Runs to him.] ANTONY. Art thou living? Or am I dead before I knew, and thou The first kind ghost that meets me? CLEOPATRA. Help me seat him. Send quickly, send for help! [They place him in a chair.] ANTONY. I am answered. We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra: I'll make the most I can of life, to stay A moment more with thee. CLEOPATRA. How is it with you? ANTONY. 'Tis as with a man Removing in a hurry; all packed up, But one dear jewel that his haste forgot; And he, for that, returns upon the spur: So I come back for thee. CLEOPATRA. Too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me: Now show your mended faith, and give me back His fleeting life! ANTONY. It will not be, my love; I keep my soul by force. Say but, thou art not false. CLEOPATRA. 'Tis now too late To say I'm true: I'll prove it, and die with you. Unknown to me, Alexas feigned my death: Which, when I knew, I hasted to prevent This fatal consequence. My fleet betrayed Both you and me. ANTONY. And Dolabella-- CLEOPATRA. Scarce Esteemed before he loved; but hated now. ANTONY. Enough: my life's not long enough for more. Thou say'st, thou wilt come after: I believe thee; For I can now believe whate'er thou sayest, That we may part more kindly. CLEOPATRA. I will come: Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too: Caesar shall triumph o'er no part of thee. ANTONY. But grieve not, while thou stayest, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day And Heaven did kindly to delay the storm, Just till our close of evening. Ten years' love, And not a moment lost, but all improved To the utmost joys,--what ages have we lived? And now to die each other's; and, so dying, While hand in hand we walk in groves below, Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us, And all the train be ours. CLEOPATRA. Your words are like the notes of dying swans, Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours For your unkindness, and not one for love? ANTONY. No, not a minute.--This one kiss--more worth Than all I leave to Caesar. [Dies.] CLEOPATRA. O tell me so again, And take ten thousand kisses for that word. My lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being; Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast One look! Do anything that shows you live. IRAS. He's gone too far to hear you; And this you see, a lump of senseless clay, The leavings of a soul. CHARMION. Remember, madam, He charged you not to grieve. CLEOPATRA. And I'll obey him. I have not loved a Roman, not to know What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion! For 'tis to that high title I aspire; And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong For Roman laws to break. IRAS. Will you then die? CLEOPATRA. Why shouldst thou make that question? IRAS. Caesar is merciful. CLEOPATRA. Let him be so To those that want his mercy: My poor lord Made no such covenant with him, to spare me When he was dead. Yield me to Caesar's pride? What! to be led in triumph through the streets, A spectacle to base plebeian eyes; While some dejected friend of Antony's, Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters A secret curse on her who ruined him! I'll none of that. CHARMION. Whatever you resolve, I'll follow, even to death. IRAS. I only feared For you; but more should fear to live without you. CLEOPATRA. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends, Despatch; ere this, the town's in Caesar's hands: My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay, Lest I should be surprised; Keep him not waiting for his love too long. You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels; With them, the wreath of victory I made (Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead: You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills. IRAS. The aspics, madam? CLEOPATRA. Must I bid you twice? [Exit CHARMION and IRAS.] 'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me, To rush into the dark abode of death, And seize him first; if he be like my love, He is not frightful, sure. We're now alone, in secrecy and silence; And is not this like lovers? I may kiss These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me: And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus, Than see him in her arms.--Oh, welcome, welcome! Enter CHARMION and IRAS CHARMION. What must be done? CLEOPATRA. Short ceremony, friends; But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely, Nor left his shield behind him.--Only thou Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone Wert worthy so to triumph. CHARMION. To what end These ensigns of your pomp and royalty? CLEOPATRA. Dull, that thou art! why 'tis to meet my love; As when I saw him first, on Cydnus' bank, All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned, I'll find him once again; my second spousals Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both, And dress the bride of Antony. CHARMION. 'Tis done. CLEOPATRA. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place, For I must conquer Caesar too, like him, And win my share of the world.--Hail, you dear relics Of my immortal love! O let no impious hand remove you hence: But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give His death that peace, which it denied his life.-- Reach me the casket. IRAS. Underneath the fruit The aspic lies. CLEOPATRA. Welcome, thou kind deceiver! [Putting aside the leaves.] Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so Death's dreadful office, better than himself; Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, That Death stands by, deceived by his own image, And thinks himself but sleep. SERAPION. The queen, where is she? [Within.] The town is yielded, Caesar's at the gates. CLEOPATRA. He comes too late to invade the rights of death! Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. [Holds out her arm, and draws it back.] Coward flesh, Wouldst thou conspire with Caesar to betray me, As thou wert none of mine? I'll force thee to it, And not be sent by him, But bring, myself, my soul to Antony. [Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody.] Take hence; the work is done. SERAPION. Break ope the door, [Within.] And guard the traitor well. CHARMION. The next is ours. IRAS. Now, Charmion, to be worthy Of our great queen and mistress. [They apply the aspics.] CLEOPATRA. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins: I go with such a will to find my lord, That we shall quickly meet. A heavy numbness creeps through every limb, And now 'tis at my head: My eyelids fall, And my dear love is vanquished in a mist. Where shall I find him, where? O turn me to him, And lay me on his breast!--Caesar, thy worst; Now part us, if thou canst. [Dies.] [IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies; CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.] Enter SERAPION, two PRIESTS, ALEXAS bound, EGYPTIANS PRIEST. Behold, Serapion, What havoc death has made! SERAPION. 'Twas what I feared.-- Charmion, is this well done? CHARMION. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last Of her great race: I follow her. [Sinks down: dies.] ALEXAS. 'Tis true, She has done well: Much better thus to die, Than live to make a holiday in Rome. SERAPION. See how the lovers sit in state together, As they were giving laws to half mankind! The impression of a smile, left in her face, Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived, And went to charm him in another world. Caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure. Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety, To grace the imperial triumph.--Sleep, blest pair, Secure from human chance, long ages out, While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb; And fame to late posterity shall tell, No lovers lived so great, or died so well. [Exeunt.] EPILOGUE Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail. Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit. We wonder how the devil this difference grows Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood. The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: For 'tis observed of every scribbling man, He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass, If pink or purple best become his face. For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays; He has not yet so much of Mr. Bayes. He does his best; and if he cannot please, Would quietly sue out his WRIT OF EASE. Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall. Let Caesar's power the men's ambition move, But grace you him who lost the world for love! Yet if some antiquated lady say, The last age is not copied in his play; Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, Which only has the wrinkles of a judge. Let not the young and beauteous join with those; For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all. 
14173	----	THE ROMANIZATION OF ROMAN BRITAIN by F. HAVERFIELD Second Edition, Greatly Enlarged With Twenty-One Illustrations Oxford at the Clarendon Press 1912 [Illustration: HEAD OF GORGON, FROM THE PEDIMENT OF THE TEMPLE OF SUL MINERVA AT BATH (1/7). (SEE PAGE 42.)] Henry Frowde Publisher to the University of Oxford London, Edinburgh, New York Toronto And Melbourne PREFACE The following paper was originally read to the British Academy in 1905, and published in the second Volume of its Proceedings (pp. 185-217) and in a separate form (London, Frowde). The latter has been sometime out of print, and, as there was apparently some demand for a reprint, the Delegates of the Press have consented to issue a revised and enlarged edition. I have added considerably to both text and illustrations and corrected where it seemed necessary, and I have endeavoured so to word the matter that the text, though not the footnotes, can be read by any one who is interested in the subject, without any special knowledge of Latin. F. HAVERFIELD. OXFORD, April 22, 1912 CONTENTS CHAPTER LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 1. THE ROMANIZATION OF THE EMPIRE 2. PRELIMINARY REMARKS ON ROMAN BRITAIN 3. ROMANIZATION OF BRITAIN IN LANGUAGE 4. ROMANIZATION IN MATERIAL CIVILIZATION 5. ROMANIZATION IN ART 6. ROMANIZATION IN LOCAL GOVERNMENT AND LAND-SYSTEM 7. CHRONOLOGY OF THE ROMANIZATION 8. THE SEQUEL, THE CELTIC REVIVAL IN THE LATER EMPIRE INDEX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS FIG. Head of Gorgon from Bath. (From a photograph) Frontispiece 1. The Civil and Military Districts of Britain 2, 3, and 4. Inscribed tiles from Silchester. (From photographs) 5. Inscribed tile from Silchester. (From a drawing by Sir E. M. Thompson) 6. Inscribed tile from Plaxtol, Kent, and reconstruction of lettering. (From photographs) 7. Ground-plans of Romano-British Temples. (From _Archaeologia_) 8. Ground-plan of Corridor House, Frilford. (From plan by Sir A. J. Evans) 9. Ground-plan of Roman House at Northleigh, Oxfordshire 10. Plan of a part of Silchester, showing the arrangement of the private houses and the Forum and Christian Church. (From _Archaeologia_) 11. Painted pattern on wall-plaster at Silchester.(Restoration by G. E. Fox in _Archaeologia_) 12. Plan of British Village at Din Lligwy. (From _Archaeologia Cambrensis_) 13. Late Celtic Metal Work in the British Museum.(From a photograph) 14. Fragments of New Forest pottery with leaf patterns. (From _Archaeologia_) 15. Urns of Castor Ware. (From photographs) 16. Hunting Scenes from Castor Ware. (From _Artis, Durobrivae_) 17. Fragment of Castor Ware showing Hercules and Hesione. (After C. R. Smith) 18. The Corbridge Lion. (From a photograph) 19. Dragon-brooches. (From a drawing by C. J. Praetorius) 20. Inscription from Caerwent illustrating Cantonal Government. (From a drawing) 21. Ogam inscription from Silchester. (From a drawing by C. J. Praetorius) Note. For the blocks of the frontispiece, of Figs. 3, 5, 15, 16, I am indebted to the editor and publishers of the Victoria County History. Figs. 6, 11, 14, 20, 21, are reproduced from _Archaeologia_ and the _Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries_. For the block of Fig. 10 I have to thank the Royal Institute of British Architects; for the block of Fig. 18, the Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. CHAPTER I THE ROMANIZATION OF THE EMPIRE Historians seldom praise the Roman Empire. They regard it as a period of death and despotism, from which political freedom and creative genius and the energies of the speculative intellect were all alike excluded. There is, unquestionably, much truth in this judgement. The world of the Empire was indeed, as Mommsen has called it, an old world. Behind it lay the dreams and experiments, the self-convicted follies and disillusioned wisdom of many centuries. Before it lay no untravelled region such as revealed itself to our forefathers at the Renaissance or to our fathers fifty years ago. No new continent then rose up beyond the western seas. No forgotten literature suddenly flashed out its long-lost splendours. No vast discoveries of science transformed the universe and the interpretation of it. The inventive freshness and intellectual confidence that are born of such things were denied to the Empire. Its temperament was neither artistic, nor literary, nor scientific. It was merely practical. Yet if practical, it was not therefore uncreative. In its own sphere of everyday life, it was an epoch of growth in many directions. Even the arts moved forward. Sculpture was enriched by a new and noble style of portraiture. Architecture won new possibilities by the engineering genius which reared the aqueduct of Segovia and the Basilica of Maxentius.[1] But these are only practical expansions of arts that are in themselves unpractical. The greatest work of the imperial age must be sought in its provincial administration. The significance of this we have come to understand, as not even Gibbon understood it, through the researches of Mommsen. By his vast labours our horizon has broadened beyond the backstairs of the Palace and the benches of the Senate House in Rome to the wide lands north and east and south of the Mediterranean, and we have begun to realize the true achievements of the Empire. The old theory of an age of despotism and decay has been overthrown, and the believer in human nature can now feel confident that, whatever their limitations, the men of the Empire wrought for the betterment and the happiness of the world. [Footnote 1: Wickhoff, _Wiener Genesis_, p. 10; Riegl, _Stilfragen_, p. 272.] Their efforts took two forms, the organization of the frontier defences which repulsed the barbarian, and the development of the provinces within those defences. The first of these achievements was but for a time. In the end the Roman legionary went down before the Gothic horseman. But before he fell he had done his work. In the lands that he had sheltered, Roman civilization had taken strong root. The fact has an importance which we to-day might easily miss. It is not likely that any modern nation will soon again stand in the place that Rome then held. Our culture to-day seems firmly planted in three continents and our task is rather to diffuse it further and to develop its good qualities than to defend it. But the Roman Empire was the civilized world; the safety of Rome was the safety of all civilization. Outside was the wild chaos of barbarism. Rome kept it back from end to end of Europe and across a thousand miles of western Asia. Through all the storms of barbarian onset, through the carnage of uncounted wars, through plagues which struck whole multitudes down to a disastrous death, through civil discord and sedition and domestic treachery, the work went on. It was not always marked by special insight or intelligence. The men who carried it out were not for the most part first-rate statesmen or first-rate generals. Their successes were those of character, not of genius. But their phlegmatic courage saved the civilized life of Europe till that life had grown strong and tenacious, and till even its assailants had recognized its worth. It was this growth of internal civilization which formed the second and most lasting of the achievements of the Empire. Its long and peaceable government--the longest and most orderly that has yet been granted to any large portion of the world--gave time for the expansion of Roman speech and manners, for the extension of the political franchise, the establishment of city life, the assimilation of the provincial populations in an orderly and coherent civilization. As the importance of the city of Rome declined, as the world became Romeless, a large part of the world grew to be Roman. It has been said that Greece taught men to be human and Rome made mankind civilized. That was the work of the Empire; the form it took was Romanization. This Romanization has its limits and its characteristics. First, in respect of place. Not only in the further east, where (as in Egypt) mankind was non-European, but even in the nearer east, where an ancient Greek civilization reigned, the effect of Romanization was inevitably small. Closely as Greek civilization resembled Roman, easy as the transition might seem from the one to the other, Rome met here that most serious of all obstacles to union, a race whose thoughts and affections and traditions had crystallized into definite coherent form. That has in all ages checked Imperial assimilation; it was the decisive hindrance to the Romanization of the Greek east. A few Italian oases were created by the establishment of _coloniae_ here and there in Asia Minor and in Syria. But all of them perished like exotic plants.[1] The Romanization of these lands was political. Their inhabitants ultimately learnt to call and to consider themselves Romans. But they did not adopt the Roman language or the Roman civilization. [Footnote 1: Mitteis, _Reichsrecht und Volksrecht_, p. 147; Kubitschek, _Festheft Bormann_ (Wiener Studien, xx. 2), pp. 340 foll.; L. Hahn, _Rom und Romanismus im griechisch-röm. Osten_ (Leipzig, 1906).] The west offers a different spectacle. Here Rome found races that were not yet civilized, yet were racially capable of accepting her culture. Here, accordingly, her conquests differed from the two forms of conquest with which modern men are most familiar. We know well enough the rule of civilized white men over uncivilized Africans, who seem sundered for ever from their conquerors by a broad physical distinction. We know, too, the rule of civilized white men over civilized white men--of Russian (for example) over Pole, where the individualities of two kindred and similarly civilized races clash in undying conflict. The Roman conquest of western Europe resembled neither of these. Celt, Iberian, German, Illyrian, were marked off from Italian by no broad distinction of race and colour, such as that which marked off Egyptian from Italian, or that which now divides Englishman from African or Frenchman from Algerian Arab. They were marked off, further, by no ancient culture, such as that which had existed for centuries round the Aegean. It was possible, it was easy, to Romanize these western peoples. Even their geographical position helped, though somewhat indirectly, to further the process. Tacitus two or three times observes that the western provinces of the Empire looked out on no other land to the westward and bordered on no free nations. That is one half of a larger fact which influenced the whole history of the Empire. Round the west lay the sea and the Sahara. In the east were wide lands and powerful states and military dangers and political problems and commercial opportunities. The Empire arose in the west and in Italy, a land that, geographically speaking, looks westward. But it was drawn surely, if slowly, to the east. Throughout the first three centuries of our era, we can trace an eastward drift--of troops, of officials, of government machinery--till finally the capital itself is no longer Rome but Byzantium. All the while, in the undisturbed security of the west, Romanization proceeded steadily. The advance of this Romanization followed manifold lines. The Roman government gave more or less direct encouragement, particularly in two ways. It increased the Roman or Romanized population of the provinces during the earlier Empire by establishing time-expired soldiers--men who spoke Latin and who were citizens of Rome[1]--in provincial municipalities (_coloniae_). It allured provincials themselves to adopt Roman civilization by granting the franchise and other privileges to those who conformed. Neither step need be ascribed to any idealism on the part of the rulers. _Coloniae_ served as instruments of repression as well as of culture, at least in the first century of the Empire. When Cicero[2] describes a _colonia_, founded under the Republic in southern Gaul, as 'a watch-tower of the Roman people and an outpost planted to confront the Gaulish tribes', he states an aspect of such a town which obtained during the earlier Empire no less than in the Republican age. Civilized men, again, are always more easily ruled than savages.[3] But the result was in any case the same. The provincials became Romanized. [Footnote 1: English writers sometimes adduce the provincial origins of the soldiers as proofs that they were unromanized. The conclusion is unjustifiable. The legionaries were throughout recruited from places which were adequately Romanized. The auxiliaries, though recruited from less civilized districts, and though to some extent tribally organized in the early Empire, were denationalized after A.D. 70, and non-Roman elements do not begin to recur in the army till later. Tiberius _militem Graece testimonium interrogatum nisi Latine respondere vetuit_ (Suet. _Tib._ 71).] [Footnote 2: Cic. _pro Font._ 13. Compare Tacitus, _Ann._ xii. 27 and 32, _Agr._ 14 and 32.] [Footnote 3: Tacitus emphasizes this point. _Agr._ 21 _ut homines dispersi ac rudes, eoque in bella faciles, quieti et otio per voluptates adsuescerent, hortari privatim adiuvare publice ut templa fora domos exstruerent.... Idque apud imperitos humanitas vocabatur, cum pars servitutis esset._] No less important results followed from unofficial causes. The legionary fortresses collected settlers--traders, women, veterans--under the shelter of their ramparts, and their _canabae_ or 'bazaars', to use an Anglo-Indian term, formed centres of Roman speech and life, and often developed into cities. Italians, especially of the upper-middle class, merchants and others,[1] emigrated freely and formed tiny Roman settlements, often in districts where no troops were stationed. Chances opened at Rome for able provincials who became Romanized. Above all, the definite and coherent civilization of Italy took hold of uncivilized but intelligent men, while the tolerance of Rome, which coerced no one into conformity, made its culture the more attractive because it seemed the less inevitable. [Footnote 1: The best parallel to the Italian emigration to the provinces during the late Republic and early Empire is perhaps to be found in the mediaeval German emigrations to Galicia and parts of Hungary (the Siebenbürgen Saxons are an exception), which Professor R.F. Kaindl has so well and minutely described. The present day mass emigration of the lower classes is something quite distinct.] The process is hard to follow in detail, since datable evidence is scanty. In general, however, the instances of really native fashions or speech which are recorded from this or that province belong to the early Empire. To that age we can assign not only the Celtic, Iberian, and Punic inscriptions which we find occasionally in Gaul, Spain, and Africa, but also the use of the native titles like Vergobret or Suffete, and the retention of native personal names and of that class of Latin _nomina_, like Lovessius, which are formed out of native names. In the middle Empire such things are rarer. Exceptions naturally meet us here and there. Punic was in almost official use in towns like Gigthis in the Syrtis region in the second century, and Punic-speaking clergy, it appears, were needed in some of the villages of fourth-century Africa. Celtic is stated to have been in use at the same epoch among the Treveri of eastern Gaul--presumably in the great woodlands of the Ardennes, the Eifel and the Hunsrück.[1] Basque was obviously in use throughout the Roman period in the valleys of the Pyrenees. So in Asia Minor, where Greek was the dominant tongue, six or seven other dialects, Galatian, Phrygian, Lycaonian, and others, lived on till a very late date, especially (as it seems) on the uncivilized pastoral areas of the Imperial domain-lands.[2] Some of these are survivals, noted at the time as exceptional, and counting in the scales of history for no more than the survival of Greek in a few modern villages of southern Italy or the Wendish oasis seventy miles from Berlin. Others are more serious facts. But they do not alter the main position. In most regions of the west the Latin tongue obviously prevailed. It was, indeed, powerful enough to lead the Christian Church to insist on its use, and not, as in Syria and Egypt, to encourage native dialects.[3] [Footnote 1: Jerome, _Comment. in epist. ad Galatas_, ii. 3. His assertion has, however, met with much scepticism in modern times, and it must be admitted that he was not a very accurate writer.] [Footnote 2: K. Holl, _Hermes_, xliii. 240-54; William M. Ramsay, _Oesterr. Jahreshefte_, viii. (1905), 79-120, quoting, amongst other things, a neo-phrygian text of A.D. 259; W.M. Calder, _Hellenic Journal_, xxxi. 161.] [Footnote 3: Mommsen (_Röm. Gesch._ v. 92) ascribes the final extinction of Celtic in northern Gaul to the influence of the Church. But the Church was not in itself averse to native dialects, and its insistence on Latin in the west may well be due rather to the previous diffusion of the language.] In material culture the Romanization advanced no less quickly. One uniform fashion spread from the Mediterranean throughout central and western Europe, driving out native art and substituting a conventionalized copy of Graeco-Roman or Italian art, which is characterized alike by its technical finish and neatness, and by its lack of originality and its dependence on imitation. The result was inevitable. The whole external side of life was lived amidst Italian, or (as we may perhaps call it) Roman-provincial, furniture and environment. Take by way of example the development of the so-called 'Samian' ware. The original manufacture of this (so far as we are here concerned) was in Italy at Arezzo. Early in the first century Gaulish potters began to copy and compete with it; before long the products of the Arretine kilns had vanished even from the Italian market. Western Europe henceforward was supplied with its 'best china' from provincial and mainly from Gaulish sources. The character of the ware supplied is significant. It was provincial, but it was in no sense unclassical. It drew many of its details from other sources than Arezzo, but it drew them all from Greece or Rome. Nothing either in the manner or in the matter of its decoration recalled native Gaul. Throughout, it is imitative and conventional, and, as often happens in a conventional art, items are freely jumbled together which do not fit into any coherent story or sequence. At its best, it is handsome enough: though its possibilities are limited by its brutal monochrome, it is no discredit to the civilization to which it belongs. But it reveals unmistakably the Roman character of that civilization. The uniformity of this civilization was crossed by local variations, but these do not contradict its Roman character. If the provincial felt sometimes the claims of his province and raised a cry that sounds like 'Africa for the Africans' he acted on a geographical, not on any native or national idea. He was demanding individual life for a Roman section of the Empire. He was anticipating, perhaps, the birth of new nations out of the Romanized populations. He was not attempting to recall the old pre-Roman system. Similarly, if his art or architecture embodies native fashions or displays a local style, if special types of houses or of tombstones or sculpture occur in special districts, that does not mar the result. These are not efforts to regain an earlier native life. They are not the enemies of Roman culture, but its children--sometimes, indeed, its adopted children--and they signify the birth of new Roman fashions. It remains true, of course, that, till a language or a custom is wholly dead and gone, it can always revive under special conditions. The rustic poor of a country seldom affect the trend of its history. But they have a curious persistent force. Superstitions, sentiments, even language and the consciousness of nationality, linger dormant among them, till an upheaval comes, till buried seeds are thrown out on the surface and forgotten plants blossom once more. The world has seen many examples of such resurrection--not least in modern Europe. The Roman Empire offers us singularly few instances, but it would be untrue to say that there were none. But while it is true generally that Romanization spread rapidly in the west, we must admit great differences between different districts even of the same provincial areas. Some grew Romanized soon and thoroughly, others slowly and imperfectly. For instance, Gallia Comata, that is, Gaul north and west of the Cevennes, contrasted sharply in this respect with Narbonensis, the province of the Mediterranean coast and the Rhone Valley. This latter, even in the first century A.D., had become _Italia verius quam provincia_. The other lagged behind. Neither the Latin speech nor the Latin forms of municipal government became quickly common. Yet even in northern Gaul Romanization strode forward. The Gaulish monarchy of A.D. 258-73 shows us the position north of the Cevennes just after the middle of the third century. In it Roman and native elements were mixed. Its emperors were called not only Latinius Postumus, but also Piavonius and Esuvius Tetricus. Its coins were inscribed not only 'Romae Aeternae', but also 'Herculi Deusoniensi' and 'Herculi Magusano'. It not only claimed independence of Rome or perhaps equality with it, but it aspired to be the Empire. It had its own senate, copied from that of Rome; _tribunicia potestas_ was conferred on its ruler and the title _princeps iuventutis_ on its heir apparent. At that date it was still possible for a Gaulish ruler to bear a Gaulish name and to appeal to some sort of native memories. But the appeal was made without any sense that it was incompatible with a general acceptance of Roman fashions, language, and constitution. Postumus, if he had had the chance, would have made himself Emperor of Rome. Though the native element in Gaul had not died out of mind, at any rate its opposition to the Roman had become forgotten. It had become little more than a picturesque and interesting contrast to the all-absorbing Roman element. A hundred and thirty years later it had almost wholly vanished. Such is the historical situation to which we must adjust our views of any single province in the western Empire. Two main conclusions may here be emphasized. First, Romanization in general extinguished the distinction between Roman and provincial, alike in politics, in material culture, and in language. Secondly, it did not everywhere and at once destroy all traces of tribal or national sentiments or fashions. These remained, at least for a while and in a few districts, not so much in active opposition as in latent persistence, capable of resurrection under the proper conditions. In such cases the provincial had become a Roman. But he could still undergo an atavistic reversion to the ancient ways of his forefathers. CHAPTER II PRELIMINARY REMARKS ON ROMAN BRITAIN One western province seems to form an exception to the general rule. In Britain, as it is described by the majority of English writers, we have a province in which Roman and native were as distinct as modern Englishman and Indian, and 'the departure of the Romans' in the fifth century left the Britons almost as Celtic as their coming had found them. The adoption of this view may be set down, I think, to various reasons which have, in themselves, little to do with the subject. The older archaeologists, familiar with the early wars narrated by Caesar and Tacitus, pictured the whole history of the island as consisting of such struggles. Later writers have been influenced by the analogies of English rule in India. Still more recently, the revival of Welsh national sentiment has inspired a hope, which has become a belief, that the Roman conquest was an episode, after which an unaltered Celticism resumed its interrupted supremacy. These considerations have, plainly enough, very little value as history, and the view which is based on them seems to me in large part mistaken. As I have pointed out, it is not the view which is suggested by a consideration of the general character of the western provinces. Nor do I think that it is the view which agrees best with the special evidence which we possess in respect of Britain. In the following paragraphs I propose to examine this evidence. I shall adopt an archaeological rather than a legal or a philological standpoint. The legal and philological arguments have often been put forward. But the legal arguments are entirely _a priori_, and they have led different scholars to very different conclusions. The philological arguments are no less beset with difficulties. Both the facts and their significance are obscure, and the inquiry into them has hitherto yielded little beyond confident and yet wholly contradictory assertions and theories which are not susceptible of proof. The archaeological evidence, on the other hand, is definite and consistent, and perhaps deserves fuller notice than it has yet received. It illuminates, not only the material civilization, but also the language and to some extent even the institutions of Roman Britain, and supplies, though imperfectly, the facts which our legal and philological arguments do not yield. I need not here insert a sketch of Roman Britain. But I may call attention to three of its features which are not seldom overlooked. In the first place, it is necessary to distinguish the two halves of the province, the one the northern and western uplands occupied only by troops, and the other the eastern and southern lowlands which contained nothing but purely civilian life.[1] The two are marked off, not in law but in practical fact, almost as fully as if one had been _domi_ and the other _militiae_. We shall not seek for traces of Romanization in the military area. There neither towns existed nor villas. Northwards, no town or country-house has been found beyond the neighbourhood of Aldborough (Isurium), some fifteen miles north-west of York. Westwards, on the Welsh frontier, the most advanced town was at Wroxeter (Viroconium), near Shrewsbury, and the furthest country-house an isolated dwelling at Llantwit, in Glamorgan.[2] In the south-west the last house was near Lyme Regis, the last town at Exeter.[3] These are the limits of the Romanized area. Outside of them, the population cannot have acquired much Roman character, nor can it have been numerous enough to form more than a subsidiary factor in our problem. But within these limits were towns and villages and country-houses and farms, a large population, and a developed and orderly life. [Footnote 1: For further details see the Victoria County Histories of _Northamptonshire_, i. 159, and _Derbyshire_, i. 191. To save frequent references, I may say here that much of the evidence for the following paragraphs is to be found in my articles on Romano-British remains printed in the volumes of this History. I am indebted to its publishers for leave to reproduce several illustrations from its pages. For others I refer my readers to the History itself.] [Footnote 2: See my _Military Aspects of Roman Wales_, notes 60 and 82. There was some sort of town life at Carmarthen.] [Footnote 3: The Roman remains discovered west of Exeter are few and mostly later than A.D. 250. No town or country-house or farm or stretch of roadway has ever been found here. The list of discoveries includes only one early settlement on Plymouth harbour, another near Bodmin, of small size, and a third, equally small and of uncertain date, on Padstow harbour; some scanty vestiges of tin-mining, principally late; two milestones (if milestones they be) of the early fourth century, the one at Tintagel church and the other at St. Hilary; and some scattered hoards and isolated bits. Portions of the country were plainly inhabited, but the inhabitants did not learn Roman ways, like those who lived east of the Exe. Even tin-mining was not pursued very actively till a comparatively late period, though the Bodmin settlement may be connected with tin-works close by.] [Illustration: FIG. 1. THE CIVIL AND MILITARY DISTRICTS OF BRITAIN.] Secondly, the distribution of civilian life, even in the lowlands, was singularly uneven. It is not merely that some districts were the special homes of wealthier residents. We have also to conceive of some parts as densely peopled and of some as hardly inhabited. Portions of Kent, Sussex, and Somerset are set thick with country-houses and similar vestiges of Romano-British life. But other portions of the same counties, southern Kent, northern Sussex, western Somerset, show very few traces of any settled life at all. The midland plain, and in particular Warwickshire,[1] seems to have been the largest of these 'thin spots'. Here, among great woodlands and on damp and chilly clay, there dwelt not merely few civilized Roman-Britons, but few occupants of any sort. [Footnote 1: _Victoria Hist. of Warwickshire_, i. 228.] And lastly, Romano-British life was on a small scale. It was, I think, normal in quality and indeed not very dissimilar from that of many parts of Gaul. But it was in any case defective in quantity. We find towns in Britain, as elsewhere, and farms or country-houses. But the towns are small and somewhat few, and the country-houses indicate comfort more often than wealth. The costlier objects of ordinary use, fine mosaics, precious glass, gold and silver ornaments, occur comparatively seldom.[1] We have before us a civilization which, like a man whose constitution is sound rather than strong, might perish quickly from a violent shock. [Footnote 1: See my remarks in Traill's _Social England_ (illustrated edition, 1901), i. 141-61.] CHAPTER III ROMANIZATION IN LANGUAGE We may now proceed to survey the actual remains. They may seem scanty, but they deserve examination. First, in respect of language. Even before the Claudian conquest of A.D. 43, British princes had begun to inscribe their coins with Latin words. These legends are not merely blind and unintelligent copies, like the imitations of Roman legends on the early English _sceattas_. The word most often used, REX, is strange to the Roman coinage, and must have been employed with a real sense of its meaning. After A.D. 43, Latin advanced rapidly. No Celtic inscription occurs, I believe, on any monument of the Roman period in Britain, neither cut on stone nor scratched on tile or potsherd, and this fact is the more noteworthy because, as I shall point out below, Celtic inscriptions are not at all unknown in Gaul. On the other hand, Roman inscriptions occur freely in Britain. They are less common than in many other provinces, and they abound most in the military region. But they appear also in towns and country-houses, and some of the instances are significant. The town site that we can best examine for our present purpose is Calleva or Silchester, ten miles south of Reading, which has been completely excavated with care and thoroughness. Here a few fairly complete inscriptions on stone have been discovered, and many fragments of others, which prove that the public language of the town was Latin.[1] The speech of ordinary conversation is equally well attested by smaller inscribed objects, and the evidence is remarkable, since it plainly refers to the lower class of Callevans. When a weary brick-maker scrawls SATIS with his finger on a tile, or some prouder spirit writes CLEMENTINVS FECIT TVBVL(_um_) (Clementinus made this box-tile), when a bit of Samian is marked FVR--presumably as a warning from the servants of one house to those of the next--or a rude brick shows the word PVELLAM--probably part of an amatory sentence otherwise lost--or another brick gives a Roman date, the 'sixth day before the Calends of October', we may be sure that the lower classes of Calleva used Latin alike at their work and in their more frivolous moments (Figs. 2, 3, 4). When we find a tile scratched over with cursive lettering--possibly part of a writing lesson--which ends with a tag from the _Aeneid_, we recognize that not even Vergil was out of place here.[2] The Silchester examples are so numerous and remarkable that they admit of no other interpretation.[3] [Footnote 1: For these and for the following _graffiti_ see my account in the _Victoria History of Hampshire_, i. 275, 282-4. For the 'Clementinus' tile (discovered since) see _Archaeologia_, lviii. 30. Silchester lies in a stoneless country, so that stone inscriptions would naturally be few and would easily be used up for later building. Moreover, its cemeteries have not yet been explored, and only one tombstone has come accidentally to light.] [Footnote 2: Sir E.M. Thompson, _Greek and Latin Palaeography_ (1894), p. 211, first suggested this explanation; _Eph._ ix. 1293.] [Footnote 3: To call them--as did a kindly Belgian critic of this paper in its first published form--'un nombre de faits trop peu considérable' is really to misstate the case.] [Illustration: FIG. 2. ... _puellam_.] [Illustration: FIG. 3. _Fecit tubul(um) Clementinus_.] [Illustration: FIG. 4. _vi K(alendas) Oct(obres)_....] [Illustration: FIGS. 2, 3, 4. GRAFFITI ON TILES FROM SILCHESTER. (P. 25.)] [Illustration: FIG. 5. GRAFFITO ON A TILE FOUND AT SILCHESTER (P. 25). _Pertacus perfidus campester Lucilianus Campanus conticuere omnes._ (Probably a writing lesson.)] I have heard this conclusion doubted on the ground that a bricklayer or domestic servant in a province of the Roman Empire would not have known how to read and write. This doubt really rests on a misconception of the Empire. It is, indeed, akin to the surprise which tourists often exhibit when confronted with Roman remains in an excavation or a museum--a surprise that 'the Romans' had boots, or beds, or waterpipes, or fireplaces, or roofs over their heads. There are, in truth, abundant evidences that the labouring man in Roman days knew how to read and write at need, and there is much truth in the remark that in the lands ruled by Rome education was better under the Empire than at any time since its fall till the nineteenth century. It has, indeed, been suggested by doubters, that these _graffiti_ were written by immigrant Italians, working as labourers or servants in Calleva. The suggestion does not seem probable. Italians certainly emigrated to the provinces in considerable numbers, just as Italians emigrate to-day. But we have seen above that the ancient emigrants were not labourers, as they are to-day. They were traders, or dealers in land, or money-lenders or other 'well-to-do' persons. The labourers and servants of Calleva must be sought among the native population, and the _graffiti_ testify that this population wrote Latin. It is a further question whether, besides writing Latin, the Callevan servants and workmen may not also have spoken Celtic. Here direct evidence fails. In the nature of things, we cannot hope for proof of the negative proposition that Celtic was not spoken in Silchester. But all probabilities suggest that it was, at any rate, spoken very little. In the twenty years' excavation of the site, no Celtic inscription has emerged. Instead, we have proof that the lower classes wrote Latin for all sorts of purposes. Had they known Celtic well, it is hardly credible that they should not have sometimes written in that language, as the Gauls did across the Channel. A Gaulish potter of Roman date could scrawl his name and record, _Sacrillos avot_, 'Sacrillus potter', on the outside of a mould.[1] No such scrawl has ever been found in Britain. The Gauls, again, could invent a special letter Ð to denote a special Celtic sound and keep it in Roman times. No such letter was used in Roman Britain, though it occurs on earlier British coins. This total absence of written Celtic cannot be a mere accident. [Footnote 1: One example is _Sacrillos avot form._, suggesting a bilingual sentence such as we find in some Cornish documents of the period when Cornish was definitely giving way to English. Another example, _Valens avoti_ (Déchelette, _Vases céramiques_, i. 302), suggests the same stage of development in a different way.] No other Romano-British town has been excavated so extensively or so scientifically as Silchester. None, therefore, has yielded so much evidence. But we have no reason to consider Silchester exceptional in its character. Such scraps as we possess from other sites point to similar Romanization elsewhere. FVR, for instance, recurs on a potsherd from the Romano-British country town at Dorchester in Dorset. A set of tiles dug up in the ruins of a country-house at Plaxtol, in Kent, bear a Roman inscription impressed by a rude wooden stamp (Fig. 6).[1] In short, all the _graffiti_ on potsherds or tiles that are known to me as found in towns or country-houses are equally Roman. Larger inscriptions, cut on stone, have also been found in country-houses. On the whole the general result is clear. Latin was employed freely in the towns of Britain, not only on serious occasions or by the upper classes, but by servants and work-people for the most accidental purposes. It was also used, at least by the upper classes, in the country. Plainly there did not exist in the towns that linguistic gulf between upper class and lower class which can be seen to-day in many cities of eastern Europe, where the employers speak one language and the employed another. On the other hand, it is possible that a different division existed, one which is perhaps in general rarer, but which can, or could, be paralleled in some Slavonic districts of Austria-Hungary. That is, the townsfolk of all ranks and the upper class in the country may have spoken Latin, while the peasantry may have used Celtic. No actual evidence has been discovered to prove this. We may, however, suggest that it is not, in itself, an impossible or even an improbable linguistic division of Roman Britain, even though the province did not contain any such racial differences as those of German, Pole, Ruthene and Rouman which lend so much interest to Austrian towns like Czernowitz. [Footnote 1: _Proc. Soc. Antiq. London_, xxiii. 108; _Eph._ ix. 1290.] [Illustration: FIG. 6. FRAGMENT OF INSCRIBED TILE FROM PLAXTOL AND RECONSTRUCTION OF THE INSCRIPTION FROM VARIOUS FRAGMENTS. (The letters were impressed by a wooden cylinder with incised lettering, which was rolled over the tile while still soft. In the reconstruction CAB in line 2 and IT in line 3 are included twice, to show the method of repetition.)] It remains to cite the literary evidence, distinct if not abundant, as to the employment of Latin in Britain. Agricola, as is well known, encouraged the use of it, with the result (says Tacitus) that the Britons, who had hitherto hated and refused the foreign tongue, became eager to speak it fluently. About the same time Plutarch, in his tract on the cessation of oracles, mentions one Demetrius of Tarsus, grammarian, who had been teaching in Britain (A.D. 80), and mentions him as nothing at all out of the ordinary course.[1] Forty years later, Juvenal alludes casually to British lawyers taught by Gaulish schoolmasters. It is plain that by the second century Latin must have been spreading widely in the province. We need not feel puzzled about the way in which the Callevan workman of perhaps the third or fourth century learnt his Latin. [Footnote 1: See Dessau, _Hermes_, xlvi. 156.] At this point we might wish to introduce the arguments deducible from philology. We might ask whether the phonetics or the vocabulary of the later Celtic and English languages reveal any traces of the influence of Latin, as a spoken tongue, or give negative testimony to its absence. Unfortunately, the inquiry seems almost hopeless. The facts are obscure and open to dispute, and the conclusions to be drawn from them are quite uncertain. Dogmatic assertions proceeding from this or that philologist are common enough. Trustworthy results are correspondingly scarce. One instance may be cited in illustration. It has been argued that the name 'Kent' is derived from the Celtic 'Cantion', and not from the Latin 'Cantium', because, according to the rules of Vulgar Latin, 'Cantium' would have been pronounced 'Cantsium' in the fifth century, when the Saxons may be supposed to have learnt the name. That is, Celtic was spoken in Kent about 450. Yet it is doubtful whether Latin 'ti' had really come to be pronounced 'tsi' in Britain so early as A.D. 450. And it is plainly possible that the Saxons may have learnt the name long years before the reputed date of Hengist and Horsa. The Kentish coast was armed against them and the organization of the 'Saxon Shore' established about A.D. 300. Their knowledge of the place-name may be at least as old. No other difficulty seems to hinder the derivation of 'Kent' from the form 'Cantium', and the whole argument based on the name thus collapses. It is impossible here to go through the whole list of cases which have been supposed to be parallel in their origin to 'Kent', nor should I, with a scanty knowledge of the subject, be justified in such an attempt. I have selected this particular example because it has been emphasized by a recent writer.[1] [Footnote 1: Vinogradoff, _Growth of the Manor_, p. 102. I am indebted to Mr. W.H. Stevenson for help in relation to these philological points.] CHAPTER IV ROMANIZATION IN MATERIAL CIVILIZATION From language we pass to material civilization. Here is a far wider field of evidence, provided by buildings, private or public, their equipment and furniture, and the arts and small artistic or decorative objects. On the whole this evidence is clear and consistent. The material civilization of the province, the external fabric of its life, was Roman, in Britain as elsewhere in the west. Native elements succumbed almost wholesale to the conquering foreign influence. In regard to public buildings this is natural enough. Before the Claudian conquest the Britons can hardly have possessed large structures in stone, and the provision of them necessarily came in with the Romans. The _fora_, basilicas, and public baths, such as have been discovered at Silchester, Caerwent and elsewhere, follow Roman models and resemble similar buildings in other provinces. The temples show something more of a local pattern (Fig. 7), which occurs also in northern Gaul and on the Rhine, but this pattern seems merely a variation of a classical type.[1] The characteristics of the private houses are more complicated. Their ground-plans show us types which, like the temples just mentioned, recur in northern Gaul as well as Britain, but which differ even more than the temples from the similar buildings in Italy, or indeed in the Mediterranean provinces of the Empire. The houses of Italy and of the south generally were constructed to look inwards upon open _impluvia_, colonnaded courts and garden plots, and, as befitted a hot climate, they had few outer windows. Moreover, they could be easily built side by side so as to form, as at Pompeii, the continuous streets of a town. The houses of Britain and northern Gaul looked outwards on to the surrounding country. Their rooms were generally arranged in straight rows along a corridor or cloister. Sometimes they had only one row of rooms (Corridor House, Fig. 8); sometimes they enclosed two or three sides of a large open yard (Courtyard House, Fig. 9); a third type somewhat resembles a yard with rooms at each end of it. In any case they were singularly ill-suited to stand side by side in a town street. When we find them grouped together in a town, as at Silchester and Caerwent--the only two examples of Roman towns in Britain of which we have real knowledge--they are dotted about more like the cottages in an English village than anything that recalls a real town (Fig. 10). [Footnote 1: British examples have been noted at Silchester and Caerwent, and in many scattered sites in rural districts. For Gaulish instances, see Léon de Vesly, _Les Fana de région Normande_ (Rouen, 1909); for Germany, _Bonner Jahrbücher_, 1876, p. 57, Hettner, _Drei Tempelbezirke im Trevirerlande_ (Trier, 1901), and _Trierer Jahresberichte_, iii. 49-66. The English writers who have published accounts of these structures have tended to ignore their special character.] [Illustration: FIG. 7. GROUND-PLANS OF ROMANO-BRITISH TEMPLES. CAERWENT AND SILCHESTER.] [Illustration: FIG. 8. GROUND-PLAN OF A SMALL CORRIDOR HOUSE FROM FRILFORD, BERKSHIRE. (_From plan by Sir A.J. Evans._)] [Illustration: FIG. 9. COURTYARD HOUSE AT NORTHLEIGH, OXFORDSHIRE, EXCAVATED IN 1815-16. (Room 1, chief mosaic with hypocaust; rooms 8-18, mosaic floors; rooms 21-7 and 38-43, baths, &c. Recent excavations show that this plan represents the house in its third and latest stage. See p. 31.)] [Illustration: FIG. 10. DETAILED PLAN OF PART OF SILCHESTER. Showing the arrangement of the private houses and the Forum and Christian Church. (_From the plan issued by the Society of Antiquaries._) (See p. 31.)] The origin of these northern house-types has been much disputed. English writers tend to regard them as embodying a Celtic form of house; German archaeologists try to derive them from the 'Peristyle houses' built round colonnaded courts in Roman Africa and in the east. It may be admitted that the influence of this class of house has not infrequently affected builders in Roman Britain. But the differences between the British 'Courtyard house' and that of the south are very considerable. In particular, the amount of ground covered by the courts differs entirely in the two kinds of houses, while for the British houses of the plainer 'corridor' type the Mediterranean lands offer no analogies. We cannot find in them either _atrium_ or _impluvium_, _tablinum_ or peristyle, such as we find in Italy, and we must suppose them to be Roman modifications of really Celtic originals. This, however, no more implies that their occupants were mere Celts than the use of a bungalow in India proves the inhabitant to be a native Indian.[1] [Footnote 1: _Vict. Hist. Somerset_, i. 213-14. A few Romano-British houses at Silchester (_in insula_ xiv. (1), see _Archaeologia_, lv. 221) and at Caerwent (house No. 3, see _Arch._ lvii, plate 40) do bear some resemblance to the Mediterranean type, as I have observed in _Archaeol. Anzeiger_, 1902, p. 105. But they stand alone. Similarly, parallels may be drawn between Pompeian wall-paintings of houses and certain 'villa' remains in western Germany, as at Nennig; see Rostowzew, _Archaeol. Jahrbuch_, 1904, p. 103. But these again seem to me the exception.] The point is made clearer by the character of the internal fittings, for these are wholly borrowed from Italian sources. If we cannot find in the Romano-British house either _atrium_ or _impluvium_, _tablinum_ or peristyle, such as we find regularly in Italy, we have none the less the painted wall-plaster (Fig. 11) and mosaic floors, the hypocausts and bath-rooms of Italy. The wall-paintings and mosaics may be poorer in Britain, the hypocausts more numerous; the things themselves are those of the south. No mosaic, I believe, has ever come to light in the whole of Roman Britain which represents any local subject or contains any unclassical feature. The usual ornamentation consists either of mythological scenes, such as Orpheus charming the animals, or Apollo chasing Daphne, or Actaeon rent by his hounds, or of geometrical devices like the so-called Asiatic shields which are purely of classical origin.[1] Perhaps we may detect in Britain a special fondness for the cable or guilloche pattern, and we may conjecture that from Romano-British mosaics it passed in a modified form into Later Celtic art. But the ornament itself, whether in single border or in many-stranded panels of plaitwork, occurs not rarely in Italy as well as in thoroughly Romanized lands like southern Spain and southern Gaul and Africa, and also in Greece and Asia Minor. It is a classical, not a British pattern. [Footnote 1: It has been suggested that these mosaics were principally laid by itinerant Italians. The idea is, of course, due to modern analogies. It does not seem quite impossible, since the work is in a sense that of an artist, and the pay might have been high enough to attract stray decorators of good standing from the Continent. However, no evidence exists to prove this or even to make it probable. The mosaics of Roman Britain, with hardly an exception, are such as might easily be made in a province which was capable of exporting skilled workmen to Gaul (p. 57). They have also the appearance of imitative work copied from patterns rather than of designs sketched by artists. It is most natural to suppose that, like the Gaulish Samian ware--which is imitative in just the same fashion--they are local products.] [Illustration: FIG. 11. RESTORATION OF PAINTED PATTERN ON WALL-PLASTER AT SILCHESTER. Showing a purely conventional style based on classical models. (P. 34.) (_From Archaeologia._)] Nor is the Roman fashion of house-fittings confined to the mansions of the wealthy. Hypocausts and painted stucco, copied, though crudely, from Roman originals, have been discovered in poor houses and in mean villages.[1] They formed part, even there, of the ordinary environment of life. They were not, as an eminent writer[2] calls them, 'a delicate exotic varnish.' Indeed, I cannot recognize in our Romano-British remains the contrast alleged by this writer 'between an exotic culture of a higher order and a vernacular culture of a primitive kind'. There were in Britain splendid houses and poor ones. But a continuous gradation of all sorts of houses and all degrees of comfort connects them, and there is no discernible breach in the scale. Throughout, the dominant element is the Roman provincial fashion which is borrowed from Italy. [Footnote 1: R.C. Hoare, _Ancient Wilts, Roman Aera_, p. 127: 'On some of the highest of our downs I have found stuccoed and painted walls, as well as hypocausts, introduced into the rude settlements of the Britons.' This is fully borne out by General Pitt-Rivers' discoveries near Rushmore, to be mentioned below. Similar rude hypocausts were opened some years ago in my presence at Eastbourne.] [Footnote 2: Vinogradoff, _Growth of the Manor_, p. 39.] We find Roman influence even in the most secluded villages of the upland region. At Din Lligwy, on the northeast coast of Anglesea, recent excavation (Fig. 12) has uncovered the ruins of a village enclosure about three-quarters of an acre in extent, containing round and square huts or rooms, with walls of roughly coursed masonry and roofs of tile. Scattered up and down in it lay hundreds of fragments of Samian and other Roman or Romano-British pottery and a far smaller quantity of ruder pieces, a few bits of Roman glass, some Roman coins of the period A.D. 250-350, various iron nails and hooks, querns, bones, and so forth.[1] The place lies on the extreme edge of the British province and on an island where no proper Roman occupation can be detected, while its ground-plan shows little sign of a Roman influence. Yet the smaller objects and perhaps also the squareness of one or two rooms show that even here, in the later days of the Empire, the products of Roman civilization and the external fabric of Roman provincial life were present and almost predominant. [Footnote 1: E. Neil Baynes, _Arch. Cambrensis_, 1908, pp. 183-210.] [Illustration: FIG. 12. NATIVE VILLAGE AT DIN LLIGWY, ANGLESEA.] [Illustration: FIG. 13. LATE CELTIC METAL WORK, NOW IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM (1/3). (_Boss of shield, of perhaps first century B.C., found in the Thames at Wandsworth, a little before 1850._)] CHAPTER V ROMANIZATION IN ART Art shows a rather different picture. Here we reach definite survivals of Celtic traditions. There flourished in Britain before the Claudian conquest a vigorous native art, chiefly working in metal and enamel, and characterized by its love for spiral devices and its fantastic use of animal forms. This art--La Tène or Late Celtic or whatever it be styled--was common to all the Celtic lands of Europe just before the Christian era, but its vestiges are particularly clear in Britain. When the Romans spread their dominion over the island, it almost wholly vanished. For that we are not to blame any evil influence of this particular Empire. All native arts, however beautiful, tend to disappear before the more even technique and the neater finish of town manufactures. The process is merely part of the honour which a coherent civilization enjoys in the eyes of country folk. Disraeli somewhere describes a Syrian lady preferring the French polish of a western boot to the jewels of an eastern slipper. With a similar preference the British Celt abandoned his national art and adopted the Roman provincial fashion. He did not abandon it entirely. Little local manufactures of pottery or fibulae testify to its sporadic survival. Such are the brooches with Celtic affinities made (as it seems) near Brough (Verterae) in Westmorland, and the New Forest urns with their curious leaf ornament (Fig. 14),[1] and above all the Castor ware from the banks of the Nen, five miles west of Peterborough. We may briefly examine this last instance.[2] At Castor and Chesterton, on the north and south sides of the river, were two Romano-British settlements of comfortable houses, furnished in genuine Roman style. Round them were extensive pottery works. The ware, or at least the most characteristic of the wares, made in these works is generally known as Castor or Durobrivian ware. Castor was not, indeed, its only place of manufacture. It was produced freely in northern Gaul, and possibly elsewhere in Britain.[3] But Castor is the best known and best attested manufacturing centre, and the easiest for us to examine. The ware directly embodies the Celtic tradition. It is based, indeed, on classical elements, foliated scrolls, hunting scenes, and occasionally mythological representations (Figs. 15, 16). But it recasts these elements with the vigour of a true art and in accordance with its special tendencies. Those fantastic animals with strange out-stretched legs and backturned heads and eager eyes; those tiny scrolls scattered by way of decoration above or below them; the rude beading which serves, not ineffectively, for ornament or for dividing line; the suggestion of returning spirals; the evident delight of the artist in plant and animal forms and his neglect of the human figure--all these are Celtic. When we turn to the rarer scenes in which man is specially prominent--a hunt, or a gladiatorial show, or Hesione fettered naked to a rock and Hercules saving her from the monster[4]--the vigour fails (Fig. 17). The artist could not or would not cope with the human form. His nude figures, Hesione and Hercules, and his clothed gladiators are not fantastic but grotesque. They retain traces of Celtic treatment, as in Hesione's hair. But the general treatment is Roman. The Late Celtic art is here sinking into the general conventionalism of the Roman provinces. [Footnote 1: For the New Forest ware see the _Victoria Hist. of Hampshire_, i. 326, and _Archaeol. Journal_, xxx. 319. The Brough brooches have been pointed out by Sir A.J. Evans, whose work on Late Celtic Art is the foundation of all that has since been written on it, but have not been discussed in detail.] [Footnote 2: _Victoria Hist. of Northamptonshire_, i. 206-13; Artis, _Durobrivae of Antoninus_ (fol. 1828).] [Footnote 3: For the Belgic 'Castor ware' see the Belgian _Bulletin des commissions royales d'art et d'archéologie_ (passim); H. du Cleuziou, _Poterie gauloise_ (Paris, 1872), Fig. 173, from Cologne; _Sammlung Niessen_ (Köln, 1911), plates lxxxvii, lxxxviii; Brongniart, _Traité des arts céram._, pl. xxix (Ghent and Rheinzabern). M. Salomon Reinach tells me that the ware is not infrequent in the departments of the valleys of the Seine, Marne, and Oise. The Colchester gladiator's urn mentioning the Thirtieth Legion (C.R. Smith, _Coll. Ant._, iv. 82, C. vii. 1335, 3) may well be of Rhenish manufacture.] [Footnote 4: This, or the corresponding scene of Perseus and Andromeda, is a favourite with artists in northern Gaul and Britain. It occurs on tombstones at Chester (_Grosvenor Museum Catalogue_, No. 138) and Trier (Hettner, _Die röm. Steindenkmäler zu Trier_, p. 206), and Arlon (Wiltheim, _Luciliburgensia_, plate 57), and the Igel monument. For other instances see Roscher's _Lexikon Mythol._, under 'Hesione'.] [Illustration: FIG. 14. FRAGMENTS OF NEW FOREST POTTERY WITH LEAF PATTERNS. (_From Archaeologia_).] [Illustration: Fig. 15. URNS FROM CASTOR, NOW IN PETERBOROUGH MUSEUM. (P. 41)] [Illustration: FIG. 16. HUNTING SCENES FROM CASTOR WARE (ARTIS, DUROBRIVAE). (SEE PAGE 41.)] [Illustration: FIG. 17. HERCULES RESCUING HESIONE. (_From a piece of Castor ware found in Northamptonshire._ C.R. Smith, _Coll. Ant._, vol. iv, Pl. XXIV.)] A second instance may be cited, this time from sculpture, of important British work which is Celtic, or at least un-Roman (Frontispiece). The Spa at Bath (Aquae Sulis) contained a stately temple to Sul or Sulis Minerva, goddess of the waters. The pediment of this temple, partly preserved by a lucky accident and unearthed in 1790, was carved with a trophy of arms--in the centre a round wreathed shield upheld by two Victories, and below and on either side a helmet, a standard (?), and a cuirass. It is a classical group, such as occurs on other Roman reliefs. But its treatment breaks clean away from the classical. The sculptor placed on the shield a Gorgon's head, as suits alike Minerva and a shield. But he gave to the Gorgon a beard and moustache, almost in the manner of a head of Fear, and he wrought its features with a fierce virile vigour that finds no kin in Greek or Roman art. I need not here discuss the reasons which may have led him to add the male attributes to a properly female type. For our present purpose the important fact is that he could do it. Here is proof that, once at least, the supremacy of the dominant conventional art of the Empire could be rudely broken down.[1] [Footnote 1: For the details of the temple and pediment see _Vict. Hist. Somerset_, i. 229 foll., and references given there. I have discussed the artistic problem on pp. 235 and 236.] A third example, also from sculpture, is supplied by the Corbridge Lion, found among the ruins of Corstopitum in Northumberland in 1907 (Fig. 18). It is a sculpture in the round showing nearly a life-sized lion standing above his prey. The scene is common in provincial Roman work, and not least in Gaul and Britain. Often it is connected with graves, sometimes (as perhaps here) it served for the ornament of a fountain. But if the scene is common, the execution of it is not. Artistically, indeed, the piece is open to criticism. The lion is not the ordinary beast of nature. His face, the pose of his feet, the curl of his tail round his hind leg, are all untrue to life. The man who carved him knew perhaps more of dogs than lions. But he fashioned a living animal. Fantastic and even grotesque as it is, his work possesses a wholly unclassical fierceness and vigour, and not a few observers have remarked when seeing it that it recalls not the Roman world but the Middle Ages.[1] [Footnote 1: _Arch. Aeliana_, 1908, p. 205. I owe to Dr. Chalmers Mitchell a criticism on the truthfulness of the sculpture.] [Illustration: FIG. 18. THE CORBRIDGE LION. (P. 43.)] These exceptions to the ruling Roman-provincial culture are probably commoner in Britain than in the Celtic lands across the Channel. In northern Gaul we meet no such vigorous semi-barbaric carving as the Gorgon and the Lion. At Trier or Metz or Arlon or Sens the sculptures are consistently classical in style and feeling, and the value of this fact is none the less if (with some writers) we find special geographical reasons for the occurrence of certain of these sculptures.[1] Smaller objects tell much the same tale. In particular the bronze 'fibulae' of Roman Britain are peculiarly British. Their commonest varieties are derived from Celtic prototypes and hardly occur abroad. The most striking example of this is supplied by the enamelled 'dragon-brooches'. Both their design (Fig. 19) and their gorgeous colouring are Celtic in spirit; they occur not seldom in Britain; on the Continent only four instances have been recorded.[2] Here certainly Roman Britain is more Celtic than Gallia Belgica or the Rhine Valley. Yet a complete survey of the brooches used in Roman Britain would show a large number of types which were equally common in Britain and on the Continent. Exceptions are always more interesting than rules--even in grammar. But the exceptions pass and the rules remain. The Castor ware and the Gorgon's head are exceptions. The rule stands that the material civilization of Britain was Roman. Except the Gorgon, every worked or sculptured stone at Bath follows the classical conventions. Except the Castor and New Forest pottery, all the better earthenware in use in Britain obeys the same law. The kind that was most generally employed for all but the meaner purposes, was not Castor but Samian or _terra sigillata_.[3] This ware is singularly characteristic of Roman-provincial art. As I have said above, it is copied wholesale from Italian originals. It is purely imitative and conventional; it reveals none of that delight in ornament, that spontaneousness in devising decoration and in working out artistic patterns which can clearly be traced in Late Celtic work. It is simply classical, in an inferior degree. [Footnote 1: Michaelis, Loeschke and others assume an early intercourse between the Mosel basin and eastern Europe, and thereby explain both a statue in Pergamene style which was found at Metz and appears to have been carved there and also the Neumagen sculptures. As all these pieces were pretty certainly produced in Roman times, the early intercourse seems an inadequate cause. Moreover, Pergamene work, while rare in Italy, occurs in Aquitania and Africa, and may have been popular in the provinces.] [Footnote 2: I have given a list in _Archaeologia Aeliana_, 1909, p. 420, to which four English and one foreign example have now to be added. See also Curle, _Newstead_, p. 319, and R.A. Smith, _Proc. Soc. Ant. Lond._, xxii. 61.] [Footnote 3: I may record here a protest against the attempts made from time to time to dispossess the term 'Samian'. Nothing better has been suggested in its stead, and the word itself has the merit of perfect lucidity. Of the various substitutes suggested, 'Pseudo-Arretine' is clumsy, 'Terra Sigillata' is at least as incorrect, and 'Gaulish' covers only a part of the field (_Proc. Soc. Antiq. Lond._, xxiii. 120).] [Illustration: FIG. 19. 'DRAGON-BROOCHES' FOUND AT CORBRIDGE (1/1). (P. 44.)] The contrast between this Romano-British civilization and the native culture which preceded it can readily be seen if we compare for a moment a Celtic village and a Romano-British village. Examples of each have been excavated in the south-west of England, hardly thirty miles apart. The Celtic village is close to Glastonbury in Somerset. Of itself it is a small, poor place--just a group of pile dwellings rising out of a marsh, or (as it may then have been) a lake, and dating from the two centuries immediately preceding the Christian era.[1] Yet, poor as it was, its art is distinct. There one recognizes all that general delight in decoration and that genuine artistic instinct which mark Late Celtic work, while the technical details of the ornament, as, for example, the returning spiral, reveal their affinity with the same native fashion. On the other hand, no trace of classical workmanship or design intrudes. There has not been found anywhere in the village even a _fibula_ with a hinge instead of a spring, or of an Italian (as opposed to a Late Celtic) pattern. Turn now to the Romano-British villages excavated by General Pitt-Rivers at Woodcuts and Rotherley and Woodyates, eleven miles south-west of Salisbury, near the Roman road from Old Sarum (Sorbiodunum) to Dorchester in Dorset.[2] Here you may search in vain for vestiges of the native art or of that delight in artistic ornament which characterizes it. Everywhere the monotonous Roman culture meets the eye. To pass from Glastonbury to Woodcuts is like passing from some old timbered village of Kent or Sussex to the uniform streets of a modern city suburb. Life at Woodcuts had, no doubt, its barbaric side. One writer who has discussed its character with a view to the present problem[3] comments, with evident distaste, on 'dwellings connected with pits used as storage rooms, refuse sinks, and burial places' and 'corpses crouching in un-Roman positions'. The first feature is not without its parallels in modern countries and it was doubtless common in ancient Italy. The second would be more significant if such skeletons occupied all or even the majority of the graves in these villages. Neither feature really mars the broad result, that the material life was Roman. Perhaps the villagers knew little enough of the Roman civilization in its higher aspects. Perhaps they did not speak Latin fluently or habitually. They may well have counted among the less Romanized of the southern Britons. Yet round them too hung the heavy inevitable atmosphere of the Roman material civilization. [Footnote 1: The Glastonbury village was excavated in and after 1892 at intervals; a full account of the finds is now being issued by Bulleid and Gray (_The Glastonbury Lake Village_, vol. i, 1911), with a preface by Dr. R. Munro. The finds themselves are mostly at Glastonbury.] [Footnote 2: Described in four quarto volumes, _Excavations in Cranborne Chase, &c._, issued privately by the late General Pitt-Rivers, 1887-98.] [Footnote 3: Vinogradoff, _Growth of the Manor_, p. 39. A parallel to the non-Roman burials found by General Pitt-Rivers may be found in the will of a Lingonian Gaul who died probably in the latter part of the first century. Apparently he was a Roman citizen, and his will is drawn in strict Roman fashion. But its last clause orders the burning of all his hunting apparatus, spears and nets, &c., on his funeral pyre, and thus betrays the Gaulish habit (Bruns, p. 308, ed. 1909).] The facts which I have tried to set forth in the preceding paragraphs seem to me to possess more weight than is always allowed. Some writers, for instance M. Loth, speak as if the external environment of daily life, the furniture and decorations and architecture of our houses, or the clothes and buckles and brooches of our dress, bore no relation to the feelings and sentiments of those that used them. That is not a tenable proposition. The external fabric of life is not a negligible quantity but a real factor. On the one hand, it is hardly credible that an unromanized folk should adopt so much of Roman things as the British did, and yet remain uninfluenced. And it is equally incredible that, while it remained unromanized, it should either care or understand how to borrow all the externals of Roman life. The truth of this was clear to Tacitus in the days when the Romanization of Britain was proceeding. It may be recognized in the east or in Africa to-day. Even among the civilized nations of the present age the recent growth of stronger national feelings has been accompanied by a preference for home-products and home-manufactures and a distaste for foreign surroundings. CHAPTER VI ROMANIZATION IN THE LOCAL GOVERNMENT AND LAND-SYSTEM I have dealt with the language and the material civilization of the province of Britain. I pass to a third and harder question, the administrative and legal framework of local Romano-British life. Here we have to discuss the extent to which the Roman town-system of the _colonia_ and _municipium_, and the Roman land-system of the _villa_ penetrated Britain. And, first, as to the towns. Britain, we know, contained five municipalities of the privileged Italian type. The _colonia_ of Camulodunum (Colchester) and the _municipium_ of Verulamium (St. Albans), both in the south-east of the island, were established soon after the Claudian conquest. The _colonia_ of Lindum (Lincoln) was probably founded in the early Flavian period (A.D. 70-80), when the Ninth Legion, hitherto at Lincoln, was probably pushed forward to York. The _colonia_ at Glevum (Gloucester) arose in A.D. 96-98, as an inscription seems definitely to attest. Lastly, the _colonia_ at Eburacum (York) must have grown up during the second or the early third century, under the ramparts of the legionary fortress, though separated from it by the intervening river Ouse.[1] Each of these five towns had, doubtless, its dependent _ager attributus_, which may have been as large as an average English county, and each provided the local government for its territory.[2] That implies a definitely Roman form of local government for a considerable area--a larger area, certainly, than received such organization in northern Gaul. Yet it accounts, on the most liberal estimate, for barely one-eighth of the civilized part of the province. [Footnote 1: The fortress was situated on the left or east bank of the Ouse close to the present cathedral, which stands wholly within its area. Parts of the Roman walls can still be traced, especially at the so-called Multangular Tower. The municipality lay on the other (west) bank of the Ouse, near the railway station, where various mosaics indicate dwelling-houses. Its outline and plan are, however, not known. Even its situation has not been generally recognized.] [Footnote 2: If the evidence of milestones may be pressed, the 'territory' of Eburacum extended southwards at least twenty miles to Castleford, and that of Lincoln at least fourteen miles to Littleborough (_Ephemeris Epigraphica_, vii. 1105=ix. 1253, where the last two lines are AVGG EB|MP XX (or XXII), and vii. 1097). The general size of these municipal 'territoria' is amply proved by Continental inscriptions.] Of the rest, some part may have been included in the Imperial Domains, which covered wide tracts in every province and were administered for local purposes by special procurators of the Emperor. The lead-mining districts--Mendip in Somerset, the neighbourhood of Matlock in Derbyshire, the Shelve Hills west of Wroxeter, the Halkyn region in Flintshire, the moors of south-west Yorkshire--must have belonged to these Domains, and for the most part are actually attested by inscriptions on lead-pigs as Imperial property. Of other domain lands we meet one early instance at Silchester in the reign of Nero[1]--perhaps the confiscated estates of some British prince or noble--and though we have no further direct evidence, the analogy of other provinces suggests that the area increased as the years went by. Yet it is likely that in Britain, as indeed in Gaul,[2] the domain lands were comparatively small in amount. Like the municipalities, they account only for a part of the province. [Footnote 1: Tile inscribed NERCLCAEAVGGER, _Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus_ (_Eph._ ix. 1267). It differs markedly from the ordinary tiles found at Silchester, and plainly belongs to a different period in the history of the site. Possibly the estate, or whatever it was, did not remain Imperial after Nero's downfall; compare Plutarch, _Galba_, 5. The Combe Down _Principia_ (C. vii. 62), which are certainly not military, may supply another example, of about A.D. 210 (_Vict. Hist. Somerset_, i. 311; _Eph._ ix. p. 516).] [Footnote 2: Hirschfeld in Lehmann's _Beiträge zur alten Geschichte_, ii. 307, 308. Much of the Gaulish domain land appears to date from confiscations in A.D. 197.] Throughout all the rest of the British province, or at least of its civilized area, the local government was probably organized on the same cantonal system as obtained in northern Gaul. According to this system the local unit was the former territory of the tribe or canton, and the local magistrates were the chiefs or nobles of the tribe. That may appear at first sight to be a native system, wholly out of harmony with the Roman method of government by municipalities. Yet such was not its actual effect. The cantonal or tribal magistrates were classified and arranged just like the magistrates of a municipality. They even used the same titles. The cantonal _civitas_ had its _duoviri_ and quaestors and so forth, and its _ordo_ or senate, precisely like any municipal _colonia_ or _municipium_. So far from wearing a native aspect, this cantonal system merely became one of the influences which aided the Romanization of the country. It did not, indeed, involve, like the municipal system, the substitution of an Italian for a native institution. Instead, it permitted the complete remodelling of the native institution by the interpenetration of Italian influences. We can discern the cantonal system at several points in Britain. But the British cantons were smaller and less wealthy than those of Gaul, and therefore they have not left their mark, either in monuments or in nomenclature, so clearly as we might desire. Many inscriptions record the working of the system in Gaul. Many modern towns--Paris, Reims, Chartres, and thirty or forty others--derive their present names from those of the ancient cantons, and not from those of the ancient towns. In Britain we find only one such inscription (Fig. 15),[1] only one town called in antiquity by a tribal name--and that a doubtful instance[2]--and no single case of a modern town-name which is derived from the name of a tribe.[3] We have, however, some curious evidence from another source. There is a late and obscure _Geography of the Roman Empire_ which was probably written at Ravenna somewhere about A.D. 700, and which, as its author's name is lost, is generally quoted as the work of 'Ravennas'. It consists for the most part of mere lists of names, about which it adds very few details. But in the case of Britain it notes the municipal rank of the various _coloniae_, and it further appends tribal names to nine or ten town-names, which are thus distinguished from all other British place-names. For example, we have Venta Belgarum (Winchester), not Venta simply; Corinium Dobunorum (Cirencester), not Corinium simply. The towns thus specially marked out are just those towns which are also declared by their actual remains to have been the chief country towns of Roman Britain. This coincidence can hardly be an accident. We may infer that the towns to which the Ravennas appends tribal names were the cantonal capitals of the districts of Roman Britain, and that a list of them, perhaps mutilated and imperfect, has been preserved by some chance in this late writer. In other words, the larger part of Roman Britain was divided up into districts corresponding to the territories of the Celtic tribes; each had its capital, and presumably its magistrates and senate, as the above-mentioned inscription shows that the Silures had at Venta Silurum. We may suppose, indeed, that the district magistrates--the county council, as it would now be called--were also the magistrates of the country town. The same cantonal system, then, existed here as in northern Gaul. Only, it was weaker in Britain. It could not impose tribal names on the towns, and it went down easily when the Empire fell. In Gaul, Lutetia Parisiorum became Parisiis and is now Paris, and Nemetacum Atrebatum became Atrebatis and is now Arras. In Britain, Calleva Atrebatum (Silchester) remained Calleva, so far as we know, till it perished altogether in the fifth century.[4] [Footnote 1: Found at Venta Silurum (Caerwent) in 1903: ... _leg. legi[i] Aug. proconsul(i) provinc. Narbonensis, leg. Aug. pr. pr. provi. Lugudunen(sis): ex decreto ordinis respubl(ica) civit(atis) Silurum_--a monument erected by the cantonal senate of the Silures to some general of the Second legion at Isca Silurum, twelve miles from Caerwent--perhaps to Claudius Paulinus, early in third century (_Athenaeum_, Sept. 26, 1903; _Archaeologia_, lix. 120; _Eph._ ix. 1012). Other inscriptions mention a _civis Cantius_, a _civitas Catuvellaunorum_ and the like, but their evidence is less distinct.] [Illustration: FIG. 20. INSCRIPTION FOUND AT CAERWENT (VENTA SILURUM) MENTIONING A DECREE OF THE SENATE OF THE CANTON OF SILURES.] [Footnote 2: _Icinos_ in _Itin. Ant._ 474. 6 may well be Venta Icenorum (_Victoria Hist. of Norfolk_, i. 286, 300).] [Footnote 3: Canterbury may seem an exception. But its name comes ultimately from the Early English form of Cantium, not from the Cantii. In the south-west and in Wales, tribal names like Dumnonii (Devonshire), Demetae, Ordovices, have lingered on in one form or another, and, according to Professor Rhys, Bernicia is derivable from Brigantes. But these cases differ widely from the Gaulish instances.] [Footnote 4: Ravennas (ed. Parthey and Pinder), pp. 425 foll. I have given a list of the towns in my Appendix to Mommsen's _Provinces of the Empire_ (English trans., 1909), ii. 352.] Of the smaller local organizations, little can be said. Towns existed, but many of them were the tribal capitals mentioned in the last paragraph, and these, as I have said, were doubtless ruled by the magistrates of the tribes. It is idle to guess who administered the towns that were not such capitals or who controlled the various villages scattered through the country. Nor can we pretend to know much more about the size and character of the estates which corresponded to the country-houses and farms of which remains survive. The 'villa' system of demesne farms and serfs or _coloni_[1] which obtained elsewhere was doubtless familiar in Britain; indeed, the Theodosian Code definitely refers to British _coloni_.[2] But whether it was the only rural system in Britain is beyond proof, and previous attempts to work out the problem have done little more than demonstrate the fact.[3] It is quite possible that here, or indeed in any province, other forms of estates and of land tenure may have existed beside the predominant villa.[4] The one thing needed is evidence. And in any case the net result appears fairly certain. The bulk of British local government must have been carried on through Roman municipalities, through imperial estates, and still more through tribal _civitates_ using a Romanized constitution. The bulk of the landed estates must have conformed in their legal aspects to the 'villas' of other provinces. Whatever room there may be for survival of native customs or institutions, we have no evidence that they survived, within the Romanized area, either in great amount or in any form which contrasted with the general Roman character of the country. [Footnote 1: The term 'villa' is generally used to denote Romano-British country-houses and farms, irrespective of their legal classification. The use is so firmly established, both in England and abroad, that it would be idle to attempt to alter it. But for clearness I have thought it better in this paper to employ the term 'villa' only where I refer to the definite 'villa' system.] [Footnote 2: Cod. Theod. xi. 7.2.] [Footnote 3: For instance, Mr. Seebohm (_English Village Community_, pp. 254 foll.) connects the suffix 'ham' with the Roman 'villa' and apparently argues that the occurrence of the suffix indicates in general the former existence of a 'villa'. But his map showing the percentage of local names ending in 'ham' in various counties disproves his view completely. For the distribution of the suffix 'ham' and the frequency of Roman country-houses and farms do not coincide. In Norfolk, for instance, 'ham' is common, but there is hardly a trace of a Roman country-house or farm in the whole county (_Victoria Hist. of Norfolk_, i. 294-8). Somerset, on the other hand, is crowded with Roman country-houses, and has hardly any 'hams'.] [Footnote 4: Professor Vinogradoff, _Growth of the Manor_ (chap. ii), argues strongly for the existence of Celtic land-tenures besides the Roman 'villa' system. 'There was room (he suggests) for all sorts of conditions, from almost exact copies of Roman municipal corporations and Italian country-houses to tribal arrangements scarcely coloured by a thin sprinkling of imperial administration' (p. 83). As will be seen, this is not improbable. But I can find no definite proof of it. If northern Gaul were better known to us, it might provide a decisive analogy. But the Gaulish evidence itself seems at present disputable.] CHAPTER VII CHRONOLOGY OF THE ROMANIZATION From this consideration of the evidence available to illustrate the Romanization of Britain, I pass to the inquiry how far history helps us to trace out the chronology of the process. A few facts and probabilities emerge as guides. Intercourse between south-eastern Britain and the Roman world had already begun before the Roman conquest in A.D. 43. Latin words, as I have said above (p. 24), had begun to appear on the native British coinage, and Arretine pottery had found its way to such places as Foxton in Cambridgeshire, Alchester in Oxfordshire, and Southwark in Surrey.[1] The establishment of a _municipium_ at Verulamium (St. Albans) sometime before A.D. 60, and probably even before A.D. 50,[2] points the same way. The peculiar status of _municipium_ was granted in the early Empire especially to native provincial towns which had become Romanized without official Roman action or settlement of Roman soldiers or citizens, and which had, as it were, merited municipal privileges. It is quite likely that such Romanization had begun at Verulam before the Roman conquest, and formed the justification for the early grant of such privileges. Certainly the whole lowland area, as far west as Exeter and Shrewsbury, and as far north as the Humber, was conquered before Claudius died, and Romanization may have commenced in it at once. [Footnote 1: Babington, _Anc. Cambridgeshire_, p. 64; E. Krüger, _Westd. Korr.-Blatt_, 1904, p. 181; my note, _Proc. Soc. Antiq. Lond._, xxi. 461 _Journal of Roman Studies_, i. 146. Mr. H.B. Walters has dealt with the Southwark piece in the _Proceedings of the Cambridge Antiq. Society_, xii. 107, but with some errors. The Alchester piece may be later than A.D. 43.] [Footnote 2: The grant is very much more likely to have been made by Claudius than by Nero, and more likely to belong to the earlier than to the later years of Claudius.] Thirty years later Agricola, who was obviously a better administrator than a general, openly encouraged the process. According to Tacitus, his efforts met with great success; Latin began to be spoken, the toga to be worn, temples, town halls, and private houses to be built in Roman fashion.[1] Agricola appears to have been merely carrying out the policy of his age. Certainly it is just at this period (about 75-85 A.D.) that towns like Silchester, Bath, Caerwent, seem to take definite shape,[2] and civil judges (_legati iuridici_) were appointed, presumably to administer the justice more frequently required by the advancing civilization.[3] In A.D. 85 it was thought safe to reduce the garrison by a legion and some auxiliaries.[4] Progress, however, was not maintained. About 115-20, and again about 155-63 and 175-80, the northern part of the province was vexed by serious risings, and the civilian area was doubtless kept somewhat in disturbance.[5] Probably it was at some point in this period that the flourishing country town of Isurium (Aldborough), fifteen miles from York, had to shield itself by a stone wall and ditch.[6] [Footnote 1: Tac. _Agr._ 21, quoted in note 3 to p. 13.] [Footnote 2: Silchester was plainly laid out in Roman fashion all at once on a definite street plan, and though some few of its houses may be older, the town as a whole seems to have taken its rise from this event. The evidence of coins implies that the development of the place began in the Flavian period (_Athenaeum_, Dec. 15, 1904). At Bath the earliest datable stones belong to the same time (_Victoria Hist. of Somerset_, vol. i, Roman Bath), the first being a fragmentary inscription of A.D. 76. At Caerwent the evidence is confined to coins and fibulae, none of which seem earlier than Vespasian or Domitian: for the coins see _Clifton Antiq. Club's Proceedings_, v. 170-82.] [Footnote 3: A. von Domaszewski, _Rhein. Mus._, xlvi. 599; C. ix. 5533 (as completed by Domaszewski), inscription of Salvius Liberalis; C. iii. 2864=9960, inscription of Iavolenus Priscus. Both these belong to the Flavian period. Other instances are known from the second century.] [Footnote 4: _Classical Review_, xviii. (1904) 458; xix. (1905) 58, withdrawal of Batavian cohorts. The withdrawal of _Legio ii Adiutrix_ is well known.] [Footnote 5: See my papers in _Archaeologia Aeliana_, xxv. (1904) 142-7, and _Proceedings of Soc. of Antiq. of Scotland_, xxxviii. 454.] [Footnote 6: The town wall of Isurium, partly visible to-day in Mr. A.S. Lawson's garden, is constructed in a fashion which suggests rather the second century than the later date when most of the town walls in Britain and Gaul were probably built, the end of the third or even the fourth century. Thus, its stones show the 'diamond broaching' which occurs on the Vallum of Pius, and which must therefore have been in use during the second century.] Peace hardly set in till the opening of the third century. It was then, I think, that country-houses and farms first became common in all parts of the civilized area. The statistics of datable objects discovered in these buildings seem conclusive on this point. Except in Kent and the south-eastern region generally, not only coins, but also pottery of the first century are infrequent, and many sites have yielded nothing earlier than about A.D. 250. Despite the ill name that attaches to the third and fourth centuries, they were perhaps for Britain, as for parts of Gaul,[1] a period of progressive prosperity. Certainly, the number of British country-houses and farms inhabited during the years A.D. 280-350 must have been very large. Prosperity culminated, perhaps, in the Constantinian Age. Then, as Eumenius tells us, skilled artisans abounded in Britain far more than in Gaul, and were fetched from the island to build public and private edifices as far south as Autun.[2] Then also, and, indeed, as late as 360, British corn was largely exported to the Rhine Valley,[3] and British cloth earned a notice in the eastern Edict of Diocletian.[4] The province at that time was a prosperous and civilized region, where Latin speech and culture might be expected to prevail widely. [Footnote 1: Mommsen, _Röm. Gesch._, v. 97, 106, and Ausonius, _passim_.] [Footnote 2: Eumenius, _Paneg. Constantio Caesari_, 21 _civitas Aeduorum ... plurimos quibus illae provinciae_ (Britain) _redundabant accepit artifices, et nunc exstructione veterum domorum et refectione operum publicorum et templorum instauratione consurgit_.] [Footnote 3: Ammianus, xviii. 2,3, _annona a Brittaniis sueta transferri_; Zosimus, iii. 5.] [Footnote 4: Edict. Diocl. xix. 36. Compare Eumenius, _Paneg. Constantino Aug.,_ 9 _pecorum innumerabilis multitudo ... onusta velleribus_, and _Constantio Caesari_, 11 _tanto laeta munere pastionum_. Traces of dyeing works have been discovered at Silchester (_Archaeologia_, liv. 460, &c.) and of fulling in rural dwellings at Chedworth in Gloucestershire, Darenth in Kent, and Titsey in Surrey (Fox, _Archaeologia_, lix. 207).] No golden age lasts long. Before 350, probably in 343, Constans had to cross the Channel and repel the Picts and other assailants.[1] After 368 such aid was more often and more urgently required. Significantly enough, the lists of coins found in some country-houses close about 350-60, while others remained occupied till about 385 or even later. The rural districts, it is plain, began then to be no longer safe; some houses were burnt by marauding bands, and some abandoned by their owners.[2] Therewith came necessarily, as in many other provinces, a decline of Roman influences and a rise of barbarism. Men took the lead who were not polished and civilized Romans of Italy or of the provinces, but warriors and captains of warrior bands. The Menapian Carausius, whatever his birthplace,[3] was the forerunner of a numerous class. Finally, the great raid of 406-7 and its sequel severed Britain from Rome. A wedge of barbarism was driven in between the two, and the central government, itself in bitter need, ceased to send officers to rule the province and to command its troops. Britain was left to itself. Yet even now it did not seek separation from Rome. All that we know supports the view of Mommsen. It was not Britain which broke loose from the Empire, but the Empire which gave up Britain.[4] [Footnote 1: Ammianus, xx. 1. The expedition was important enough to be recorded--unless I am mistaken--on coins such as those which show victorious Constans on a galley, recrossing the Channel after his success (Cohen, 9-13, &c.). On the history of the whole period for Britain see _Cambridge Medieval History_, i. 378, 379.] [Footnote 2: See, for example, the coin-finds of the country-houses at Thruxton, Abbots Ann, Clanville, Holbury, Carisbrooke, &c., in Hampshire (_Victoria Hist. of Hants_, i. 294 foll.). The Croydon hoard deposited about A.D. 351 (_Numismatic Chronicle_, 1905, p. 37) may be assigned to the same cause.] [Footnote 3: It is hard to believe him an Irishman, though Professor Rhys supports the idea (_Cambrian Archaeol. Assoc., Kerry Meeting_, 1891). The one ancient authority, Aurelius Victor (xxxix. 20), describes him simply as _Menapiae civis_. The Gaulish Menapii were well known; the Irish Menapii were very obscure, and the brief reference can only refer to the former.] [Footnote 4: Mommsen, _Röm. Gesch_., v. 177. Zosimus, vi. 5 (A.D. 408), in a puzzling passage describes Britain as revolting from Rome when Constantine was tyrant (A.D. 407-11). It is generally assumed that when Constantine failed to protect these regions, they set up for themselves, and in that troubled time such a step would be natural enough. But Zosimus, a little later on (vi. 10, A.D. 410), casually states that Honorius wrote to Britain, bidding the provincials defend themselves, so that the act of 408 cannot have been final--unless, indeed, as the context of Zosimus suggests and as Gothofredus and others have thought, the name 'Britain' is here a copyist's mistake for 'Bruttii' or some other Italian name. In any case the 'groans of the Britons' recorded by Gildas show that the island looked to Rome long after 410. On Constantine see Freeman, _Western Europe in the Fifth Century_, pp. 48, 148 and Bury, _Life of St. Patrick_, p. 329.] Such is, in brief, the positive evidence, archaeological, linguistic, and historical, which illustrates the Romanization of Britain. The conclusions which it allows seem to be two. First, and mainly: the Empire did its work in our island as it did generally on the western continent. It Romanized the province, introducing Roman speech and thought and culture. Secondly, this Romanization was perhaps not uniform throughout all sections of the population. Within the lowlands the result was on the whole achieved. In the towns and among the upper class in the country Romanization was substantially complete--as complete as in northern Gaul, and possibly indeed even more complete. But both the lack of definite evidence and the probabilities of the case require us to admit that the peasantry may have been less thoroughly Romanized. It was covered with a superimposed layer of Roman civilization. But beneath this layer the native element may have remained potentially, if not actually, Celtic, and in the remoter districts the native speech may have lingered on, like Erse or Manx to-day, as a rival to the more fashionable Latin. How far this happened actually within the civilized lowland area we cannot tell. But we may be sure that the military region, Wales and the north, never became thoroughly Romanized, and Cornwall and western Devon also lie beyond the pale (p. 21). Here the Britons must have remained Celtic, or at least capable of a reversion to the Celtic tradition. Here, at any rate, a Celtic revival was possible. CHAPTER VIII THE SEQUEL, THE CELTIC REVIVAL IN THE LATER EMPIRE So far we have considered the province of Britain as it was while it still remained in real fact a province. Let us now turn to the sequel and ask how it fits in with its antecedents. The Romanization, we find, held its own for a while. The sense of belonging to the Empire had not quite died out even in sixth-century Britain. Roman names continued to be used, not exclusively but freely enough, by Britons. Roman 'culture words' seem to occur in the later British language, and some at least of these may be traceable to the Roman occupation of the island. Roman military terms appear, if scantily. Roman inscriptions are occasionally set up. The Romanization of Britain was plainly no mere interlude, which passed without leaving a mark behind.[1] But it was crossed by two hostile forges, a Celtic revival and an English invasion. [Footnote 1: Much of the ornamentation used by post-Roman Celtic art comes from Roman sources, in particular the interlaced or plaitwork, which has been well studied by Mr. Romilly Allen. But how far it was borrowed from Romano-British originals and how far from similar Roman-provincial work on the Continent, is not very clear. (See p. 36.)] The Celtic revival was due to many influences. We may find one cause for it in the Celtic environment of the province. After 407 the Romanized area was cut off from Rome. Its nearest neighbours were now the less-Romanized Britons of districts like Cornwall and the foreign Celts of Ireland and the north. These were weighty influences in favour of a Celtic revival. And they were all the more potent because, in or even before the period under discussion, the opening of the fifth century, a Celtic migration seems to have set in from the Irish coasts. The details of this migration are unknown, and the few traces which survive of it are faint and not altogether intelligible. The principal movement was that of the Scotti from North Ireland into Caledonia, with the result that, once settled there, or perhaps rather in the course of settling there, they went on to pillage Roman Britain. There were also movements in the south, but apparently on a smaller scale and a more peaceful plan.[1] At a date given commonly as A.D. 265-70--though there does not seem to be any very good reason for it--the Dessi or Déisi were expelled from Meath and a part of them settled in the south-west of Wales, in the land then called Demetia. This was a region which was both thinly inhabited and imperfectly Romanized. In it fugitives from Ireland might easily find room. The settlement may have been formed, as Professor Bury suggests, with the consent of the Imperial Government and under conditions of service. But we are entirely ignorant whether these exiles from Ireland numbered tens or scores or hundreds, and this uncertainty renders speculation dangerous. If the newcomers were few and their new homes were in the remote west beyond Carmarthen (Maridunum), formal consent would hardly have been required. Other Irish immigrants probably followed. Their settlements were apparently confined to Cornwall and the south-west coast of Wales, and their influence may easily be overrated. Some, indeed, came as enemies, though perhaps rather as enemies to the Roman than to the Celtic elements in the province. Such must have been Niall of the Nine Hostages, who was killed--according to the traditional chronology--about A.D. 405 on the British coast and perhaps in the Channel itself. [Footnote 1: Professor Rhys, _Cambrian Archaeol. Assoc. Kerry Meeting_, 1891, and _Celtic Britain_ (ed. 3, 1904, p. 247), is inclined to minimize the invasions of southern Britain (Cornwall and Wales). Professor Bury (_Life of St. Patrick_, p. 288) tends to emphasize them; see also Zimmer, _Nennius Vindicatus_, pp. 84 foll., and Kuno Meyer, _Cymmrodorion Transactions_, 1895-6, pp. 55 foll. The decision of the question seems to depend upon whether we should regard the Goidelic elements visible in western Britain as due in part to an original Goidelic population or ascribe them wholly to Irish immigrants. At present philologists do not seem able to speak with certainty on this point. But the evidence for some amount of invasion seems adequate.] All this must have contributed to the reintroduction of Celtic national feeling and culture. A Celtic immigrant, it may be, was the man who set up the Ogam pillar at Silchester (Fig. 21), which was discovered in the excavations of 1893.[1] The circumstances of the discovery show that this pillar belongs to the very latest period in the history of Calleva. Its inscription is Goidelic: that is, it does not belong to the ordinary Callevan population, which was presumably Brythonic. It may be best explained as the work of some western Celt who reached Silchester before its British citizens abandoned it in despair. We do not know the date of that event, though we may conjecturally put it before, and perhaps a good many years before, A.D. 500. In any case, an Ogam monument had been set up before it occurred, and the presence of such an object would seem to prove that Celtic things had made their way even into this eastern Romanized town. [Footnote 1: _Archaeologia_, liv. 233, 441; Rhys and Brynmor Jones, _Welsh People_, pp. 45, 65; _Victoria Hist. of Hampshire_, i. 279; _English Hist. Review_, xix. 628. Whether the man who wrote was Irish or British depends on the answer to the question set forth in the preceding note. Unfortunately, we do not know when the Ogam script came first into use. Professor Rhys tells me that the Silchester example may quite conceivably belong to the fifth century.] [Illustration: FIG. 21. OGAM INSCRIPTION FROM SILCHESTER.] But a more powerful aid to the revival may be found in another fact--that is the destruction of the Romanized part of Britain by the invading Saxons. War, and especially defensive war against invaders, must always weaken the higher forms of any country's civilization. Here the agony was long, and the assailants cruel and powerful, and the country itself was somewhat weak. Its wealth was easily exhausted. Its towns were small. Its fortresses were not impregnable. Its leaders were divided and disloyal. Moreover, the assault fell on the very parts of Britain which were the seats of Roman culture. Even in the early years of the fourth century it had been found necessary to defend the coasts of East Anglia, Kent, and Sussex, some of the most thickly populated and highly civilized parts of Britain, against the pirates by a series of forts which extended from the Wash to Spithead, and were known as the forts of the Saxon Shore. Fifty or seventy years later the raiders, whether English seamen or Picts and Scots from Caledonia and Ireland, devastated the coasts of the province and perhaps reached even the midlands.[1] When, seventy years later still, the English came, no longer to plunder but to settle, they occupied first the Romanized area of the island. As the Romano-Britons retired from the south and east, as Silchester was evacuated in despair[2] and Bath and Wroxeter were stormed and left desolate, the very centres of Romanized life were extinguished. Not a single one remained an inhabited town. Destruction fell even on Canterbury, where the legends tell of intercourse between Briton or Saxon, and on London, where ecclesiastical writers fondly place fifth- and sixth-century bishops. Both sites lay empty and untenanted for many years. Only in the far west, at Exeter or at Caerwent, does our evidence allow us to guess at a continuing Romano-British life. [Footnote 1: About A.D. 405 Patrick was carried off from Bannavem Taberniae. If this represents the Romano-British village on Watling Street called Bannaventa, near Daventry in Northants (_Victoria Hist._ i. 186), the raids must have covered all the midlands: see _Engl. Hist. Review_, 1895, p. 711; Zimmer, _Realenc. für protestantische Theol._ x. (1901), Art. 'Keltische Kirche'; Bury, _Life of St. Patrick_, p. 322. There are, however, too many uncertainties surrounding this question to let us derive much help from it.] [Footnote 2: _Engl. Hist. Review_, xix. 625; Fox, _Victoria Hist. of Hampshire_, i. 371-2.] The same destruction came also on the population. During the long series of disasters, many of the Romanized inhabitants of the lowland regions must have perished. Many must have fallen into slavery, and may have been sold into foreign lands. The remnant, such as it was, doubtless retired to the west. But, in doing so, it exchanged the region of walled cities and civilized houses, of city life and Roman culture, for a Celtic land. No doubt it attempted to keep up its Roman fashions. The writers may well be correct who speak of two conflicting parties, Roman and Celtic, among the Britons of the sixth century. But the Celtic element triumphed. Gildas, about A.D. 540, describes a Britain confined to the west of our island, which is very largely Celtic and not Roman.[1] Had the English invaded the island from the Atlantic, we might have seen a different spectacle. The Celtic element would have perished utterly: the Roman would have survived. As it was, the attack fell on the east and south of the island--that is, on the lowlands of Britain. Safe in its western hills, the Celtic revival had full course. [Footnote 1: How much of Britain was still British when Gildas wrote, he does not tell us. But he mentions only the extreme west (Damnonii, Demetae); his general atmosphere is Celtic, and his rhetoric contains no references to a flourishing civilization. We may conclude that the Romanized part of Britain had been lost by his time, or that, if some part was still held by the British, long war had destroyed its civilization. Unfortunately we cannot trust the traditional English chronology of the period. As to the date of Gildas, cf. W.H. Stevenson, _Academy_, October 26, 1895, &c.; I see no reason to put either Gildas or any part of the _Epistula_ later than about 540.] It is this Celtic revival which can best explain the history of Britannia minor, Brittany across the seas in the western extremity of Gaul. How far this region had been Romanized during the first four centuries seems uncertain. Towns were scarce in it, and country-houses, though not altogether infrequent or insignificant, were unevenly distributed. At some period not precisely known, perhaps in the first half or the middle of the third century, it was in open rebellion, and the commander of the Sixth Legion (at York), one Artorius Justus, was sent with a part of the British garrison to reduce it to obedience.[1] It may therefore have been, as Mommsen suggests, one of the least Romanized corners of Gaul, and in it the native idiom may have retained unusual vitality. Yet that native speech was not strong enough to live on permanently. The Celtic which is spoken to-day in Brittany is not a Gaulish but a British Celtic; it is the result of British influences. Brittany would have sooner or later become assimilated to the general Romano-Gaulish civilization, had not its Celtic elements won fresh strength from immigrant Britons. This immigration is usually described as an influx of refugees fleeing from Britain before the English advance. That, no doubt, was one side of it. But the principal immigrants, so far as we know their names, came from Devon and Cornwall,[2] and some certainly did not come as fugitives. The King Riotamus who (as Jordanes tells us) brought 12,000 Britons in A.D. 470 to aid the Roman cause in Gaul, was plainly not seeking shelter from the English.[3] We must connect him, and indeed the whole fifth-century movement of Britons into Gaul, with the Celtic revival and with the same causes that produced for instance, the Scotic invasion of Caledonia. [Footnote 1: C. iii. 1919=Dessau 2770. The inscription must be later than (about) A.D. 200, and it somewhat resembles another inscription (C. iii. 3228) of the reign of Gallienus, which mentions _milites vexill. leg. Germanicar. et Britannicin. cum auxiliis earum_. Presumably it is either earlier than the Gallic Empire of 258-73, or falls between that and the revolt of Carausius in 287. The notion of O. Fiebiger (_De classium Italicarum historia_, in _Leipziger Studien_, xv. 304) that it belongs to the Aremoric revolts of the fifth century is, I think, wrong. Such an expedition from Britain at such a date is incredible.] [Footnote 2: The attempt to find eastern British names in Brittany seems a failure. M. de la Borderie, for instance, thinks that Corisopitum (or whatever the exact form of the name is) was colonized from Corstopitum (Corbridge on the Tyne, near Hadrian's Wall). But the latter, always to some extent a military site, can hardly have sent out ordinary _émigrés_, while the former has hardly an historical existence at all, and may be an ancient error for _civitas Coriosolitum_ (C. xiii (I), i. p. 491).] [Footnote 3: Freeman (_Western Europe in the Fifth Century_, p. 164) suggests that a migration of Britons into Gaul had been in progress, perhaps since the days of Magnus Maximus, and that by 470 there was a regular British state on the Loire, from which Riotamus led his 12,000 men. Hodgkin (_Cornwall and Brittany_, Penryn, 1911) suggests that the soldiers of Maximus settled on the Loire about 388, and that Riotamus was one of their descendants. He quotes Gildas as saying that the British troops of Maximus went abroad with him and never returned. That, however, is an entirely different thing from saying that they settled in a definite part of Gaul. For this latter statement I can find no evidence, and the Celtic revival in our island seems to provide a better setting for the whole incident of Riotamus. If Professor Bury is right (_Life of Patrick_, p. 354), Riotamus had a predecessor in Dathi, who is said to have gone from Ireland to Gaul about A.D. 428 to help the Romans and Aetius. Zimmer (_Nennius Vind._, p. 85) rejects the tale. But it fits in well with the Celtic revival.] This destruction of Romano-British life produced a curious result which would be difficult to explain if we could not assign it to this cause. There is a marked and unmistakable gap between the Romano-British and the Later Celtic periods. However numerous may be the Latin personal names and 'culture words' in Welsh, it is beyond question that the tradition of Roman days was lost in Britain during the fifth or early sixth century. That is seen plainly in the scanty literature of the age. Gildas wrote about A.D. 540, three generations after the Saxon settlements had begun. He was a priest, well educated, and well acquainted with Latin, which he once calls _nostra lingua_. He was also not unfriendly to the Roman party among the Britons, and not unaware of the relation of Britain to the Empire.[1] Yet he knew substantially nothing of the history of Britain as a Roman province. He drew from some source now lost to us--possibly an ecclesiastical or semi-ecclesiastical writer--some details of the persecution of Diocletian and of the career of Magnus Maximus.[2] For the rest, his ideas of Roman history may be judged by his statement that the two Walls which defended the north of the province--the Walls of Hadrian and Pius--were built somewhere between A.D. 388 and 440. He had some tradition of the coming of the English about 450, and of the reason why they came. But his knowledge of anything previous to that event was plainly most imperfect. [Footnote 1: Mommsen, Preface to _Gildas_ (Mon. Germ. Hist.), pp. 9-10. Gildas is, however, rather more Celtic in tone than Mommsen seems to allow. Such a phrase as _ita ut non Britannia sed Romania censeretur_ implies a consciousness of contrast between Briton and Roman. Freeman (_Western Europe_, p. 155) puts the case too strongly the other way.] [Footnote 2: Magnus Maximus, as the opponent of Theodosius, seems to have been damned by the Church writers. Compare the phrases of Orosius, vii. 35 (Theodosius) _posuit in Deo spem suam seseque adversus Maximum tyrannum sola fide maior proripuit_ and _ineffabili iudicio Dei_ and _Theodosius victoriam Deo procurante suscipit_.] The _Historia Brittonum_, compiled a century or two later, preserves even less memory of things Roman. There is some hint of a _vetus traditio seniorum_. But the narrative which professes to be based on it bears little relation to the actual facts; the growth of legend is perceptible, and even those details that are borrowed from literary sources like Gildas, Jerome, Prosper, betray great ignorance on the part of the borrower.[1] On the other hand, the native Celtic instinct is more definitely alive and comes into sharper contrast with the idea of Rome. Throughout, no detail occurs which enlarges our knowledge of Roman or of early post-Roman Britain. The same features recur in later writers who might be or have been supposed to have had access to British sources. Geoffrey of Monmouth--to take only the most famous--asserts that he used a Breton book which told him all manner of facts otherwise unknown. The statement is by no means improbable. But, for all that, the pages of Geoffrey contain no new fact about the first five centuries which is also true.[2] From first to last, the Celtic tradition preserves no real remnant of recollections dating from the Romano-British age. Those who might have handed down such memories had either perished in wars with the English or sunk back into the native environment of the west.[3] [Footnote 1: The story of Vortigern and Hengist now first occurs and is obvious tradition or legend. A prince with a Celtic name may have ruled Kent in 450. There were, indeed, plenty of rulers with barbaric names in the fourth and fifth centuries of the Empire. But the tale cannot be called certain history.] [Footnote 2: Thus, he refers to Silchester, and so good a judge as Stubbs once suggested that for this he had some authority now lost to us. Yet the mere fact that Geoffrey knows only the English name Silchester disproves this idea. Had he used a genuinely ancient authority, he would have (as elsewhere) employed the Roman name. Another explanation may be given. Geoffrey wrote in an antiquarian age, when the ruins of Roman towns were being noted. Both he and Henry of Huntingdon seem to have heard of the Silchester ruins, and both accordingly inserted the place into their pages.] [Footnote 3: The English mediaeval chronicles have sometimes been supposed to preserve facts otherwise forgotten about Roman times. So far as I can judge, this is not the case, even with Henry of Huntingdon. Henry, in the later editions of his work, borrowed a few facts from Geoffrey of Monmouth, which are wanting in his first edition (see the All Souls MS.; the truth is obscured in the Rolls Series text). He also preserves one local tradition from Colchester: otherwise he contains nothing which need puzzle any inquirer. Giraldus Cambrensis, when at Rome, saw some manuscript which contained a list of the five provinces of fourth-century Britain--otherwise unknown throughout the Middle Ages (_Archaeol. Oxoniensis_, 1894, p. 224).] But we are moving in a dim land of doubts and shadows. He who wanders here, wanders at his peril, for certainties are few, and that which at one moment seems a fact, is only too likely, as the quest advances, to prove a phantom. It is, too, a borderland, and its explorers need to know something of the regions on both sides of the frontier. I make no claim to that double knowledge. I have merely tried, using such evidence as I can, to sketch the character of one region, that of the Romano-British civilization. INDEX Aldborough (_Isurium_), 56. Arretine pottery, 15. _Avot_, 27. _Bannavem Taberniae_, 63. Bath, 42, 56. Brittany, migration to, 65. Bury, Prof., 66. Caerwent, 50, 56. Canterbury, deserted after the Roman period, 64. Cantonal system in Roman Britain, 50. Carausius, birthplace, 58. Castor pottery, 40. Celtic language in Gaul and Britain, 14, 26. Celto-Roman temples, 30; houses, 31. Christianity as affecting language, 15. Cloth, British, 57. Corbridge Lion, 43. Corn, exported from Britain, 57. Cornwall, Roman remains in, 22. Demetrius of Tarsus in Britain, 28. Devonshire, Roman remains in, 22. Din Lligwy, village at, 37. Frilford, Romano-British house at, 32. Gaulish kingdom of A.D. 258, 17. Geoffrey of Monmouth, 68. Gildas, 64, 66. Glastonbury village, 45. Gorgon at Bath, 41. Henry of Huntingdon, All Souls MS. of, 68 _note_. Hesione and Hercules, 41. _Historia Brittonum_, 67. Houses in Roman Britain, their relation to houses in Gaul and Italy, 31, 34. _Icinos_, 51. Imperial domains in Britain, 49 Kent, origin of name, 29. Late Celtic art, 39. Latin, used in the provinces, 11, 14; in Britain, 24. London, deserted after the Roman period, 64. Magnus Maximus, army of, 66. New Forest pottery, 39. Northleigh, Romano-British house at, 33. Ogam at Silchester, 62. Pergamene style in Roman Gaul, 44. Pitt-Rivers, 45. Plaxtol, inscribed tile from, 27. Punic language in Africa, 14. Ravenna geographer, 52. Riotamus, 65. Samian pottery, 16, 44 _note_. Seebohm, 53. Silchester-- Ancient names of, 53, 68. Date of development, 56. Dyeing works, 57. Houses of, 34. Imperial domains at, 49. Inscribed tiles from, 25. Latin used in, 24. Ogam, 62. Street plan of, 34, 56. Temples of, 31. Abandoned, 63. Temples in Britain and north Gaul, 30. Towns in Roman Britain, 48 foll. Villages in Roman Britain, 37, 45. Vinogradoff, Prof., 36, 46. Warwickshire, Roman, 22. York, Roman remains at, 48. 
7938	----	VIRGILIA _or_ OUT OF THE LION'S MOUTH _By_ FELICIA BUTTZ CLARK 1917 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A confession of faith CHAPTER II. The "Little Fish" CHAPTER III. The hymn of the water-carrier CHAPTER IV. The inner shrine of Jupiter CHAPTER V. The Old One speaks CHAPTER VI. The Feast of Grapes CHAPTER VII. Enter, Lycias, the gladiator CHAPTER VIII. The symbol of the lizard I. A CONFESSION OF FAITH. The Circus in Rome was thronged with an enormous crowd of persons on a day in June, about two thousand years ago. One hundred thousand men and women sat on its tiers of white marble seats, under the open sky and witnessed a gladiatorial contest in the arena, beneath. At the western end of the oval amphitheatre was the Emperor's box, flanked with tall Corinthian pillars, on which were hung the coat-of-arms of the Roman people. Here sat one of the most cruel emperors Rome has ever suffered under. His cloak was royal purple, and was thrown carelessly back, on this warm June afternoon, to disclose a white tunic, embroidered in scarlet. Beside him were several ladies, elaborately gowned in the manner of the day, with hair dressed high, studded with jewels brought from Oriental lands, while their necks and arms were loaded with strings of pearls and emeralds, armlets of tawny gold in Etruscan designs, in which were set cameos of extraordinary delicacy and diamonds, only partially polished, as large as the half of a hen's egg. To every class of Romans, the gladiatorial show was open. Senators and Patricians, artists and mechanics, poets and artisans, women of every rank, from the highest lady of the land to the humblest washerwoman who beat her clothes on the rounded stones of the River Tiber, were here to gloat over the hideous contest in the arena. In the third row, about half way in the long side of the oval amphitheatre sat two women and a man. The women were unusually beautiful. They were mother and daughter. The man was plainly the father, a stalwart Roman, a lawyer, who had his office in the courts of the Forum, where business houses flanked the splendid temples of white marble, where the people worshipped their gods, Jupiter and Saturn, Diana and Cybele. "See," said Claudia, pointing a finger on which blazed on enormous emerald, "the Vestals are giving the signal. Their thumbs are reversed. The Emperor, also, is signalling for a cessation of the fight. How proud Lycias, the gladiator, is to-day, for he won the victory. Well, we must go. Come, Virgilia." The young girl arose, obediently, but her father noticed that her eyes were full of tears and that she shivered slightly in spite of the warm, scented June air. As the three mingled with the thousands who were in a very leisurely manner wending their way down the steps to the ground, Aurelius Lucanus drew her frail hand through his arm and said, gently: "What hast thou, dearest? Art thou not well?" "I am quite well, father dear," and as she spoke, she drew over her face a light, filmy veil, effectually shielding her from the too curious gaze of the laughing throng of merry-makers. "Why, then, dost thou cry, my daughter?" Virgilia glanced at her mother and noticing that she was out of hearing, whispered in his ear: "I hate it, father. Do not bring me again." He looked at her with surprise, then, remembering that girls have strange fancies, he was silent, and guided her safely out into the blazing sunshine. The sun was still an hour above the horizon; the pine-trees on the Palatine Hills, where Caesar's palaces were, stood up like giant sentinels against a sky of limpid blue. Aurelius Lucanus led the way through the Forum, where his wife, an ardent worshipper of the gods, stopped to lay a bunch of roses on the base of a large statue of Ceres, standing near the Temple and a building dedicated to the use of the Vestal Virgins. The Chief Virgin was being carried to the entrance in her chair, borne by four bearers, while in front of her walked the two men who held high the symbols of her priestly office. Claudia fell upon her knees as the holy vestal went by, until her chair had been carried through the iron gates. Virgilia watched her mother, with an anxious look on her young face. "Why didst thou not also kneel before the holy one?" her mother said, in a stern tone. "Dost not know that in her hands she holds such power that even the emperor himself trembles before her and does her bidding, lest the gods send upon him disaster and ruin?" Virgilia made no reply, but walked quietly by her mother's side through the Forum, beneath the great arches, up over the Capitoline Hill where Jupiter's Temple arose in grandeur, its ivory-tinted marbles beginning to turn a dull rose in the rays of the fast-lowering sun. They descended on the other side and entered a labyrinth of narrow streets, winding in and out between rows of houses, most of them showing a plain, windowless front, the only decoration being over and around the door. With a quick double-knock at one of these doors, the lawyer summoned a servant, who bowed deeply as the two ladies and his master entered. Aurelius Lucanus lingered a moment, while his wife passed on into the atrium, but here, it was hot, so she went further, into a court, transformed into a beautiful garden. Around the fountain, which cooled the air, bloomed literally hundreds of calla lilies, masses of stately blossoms with snowy chalices and hearts of gold. Around the pillars twined the June roses, pink and yellow, and mixed with them were vines, of starry jessamine, shedding forth a faint, delicious odor, akin to that of orange-blossoms. Here were chairs of rare woods inlaid with ivory, and couches, gracefully formed, covered with soft silks and cushions embroidered in gold. Claudia sank down, as if she were weary, and a slave sprang forward to remove the white outer garment, worn upon the street to cover the costly silk one, and the jewels which she had worn in the amphitheatre. Aurelius was conversing with the dark-skinned porter. "Has Martius returned?" he asked. "Yes, master. He came in about two hours after noon, but went out again almost immediately." "Leaving no word?" "No, master." The porter stood watching his master as he walked away. There was a strange expression on his strongly marked face. He was pitted with small-pox, and over one eye was a deep scar. He had never forgotten how he got that scar, how he had fallen beneath a blow struck by that man's hand, the man who owned his body, but not his soul. In falling, he had struck his head against the corner of the marble pedestal supporting the statue of the god who ruled in this household, and had been carried away unconscious. Ah, no, he had not forgotten! Aurelius entered the court just in time to hear his wife saying To Virgilia in her severest tone: "Thou art exactly like thy step-brother, Martius, self-willed and foolish. Why else has he been exiled from Rome by thy father? He has worshipped strange gods, has followed after a man named Christus, a malefactor, a thief, crucified with thieves--" "Mother!" exclaimed Virgilia, and there was that in her voice which stopped the stream of language, and made Claudia sit up straight and grasp the griffin-heads on the arms of her chair. "Wilt tell me that thou, too, art mad over the dead Christus?" she shrieked. "Then art thou no daughter of mine! Thou shall go forth from here, homeless, an outcast. Join thyself with the beggarly band of men and women who hide in the dark places of the earth that they may work their spells--" "Claudia, cease thy talking," exclaimed Aurelius, taking his daughter in his arms. "Canst thou not see that the child is fainting? She is ill. I saw it but now in the Circus. Hast thou no heart?" "What, thou, too, Aurelius! Thou art but half a man, and worshipeth the gods only in form. Long have I suspected that Virgilia had been infected by this poisonous virus, this doctrine of a malefactor. Thy son taught it to her, thy son, Martius, who is, thanks to Jupiter, far away from here." "Not so, dear mother," said a cheerful voice, "Martius has returned to his father's house, and to thee and Virgilia." A tall youth, about nineteen years of age, full of manly vigor speaking in a rich voice, vibrant with feeling, sprang forward, knelt at Claudia's feet and kissed her hand, then he embraced his father and sister. Claudia's expression relaxed. Had it not been for his absurd belief in the Jew, who seemed to have set the world mad, she could have loved this fine-looking young man, whose auburn curls fell over a white forehead, whose brown eyes gleamed with a mixture of earnestness and merriment. He was, indeed, a lovable youth. "Hast thou come back cured, Martius? Then art thou indeed welcome." "Cured of what, mother?" "Of thy mistaken worship of Christus." "No, mother," came the firm reply. Aurelius saw his son's face pale, saw him straighten up as though he expected a blow on those broad shoulders, saw his hand clench as if he were in pain. And Aurelius was sorrowful. He loved Martius for himself and for his mother, whom he resembled. The lawyer was also, only too well aware of the danger run by all those who called themselves followers of Christus. The worst had not yet come. There were only threats now against the members of this sect who were growing daily more numerous, and more menacing to the priests and the pagan religion. No one could tell what might happen by to-morrow, the storm would break suddenly. He knew Claudia and her blind bigotry. She would not hesitate to sacrifice Martius if she thought that her soul's salvation depended on it; Claudia's soul was her chief thought. But would she sacrifice her own daughter, if her religion should prove to be the same as that of her brother? The sister had slipped her hand into that of Martius. She stood beside him shoulder to shoulder. Virgilia was unusually tall. She had inherited the fine, cameo-like profile of her mother, but her hair was fair and very abundant. It was bound around her head in heavy braids and was not decorated by any jewel. Her white draperies had fallen from her arm, disclosing its pure whiteness and delicate outline. Virgilia looked straight at her mother and spoke, breaking sharply the silence following the two words of Martius. The sun had now set. It was almost dark in the garden. The lilies gleamed ghostly white among their long green leaves. The odor of the jessamine was heavy on the evening air, overpowering in its sweetness. A servant entered and lighted torches in iron rings fastened on the fluted pillows. He lit, also, the wicks in huge bronze lamps placed here and there, and in a three-tapered silver lamp on a table by Claudia's side. The soft radiance lit up the strange scene, the Roman matron, seated in her chair, jewels gleaming in her dark hair and on her bosom, her face set and stern. It shone upon the young Virgilia and Martius, standing before her, and upon the heavier figure of the lawyer, Aurelius Lucanus, just behind them. Then Virgilia spoke, and her voice was as clear as the sun-down bell which had just rung out its warning from Caesar's Hill. "I, too, am a Christian." With a sharp outcry, Claudia, dragging her white draperies on the ground, disappeared in her small room, opening by a long window from the gallery bordering on the garden. She was seen no more that night. Silently, the lawyer and his son and daughter ate their evening meal, reclining on the triclinium in the long room tinted in Pompeian red, a frieze three feet in width ran around the walls. Small, chubby cherubs, or cupids doing the work of men, weaving draperies, preparing food, chopping meat, plucking grapes and carrying them away in miniature wheelbarrows, were faithfully portrayed in rich colors. Some of these frescoes, tints as vivid as when they were laid on by the artists of twenty centuries ago, remain to this day on the walls of ancient Roman dwellings, and enable us to know how people lived in those far-off times. A servant, assisted by the porter, Alyrus, brought the food in on huge trays, roast kid and vegetables, green salad fresh from the market in the Forum Boarium, dressed with oil from the groves of Lucca and vinegar made of sour red wine. Then came a delicious pudding, made from honey brought from Hymetus in Greece to add luxury to the food of the already too luxurious Romans, and fruit strawberries, dipped in fine sugar and sprinkled with lemon. Virgilia ate little; the main portions of the food she sent away untouched. The salad and fruit were more to her liking. She was very pale. The scene in the Circus, followed by the sudden confession of her faith, had taxed her strength. This, her anxiety for her mother and the unusual heat of the evening caused her to feel faint, so that she excused herself and went away, climbing a narrow staircase to the flat, tiled roof. Here were many plants, blossoming vines and the gurgling of cool water, as it passed through the mouth of a hideous gorgan mask and fell into a basin where soft green mosses clung and ferns waved their feathery fronds. Seating herself on a granite bench, supported by two carved lions, Virgilia fell into deep thought. It was the everlasting problem, old as human life. Ought she to obey her mother, or God? To do the former, meant to stifle her conscience and destroy her inner life. Worship the gods she could not since this new, this pure love for the meek and lovely Jesus had entered into her very being. She clasped and unclasped her slender white hands in her agitation. What should she do? If God would only show her where duty lay. Glorified in the silvery whiteness of the moonlight, arose the splendid palaces of the Caesars. Virgilia could see them plainly if she lifted her eyes, for they stood high, on the Palatine Hill. There was revelry yonder. The notes of flutes and harps came faintly to her ears. Below, wound the Tiber, back and forth, like the coils of a huge, glistening serpent. Many boating parties were enjoying the river and its coolness, while the moon rode high in the heavens and shone upon the sheeny garments and fair faces of the women. Up the river, from the port of Ostia, came a big merchant vessel bringing from Constantinople and Egypt, carpets and costly stuffs, richly wrought in gold, filmy tissue and rare embroideries for Roman ladies and papyrus volumes for the learned Senators. Far out on the Campagna, Virgilia knew that the Christians were gathering to-night, coming from all parts of the city. Some were freedmen and others were slaves; among the figures gliding out on the cobble-stoned Appian Way were members of Caesar's household, and one or two tall Praetorian guards. The religion of Christ had found converts among all classes. Rome was full of Christians, many of whom feared to openly confess their faith, though later, they dared to do so, even in the face of a cruel death. Virgilia was so intent on her thoughts that she did not observe the cat-like approach of her mother's personal slave, the daughter of Alyrus, the porter. She and her father had been brought to Rome as prisoners of war after a victorious conquest by the Romans in North Africa. They were by descent, Moors, having dark skins but very regular, even classical features. Sahira, the slave, walked like a queen and was so proud that she would not mingle with the other servants. Her father, Alyrus, chief of hundreds in the desert-land of his own country, was but a door-keeper in the house of Aurelius Lucanus, and he was, very bitter in spirit. "Your mother has need of you," said Sahira, in her velvet voice. "I think that the Lady Claudia is very ill." "I will come at once." The Lady Claudia was indeed very ill and continued so for several weeks. The summer waxed and waned. The cool winds of September blew strongly from the West and the calla lilies and jessamine had long since withered in the garden before Claudia was able once again to sit in the chair under the late tea-rose vines and listen to the rippling water of the fountain. The old, proud Claudia seemed to have disappeared and in her place was a feeble woman, with trembling hands, whose glance followed every move her daughter made, who seemed to be happy only when Virgilia was near. She ignored the ministrations of the slave Sahira, whose heart warmed to only one person except her father, and that was her beautiful mistress. Sahira cast angry looks at Virgilia's fair head, bending over her embroidery while she talked cheerfully to her mother. The slave went away and cried, for she was of a deep, passionate nature, loving few and ready to lay down her life for those whom she adored. Alyrus, her father, found her crying one night in her tiny room in the section of the house assigned to the servants. He succeeded in finding out the thing that caused her sorrow. When he went away there was a resolution formed in his soul which boded ill to Virgilia. He would bide his time--and then-- The young Christian wondered often whether her mother had forgotten that scene on the day she was taken so ill, had forgotten that she, as well as Martius, was one of the despised sect. Up to the present, Virgilia had never refused to twine the garlands to be laid on the altars of the household gods or at the feet of the special god which Claudia worshipped in her own room. She had not refused because she felt that it would agitate her mother too much, and the man who came from the School of Esculapsius on the Island in the Tiber where the Temple was, had warned them against exciting the invalid. It might cause her death, he said. Virgilia knew, however, that the time must come soon when, if she was loyal to her faith, she must refuse to offer outward homage to the pagan gods. In spite of her belief in Christ and her desire to serve him, her heart grew cold within her and her limbs trembled at the thought of that dread time, for she was very delicate and her mother's will was strong. How could she defy her mother? It was an awful crime in pagan Rome to refuse to offer libations and flowers before the shrines of the family gods, a crime punishable by death. Had she strength to stand firm? II. THE "LITTLE FISH." In the meantime, Martius was still under the roof of his father's house. It looked now as if he would be allowed to stay there, for his step-mother's illness and the quiet condition of her mind during her convalescence, gave rise to the hope that when completely recovered, she would be no longer so intolerant and would permit the religious differences to be forgotten. Aurelius Lucanus was a broad-minded man. In his business as a lawyer and pleader of cases in the Law Courts of the Forum, he had come into personal contact with several of the Christians, finding them to be men and women of the strictest rectitude and following stern moral codes, such as were notably unobserved by the Roman of that day. One of his clients was a widow, Octavia, wife of Aureus Cantus, the Senator, a woman of rare mental gifts and a personality which was at once gracious and commanding. She had two children, a boy and girl, a little older than Martius and Virgilia, and the lawyer, while saying nothing, had noticed that his son was not averse to lingering in the office when the sweet Hermione came with her mother to consult him on some subjects dealing with her husband's will and the large property interests now coming under the widow's control. Octavia did not live in the handsome house formerly occupied when her husband was living on the same street where Aurelius Lucanus dwelt, preferring to leave it in charge of her freedman and his wife, who had served her family for many years. She occupied a villa about two miles from the city gates, where there were immense vineyards, festooned between mulberry trees. The vines were now hung with great purple clusters of grapes, promises of luscious fruits a little later, when the time of the Vendemmia should come in October. Then, there would be feasting and merriment among the servants, but no dancing or drinking, as was the custom on other grape plantations, so numerous on the broad Campagna around Rome. Before Martius had been sent away from home, by his step-mother's orders, in the main hope that the poison of Christian belief would be drawn from his mind, he had been a student in his father's office, going with him daily at nine o'clock and returning at two for the family dinner. Now, he resumed his studies for the legal profession, and once more walked proudly by his father's side through the crowded passageways of the city and the broad, handsome streets of the Forum. Martius was a little taller than his father. Aurelius Lucanus was, like many another pagan, no great believer in the gods, although, partly from regard to prevailing sentiment, partly because of his business relations, he outwardly gave attention to the formal customs of the day. This morning, as father and son entered the Forum, passing by the great statue of Jupiter standing in front of the temple dedicated to his worship, Aurelius bowed profoundly, and muttered a prayer, but Martius, his proud young head held high, passed by, without making his obeisance. The two were followed, as usual, by a servant, who happened this morning to be Alyrus, the Moor. He closely observed Martius and a faint smile or sneer added to the ugliness of his disfigured face. Alyrus had a fine face, so far as form and feature went, but his expression was full of cunning and revenge. In his ears he wore two huge gold rings, chased in cabalistic characters of strange design. They were the emblem of his chieftain power in that land bordering on the desert, from which he had been so rudely carried away. It was not strange that Alyrus, a barbarian, should bear in his heart a bitter hatred for the Romans and all that belonged to them. A slave, he was, and Sahira, too, but they loathed their bonds. It did not occur to Alyrus to be grateful that when they were placed on a platform down yonder at the lower end of the Forum, to be sold to the highest bidder, Aurelius Lucanus, who had bought him first, being moved by pity, had also purchased Sahira, his daughter, paying for her many sesterces of gold, because she was very beautiful and could bring a high price. Thus, father, and daughter, (who was somewhat superfluous in a house already well-supplied with women-slaves) were able to dwell together, and Sahira was spared many humiliations and dangers to which a beautiful young slave was inevitably subjected in these degenerate days of ancient Rome. Alyrus was not the only person who observed the "irreverence" of Martius. A priest of Jupiter, coming out of the Temple, saw the whole thing and made his own comments. He knew Aurelius Lucanus, the Advocate, slightly, but not the young man with him. He stepped quickly to the side of Alyrus, who had been very profound in his reverence to the god, although he hated Rome's gods as he hated her people. "Who is that young man?" inquired the priest. "The son of my master, Aurelius Lucanus." "And thou?" "I am a humble porter," responded Alyrus, with such bitterness that it attracted the priest's attention. Being a man who understood character at a glance, he seized the opportunity. Anything which could in any way enable the pagans to hunt down the hated, despised followers of that Christus who had made them so much trouble, was worth following up. The priests knew that there were thousands of men in Rome who had no faith at all in the gods, but there were few who would dare neglect an outward observance. When a man did that, in the public Forum, he was certainly possessed of that strange courage typical of the Christians. "Thou art a slave." Alyrus bowed, keeping his eyes on his master and son, now approaching the splendid white marble law-courts. "What is thy country?" "Beyond the seas, your reverence." Alyrus turned a pair of black eyes on the questioner. In them smouldered hidden passions. "Your young master does not bow before Jupiter." "No." "And why, may I ask? His father is, I know, a faithful follower of our gods. Why not his son, also?" The portico, surmounted by a marvelous relief in marble, a copy of an allegorical representation of jurisprudence, brought from Greece, was in front of the slave and the priest. The lawyer and Martius had already vanished in the cool shadows of the interior. For one moment, Alyrus hesitated. It was an awful thing for a slave to betray his master's son. He gave one backward thought to those days when hundreds of horsemen acknowledged him chief, and date-palms waved their feathery arms over his tent; he remembered that he was a slave, bought with a price, and his master had struck him. And he remembered Sahira and her tears. "Because Martius, son of Aurelius, is a Christian," he replied, and in his heart was a fearsome glee. He was walking up the broad steps, now, while the priest, laying a detaining hand on his arm, said: "I see that thou art a man to be trusted. I am interested in these Christians. I would hear more. Come to me tomorrow, at the Temple, after sundown. There is a little back entrance in the alleyway. Ask for Lycidon, the priest of Jupiter, and show the porter this symbol. It will admit thee." The priest was gone, and Alyrus, half-dazed, stood under the arch between two tall columns and gazed down at the bronze lizard he held in his hand. The lizard leered at him, he thought. Just at that moment a cry was heard, which drove the crowds of people aside. "Way! Way for the noble Lady, Octavia, widow of Aureus Cantus, Senator of the Roman Empire. Way! I say." Through the ranks of people was borne a large chair, gilded and wrought in graceful form, adapted to such a woman as Octavia, reported to be possessed of enormous wealth. The embroidered curtains were tightly drawn, so that the passerby could not look in, but so curious were they to see the lady whose name was familiar to all, owing to the valuable services rendered by her illustrious husband to the State, that the people crowded the steps of the Law Courts to watch Octavia and her daughter Hermione descend. They drew their veils closely, but a murmur of admiration arose as Hermione's veil slipped aside and revealed cheeks of cream and rose, eyes inherited from some northern hero, of deep violet blue, and hair, arranged in ringlets, in the style of the age, of a red-brown tint. Hastily, the two ladies passed into the dark corridors of the court, and were soon admitted to the private office of Aurelius Lucanus. Two attendants, who had walked behind the chair all the way from the Villa to guard their mistress and her daughter, waited in the ante-chamber with Alyrus, whose duty it was to remain here until the lawyer's day of work was over. The Roman welcomed Octavia with much ceremony. He bowed to Hermione, who threw back her veil and greeted Martius as an old friend. While her mother explained the matter of business to her trusted lawyer, Hermione and Martius withdrew to the other side of the room and sat down side by side on an ivory and ebony bench in the window. High above them was Caesar's Palace, white and glistening in the September sunshine. Sweet scents from the imperial gardens came to them, but sweeter yet, in its innocence and freshness was the face of the young girl. "Thou hast been long absent, Martius?" she said, while she twirled in her fingers a tea-rose, large and fragrant. "Half a year, Hermione." "And hast never wanted to see Rome? Was it so lovely in those far-off Eastern lands that thou couldst forget thy home and thy friends?" "Not so. But it was not possible for me to return. My heart yearned for Rome. There is no place like her in all the world, in the whole Roman Empire," he said, proudly. "Was it thy business kept thee?" Then fearing lest she might be asking too much, Hermione blushed. Martius thought that the rich color flooding her cheek was in tint like that of a wondrous rose he had seen on the Isle of Cyprus, where his ship had touched in the journey toward Asia Minor. "Do not answer if it is not my right to know," she added, hastily. "I thought,--we are old friends--" Martius was silent. He had heard that Octavia was a Christian, while her husband was not. He did not know whether Hermione followed the religion of her father or her mother. They had never talked on these matters. Christians, while exceedingly courageous where their principles were involved, did not run useless risks. There was always danger. He drew from his tunic a small wax-tablet, and with the ivory stylus, began, carelessly, to scribble on it, as if he had not noticed her question, or as she might readily infer, did not wish to reply. Hermione, slightly embarrassed and annoyed, watched him idly drawing. Then her breath came quickly and her face glowed. He was drawing, in the midst of other designs, a fish; little by little, it became plain. Under her breath, she said: "I, too, am a Little Fish." There was a sudden clasping of hands, as Martius looked frankly into her eyes. "I was sent away," he explained, after assuring himself that his father and Octavia were still busy discussing the case. "Sent away because I learned to believe in Christ. My step-mother would not have me at home. She hates the Christians, and my father yielded to her, though, personally, he is indifferent and says that everyone has a right to believe what he pleases." "Why didst thou return? Is thy step-mother satisfied?" Hermione asked eagerly. "Only a few weeks ago. My father's wife has been very ill. She is only now convalescing. All depends on the attitude she takes. I must wait. And in the meantime, I am preparing to be a lawyer, like my father. If I can stay in Rome, I shall be very happy. If not, I shall go to one of the distant provinces." "O, I hope not!" she exclaimed. Martius smiled at her. "I hope not, too," he replied. "There is another complication," Martius continued, after a pause. "The real cause of my stepmother's illness was Virgilia's declaration that she, too, has adopted the Christian faith. Where she heard about it, further than the things I taught her, I do not know. Thou seest, that the matter is very complicated." "And dangerous. Dost thou not know that there has been talk in the Senate about the constantly increasing number of Christians in Rome and in the Empire? It is growing, this religion of Jesus Christ." "Thanks be to His name," said Martius. "Amen. But with the growth comes peril and perhaps death. We may have to bear witness for our faith before very long. My mother has been warned but feels no fear. She says that where other martyrs have gone, we can go. She is very brave." "He giveth strength in time of need. We must wait and trust." Hermione stretched out her hand to him and he grasped it warmly in his strong one. They were destined to be firm, true friends, these two young Christians who faced an unknown and dangerous future. Octavia arose. "Come, Hermione," she said, "we must be going." The lawyer rang a small silver bell on his desk, and Alyrus appeared at the door. "See that the Lady Octavia's chair is ready." The Moor vanished. "And now, my lady, I trust that you will not be at all anxious about this matter. I will attend to it." "I thank you. Greetings to your wife, and we hope to see you both soon at our Villa. The grapes are almost ready for the gathering. My children are counting much on the festivities for the Vendemmia. Can you not come at that time, you and Claudia, with your son and daughter. It will delight Hermione and Marcus. I will send a messenger to remind you again before the Feast of the Grapes." "Claudia has been very ill, my lady. I fear that she could not bear the motion of the chair so soon. But I will tell her of your gentle bidding to the feast, when the God Bacchus is adored with so much mirth." A cloud crossed Octavia's face. "The God Bacchus--" she began, but stopped. The warning she had received but a few days before from a Christian high in the service of the Emperor, rang in her ears. "We must be courageous, Octavia," he had said, "but we must not be foolish." "If you permit, we will send Martius and Virgilia to represent us at the feast," added Aurelius. "With pleasure. I will send a messenger before the day." The lawyer and Martius bowed low, and the two ladies, who were carefully veiled went out on the portico. Aurelius Lucanus assisted them into the luxurious chair and he and Martius stood watching them as the four tall bearers carried them away, followed by two stalwart men. It had been a marvel to certain circles of Roman society that Octavia had freed all her slaves, men and women, after the death of Aureus. It was some business connected with this unusual matter that had brought her to the lawyer's office today. Some had said that she was crazy to free hundreds of slaves. Others had whispered behind their hands that there were other reasons, Octavia followed Christus, and the Christians did not own slaves. But they dared not say this aloud, for Octavia was very rich and had powerful friends, even in Caesar's Palace. III. THE HYMN OF THE WATER-CARRIER. As the lawyer and his children reclined at the triclinium in the cool arcade opening on the garden, Martius narrated to Virgilia his conversation with Hermione that morning in his father's office. It was the custom, in the summer months, for the family to take their meals out of doors, in the shadowed corridor, where there was almost always a pleasant breeze, even when the sun scorched the bricks and square stones of the street in front of their house. Occasionally, a man would pass through the streets, carrying a sheepskin filled with water. He sang a strange, low song as he sprinkled the red bricks from which a thick steam arose at once, so scorching hot were they. He was singing now; the weird melody penetrated even to the corridor. "What a strange song!" said Aurelius Lucanus, cutting a piece of tender chicken, roasted on a spit before an open fire in the kitchen so tiny that there was scarcely room for the cook and his attendants to move about. Yet here, they prepared the elaborate dinners, served with the utmost nicety, in which Romans delighted. "It is different from anything I ever heard." Two men were carrying around the table huge platters of food. One was Alyrus, the Moor, who was not only a porter, but a general factotum. His duties were many and various, from sweeping the floors and keeping their highly-colored mosaics clear and shining, to accompanying his master to business, as he had done this morning, and assisting the man who served at table. He was sent, also, with Virgilia when she went to pay a visit to some of her friends, or when, in former times, she went to see one of the Vestal Virgins, and worshipped at the shrine. There had been some talk of her taking the vows of the Vestals, who held a very high position in Rome, but both her father and mother felt that, as an only daughter, she could not be spared from home, Marcella, one of her companions, had always entered as a novice. In all her seventeen years of life, Virgilia had never been alone outside of her father's house. It was not the custom for young girls to go upon the streets unaccompanied. Even when she paid a visit, Alyrus or one of the other slaves was waiting in the ante-chamber, to obey her lightest call. The other slave, who followed Alyrus with a glass carafe of iced water, was named Alexis. He was a Greek, from near Ephesus, seized as prisoner by one of the victorious generals, sold to Aurelius as Alyrus and Sahira had been. He was unusually handsome, very tall, with broad, well-formed shoulders and a face and head like one of the ancient pagan gods, whose statues have come down to us from the chisel of Phidias, the Greek sculptor. His skin was fair and his hair yellow as gold. Between him and the dark Moor who walked near him, there was the difference between light and darkness. It was not a difference in physical beauty, altogether, although Alyrus bore not only the disfiguring scar on his face, but smallpox scars, he was not altogether unpleasing in appearance. The difference lay chiefly in the expression of eyes and mouth. Alyrus was satirical, sneering, critical; Alexis was gentle, yet commanding; benign, yet firm. Both slaves became alert, as the Master had been, listening to the song of the water-carrier, now becoming less and less distinct. Alexis's eyes shown, but Alyrus cast a malignant glance at Martius, whose face was flushed. "What a strange song!" repeated the lawyer. "It seems to be religious in its type, yet I never heard it at our functions or in the temples. Who was that man, Alyrus? Thou, who sittest ever at the doorway and hast an insatiable curiosity about our neighbors, wilt surely know." Alyrus frowned at the implied reproof which was, after all, for the Moor kept closely to himself, except when information could serve some end. "It is Lucius, the water-carrier," he said, as shortly as he dared speak to his master. "It is a Christian song that he is singing." "Ah!" Aurelius selected a large, rosy peach, covered with burnished down and deliciously cold, from the dish presented to him by Alexis. The figs, grapes and peaches were laid in snow and cracked ice, brought from distant lands and preserved in this tropical clime by some process known to the Romans. If Aurelius Lucanus had not been one of the most prominent advocates in the city, receiving a large pension from the Emperor himself, he could not have afforded these luxuries. There was a scowl on his forehead as he pared the peach daintily with a sharp silver knife. These Christians were beginning to make him nervous. There was the Lady Octavia, for instance, who must needs be so foolish as to release all her slaves just because of a silly fancy that Christians should not possess human beings as property. She would lose half her income by this freak, and a good share of her principal invested in these slaves. What would Aureus Cantus have said to such a wild thing as this? He should have tied up his affairs in a way which would have prevented the widow from having the rights to do it. She was now in for trouble and he did not know how to get her out of it. His own reputation would suffer if he lost her case. And then, he had to deal with Martius and Virgilia. That was even more difficult, for he loved them both very dearly, and hated to be severe with them. The illness of Claudia could be traced to the same cause, the singular fanaticism of the members of this new sect. "The Lady Octavia has invited us to come to enjoy the festivities of the grape-gathering," Martius was saying. "It was very good of her and we shall have a splendid time. Everything at the villa is so beautiful. I wish that father would buy a home out on the Campagna. But he says that he cannot afford to keep up two establishments and he must remain in Rome on account of the Emperor and the Law Courts." "Father says, though, that when the Emperor goes to his villa at Antium, we shall all go, too. The Emperor wants father near at hand. Thou knowest that his magnificent villa is finished now. The house is enormous, and there is room for us and many others." "Hast thou seen Octavia's place?" "Very often. During thy absence, I have been carried frequently out of the gates and along the Ostian Way. Mother never wished to go. She dislikes the Lady Octavia. Alyrus, and sometimes Alexis, was with me." The lawyer had now left the table, retiring to his wife's room. Martius cast a cautious look around and, seeing no one, said, under his breath: "I do not wonder that mother does not desire to go there. Thou knowest, that they, too, are of the faith? Today, Hermione told me: 'I too, am a little Fish.'" A smile lit up Virgilia's sweet face. "Who should know it better than I? For from Hermione I have heard much of Christ. With her, I went to the meetings of the Christians, of our brothers and sisters, and heard the Truth." "What will be the outcome of it all, Virgilia?" Martius spoke earnestly in her ear. "When mother is well, what will happen? Thou dost remember what she said, that we must both leave this roof? I try to forget those cruel words, I try to believe that I shall stay here, to work in my father's office, to take up his profession, to be in that dearest place of all--home. It is hard to be exiled, Virgilia, hard never to see Rome again, Rome, the centre of the world. But if it should be hard for me, what will it be for thee, so tenderly matured, so lovingly cared for? It cannot be possible that Claudia will thrust thee, her own daughter, forth from her door, simply because thou hast become a follower of Christus. No. It is only a bad dream." That Martius was deeply in earnest could be seen from his clenched hands, where the nails sank into the flesh, from the pallor of his cheeks and the sorrow in his eyes. "Neither can I believe it. Martius, by nature, mother is not cruel. It is only our religion that she hates, not us. But when the moment comes that she asks me to give up Christ, I will face hunger and privation, even death, itself, for His sweet sake." The light of that exaltation which filled the martyrs of ancient days with strength to face a shameful and awful death was on Virgilia's face, it was the look of a saint. Martius was thrilled by her enthusiasm. "And I, too, dear sister, will never deny my Saviour. We will go forth together, if need be. Let us hope for better things, however. God can do all things. "Amen," responded Virgilia. "But, Martius, things cannot continue as they are now. Each morning, to please my mother, I weave the garlands for the statues of the gods, I offer sweet oils and spices and libations at the altar. I could not do otherwise while she was so ill. Now, she is getting better. Tomorrow, or the next day, I must refuse to do this. What will happen then?" They had left the triclinium, and were walking slowly in the garden. So tall was she that Virgilia's head was almost on a level with that of her stalwart brother. Alyrus and Alexis had cleared the table, watching with keen gaze the young people walking in the Pergola, beneath the heavy grape vine, whose leaves, pierced by the sun, cast queer shadows over Virgilia's white draperies and on her abundant hair, which threw back glints of copper tints to mock the shifting lights. Alyrus watched them because he hated them and longed for the moment when he could wreak his revenge. Alexis looked at them in love, for he, too, was a Christian, and the reason for the scene which Claudia had made in the garden on the day when Martius returned from exile, was well known to all the servants. In the dark corners of their miserable quarters, they discussed the situation, wondering what would happen. In these early days of Christianity, men and women often worked side by side, never daring to make known that they were Christians, for fear that the other might prove traitor. In this household of Aurelius Lucanus and Claudia, there were three slaves who were Christians, and one was Alexis, the Greek, but the others were unaware of it. He waited now in silence, hoping to be able to help the young son and daughter of his master. He, too, saw the shadow of suspicion creeping nearer, growing larger. Some day the Christians of Rome would be enveloped in the darkness and then would come death, as it had come in other times to other martyrs of the Cross. Martius had only time to seize his sister's had and press it warmly, when his father's voice was heard behind them. "Virgilia, thy mother needs thee. Go to her. She seems to be very weak. Do nothing to agitate or excite her. Sacrifice thine own wishes to hers." He was gone, and the girl looked in bewilderment at Martius. "Dost think that he heard what I said?" She whispered. Martius shrugged his shoulders. "I know not. But he is right, Virgilia. Thou must wait. For a time, we must worship in secret. Some day, all will be open to the light and we must suffer what comes. Christ will help us." "Yes, Christ will give us strength." All that afternoon, Virgilia sat patiently by her mother's couch. The change in the proud woman during these weeks of illness was only too apparent. It seemed as if the ardor of her hatred had burned out her strength. Her lovely eyes were lustreless. The neck on which Sahira had hung a splendid cord of sapphires from Persia, linked together with milky pearls from India, was thin and haggard. Her skin, fair and beautiful on that day when she sat so proudly by her husband and daughter in the Circus, watching the gladiatorial contest, was yellow and drawn. The jewels were a mockery in the shadow of threatened death. It was nearing sundown when Virgilia, very tired from the hours passed in gently soothing her mother's querulous complaints, giving her cooling drinks and telling her old Grecian legends to amuse her, entered her own little cubicleum, her sleeping-chamber. In Roman houses, the sleeping quarters were the smallest, the worst ventilated of all. It is a superstition, come down to modern times, that night air is injurious. Many ancient Roman dwellings show that rooms used for sleeping sometimes had no windows at all, the sole means of ventilation being provided by the doorway, which was curtained, opening into a larger room, or by a small trap door in the ceiling. The furniture in Virgilia's room was very simple. The bed was a couch, covered with white, with head and foot-board of ebony, curved in form and inlaid with quaint flower designs in mother-of-pearl. There was one chair, with slender arms, also in ebony and mother-of-pearl, and a stand, with ewer and basin of beaten brass. The floor was laid in red brick, and on it, at the bedside, lay a tiger-skin, brought from the East. Its tawny tints, varied by bright yellow, were the only colors in the room. Virgilia was fond of fresh air. She pushed up the trap door in the roof, reaching it easily, as the ceiling was so low, and let in a flood of glorious evening light. Through the aperture she could see a patch of brilliant blue sky. The swallows, dipping and circling, were swirling about in the heavens, black specks against the golden light of the departing sun. Virgilia drew a long breath and then another. It had been very hot and very fatiguing in her mother's room. She had refused to have any sun or light except that coming out of the large living-room, from which four sleeping chambers opened. The girl stretched out her arms, in graceful languor, then, throwing herself on the couch, she closed her eyes, but she was not sleeping. A panorama of thoughts and visions passed rapidly through her mind. She saw herself as she had been, a pagan, a worshipper of the gods, with no thought above the arranging of her hair or the flowers she would wear at the banquets. She recalled the visits to Hermione and the quiet meetings of the Christians in their hiding-places in the catacombs, surrounded by the graves of many martyrs to the Christian faith. One scene she would never forget. It was one afternoon when she and Hermione accompanied by Marcus leaving Alyrus sleeping in the antechamber, had slipped out by a side entrance, joining the other Christians in the shadowy passageways of the underground cemeteries. An old man, with snowy beard and piercing eyes was reading aloud a letter, a letter from the Apostle Paul to those who were at Rome. The light from torches stuck into the rough walls of the cubiculum shone on an hundred upturned faces of brave followers of Christ who knew not on what day, or in what hour they would be arrested and thrown into prison. They listened to the words of their fellow Christian, Paul, who had seen the Lord on the way to Damascus. "To all that be in Rome," he wrote, "beloved of God, called to be saints: Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ * * * Your faith is spoken of throughout the whole world * * * I long to see you * * * I am debtor both to the Greeks and to the Barbarians * * * So, as much as in me is, I am ready to preach the Gospel to you that are at Rome also." Then the elder told them that a report had been brought by brethren arrived from Antioch, that the Apostle, who had for some time been confined at Caesarea, had finally appealed to Caesar, and would be brought to Rome to be tried. He might come at any time, and perhaps they would be privileged to see him face to face. Marcus and Hermione had said also on the way back to the villa, that their mother thought that some day the Apostle would come to Rome, it might be soon, and would bring them news of the Lord Christ, for he had seen him with his own eyes. The darkness settled down over Rome and still Virgilia dreamed on, but the dreams were not prophetic; in the visions which she had there were no forebodings of that which was to come. IV. THE INNER SHRINE OF JUPITER. Alyrus crept out of the rear door of the house about sundown, while Virgilia, her head pillowed on a cushion of soft down, was dreaming of things past. He told Alexis to guard the entrance and if the master inquired for him to tell him that a pair of sandals needed repairing and he was carrying them to the shoemaker. In fact, he had the sandals, of yellow Persian leather, wrapped up in an old handkerchief, and showed them to the Greek. While Alexis seated himself on the porter's marble bench just inside the front door, left open that the evening breeze blowing fresh and cool from the sea might pass through the heated rooms, Alyrus went into the narrow alley at the rear. Just outside, a man crouched against the brick wall. It was Lucius, the water-carrier, who had sung the Christian hymn so boldly on the streets where pagan gods were worshipped. His goat-skin water-bag was empty and lay, wrinkled and collapsed, beside him. Lucius, himself, was a strange sight in the midst of the luxurious people of Rome. A peasant he was, dwelling in a cave far out on the Roman Campagna, remote from the splendid villas and gardens lining the wide ways leading out of the city to North and South and West. This cave was in a mass of tufa rock rising abruptly from the flat, green fields, and not far from the aqueduct, three tiers of brick arches, one above the other, joined by massive masonry, through which fresh water was brought in big leaden pipes to the city. Hundreds of long-horned cattle, white and clean and strong, were grazing in the fields. It was such as these that Cincinnatus guided, ploughing the fields, when the messenger rode swiftly from Rome to call him to come and save her by becoming Dictator. Lucius was a tiller of the fields, but, also, a water-carrier. He was resting now, after his labors in the scorching sunshine, half-asleep. The Moor roused him into wide wakefulness, by giving him a sturdy kick. "What art thou doing here, lazybones? Get thou to thy kennel, wherever it may be, dog of a Christian, and do not dare to show thy face here again." "Dog of a Christian!" murmured Lucius, scrambling to his feet. "How did you know?" Alyrus caught the words. "How did I know? When a creature such as thou singest thy wicked songs in broad daylight, he must expect to be heard. A little more and thou, too, wilt go to feed the lions and offer entertainment to the thousands who are weary of other amusements and seek something new. Turn pale, scarecrow, and tremble. Thy day will come, the day when those and others--shall suffer. Ha! ha! it strikes home, doesn't it? Thou fearest, eh? So much the better." Lucius stood before him, a pitiable figure. His body, brown as an Indian's, was bare almost to the waist. He wore only one garment, a sort of a shirt, made from the skin of one of his own sheep. His legs and feet were as brown as the rest of his body, and as tough as those of an animal. His hair was black and long, a lock hung over his forehead and hid his black eyes. A long beard fell from cheeks and chin on to his hairy breast. There was nothing attractive about his appearance, it was thoroughly animal. "I am not afraid," he replied, with such dignity that Alyrus stared at him. "When my time comes, I can die, trusting to a God whom thou knowest not, Alyrus, the Moor, doorkeeper in the house of Aurelius Lucanus." "Thou knowest me, then?" "I know thee well." His manner became cringing and servile. "I did but wait here a moment to rest, and fell asleep. I will go on my way." Alyrus nodded and walked on, going first to the shoemaker's, a tiny shop where a man worked all day and slept at night. Having accomplished this business, and saved himself from having left a lying message for the lawyer, the porter went on his way to the Forum, where all was still now, for the business of the day was over. A few men were passing, but they paid no attention to the Moor. It was quite dark, heavy clouds from the west were encircling rapidly toward Rome and the wind had increased to a gale. There were sharp flashes of copper-blue lightning and a roar of thunder like booming cannon, echoing against the Alban and Salbine Hills encircling the city. So dark was it that Alyrus did not observe that he was followed; did not see a strange figure with a sheep-skin flung over his back not far behind him, slipping from one doorway to another, hiding behind pillars, keeping the Moor ever in view. Lucius the shepherd knew only one thing, intelligently, and that was the knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ. Even the most ignorant can learn this. The knowledge had been obtained one day, when, seeing a company of men and women crossing the Campagna, he had, out of curiosity, followed them to their gathering-place, where he had learned the truth about Jesus. Outside of this Lucius was absolutely unlearned, and almost as stupid as his own sheep. He had not wit enough to know that when he sang a Christian hymn where any and all could hear it his life was in the greatest danger. He was stupid, downright stupid, but he had a keen eye, knew whom to trust and was possessed of an insatiable curiosity. Because, by instinct, he knew that Alyrus was up to some mischief, he followed him to see where he went. There was another reason. In the house of Aurelius Lucanus dwelt a small scullery maid, who assisted the slaves in the kitchen, doing all the dirty work and being struck and sworn at for any mistake. She earned a few cents a day. Lucius was waiting outside in the alley-way, as was his daily custom after finishing his work, to exchange a word with his daughter, whom he dearly loved. I have said that in the lawyer's household were three Christians, one was Alexis, the Greek, and another was Lidia, the scullery-maid, who had been baptized by the white-haired elder in the Catacomb, beside her father. Through her Lucius had learned that Martius and Virgilia were, also, Christians and, with his usual genius for following people, he had gone behind them to the Christian meeting place. He knew how wicked Alyrus was, how ill the Lady Claudia had been and for what reason. Lidia had poured out the whole story to him. Lucius crouched down near the temple door at the side of the huge white building with its many columns, after he had heard the knock Alyrus gave at the small portal, and had heard the door clang behind the porter. No good could come from that temple and its priests. Even though they bowed before the statue of the god and burned incense, the Romans did not trust the priests. They regarded them as intriguers, trying to get their hands on everything, ready to worm out secrets for their own profit and obtain private and political power whenever possible. The great black cloud enveloped Rome. It belched out lightning and thunder, the flashes revealing the groups of stately buildings in the Forum and Caesar's palace on the Palatine Hill. The rain poured in torrents and it hailed, the ground was white with stones, some as large as pigeon eggs. Still, Lucius waited, calmly. He was accustomed to all sorts of weather and his finery could not be spoiled. He drew his bare legs up under him, threw the skin water bag over his head and shoulders and waited. Neither did Alyrus trust the priests. After all, these were not his gods, nor his priests. He worshipped Baal, a greater god than Jupiter. As a matter of personal safety, however, he bowed the knee to those strange and worthless gods of Rome. He kept his eyes well open, having been admitted to the temple by a young priest, who, carrying a taper, led him through several winding passages. A man could get into this gruesome building and never find his way out, thought Alyrus, and though a brave chieftain in his own country, he shivered here in the black corridors, echoing with every footfall. The priest conducted him to a large square room, with very high ceiling, lighted only by a single silver lamp having five branches, each of which contained a taper. Evidently this was an internal room, having no windows. Alyrus judged that it was lighted by day from an opening in the roof, covered with transparent material which withstood water. The rain began to beat upon it, and later, hailstones clattered by the thousands. Around the table sat six priests, ghostly in their white robes. Their faces were stern and gloomy. The Moor began to feel a misgiving about his errand here. Perhaps after all, it would have been wiser to stay at home. "Hast thou the token I gave thee?" asked Lycidon, the priest, who sat at the head of the table. Alyrus saw that he was higher in position than the others. Around his forehead was bound a golden circlet, bearing a lizard covered with jewels. Its eyes were two emeralds and its body blazed with diamonds and rubies. "I have." The porter held up the bronze lizard, similar in form to that on the priest's forehead. "It is well. Come forward to the light, and relate to me and these my brethren, all that thou knowest of thy master." The spirit of recklessness which makes men daring possessed Alyrus at this moment. He felt approaching the glad hour of his revenge on those whom he despised. But he had not lost all caution. "What do I get as a reward for this knowledge which you so much desire?" The priest rose to his full height. His eyes blazed with anger and he raised his arm to strike Alyrus, who did not cringe but faced him boldly, though his dark cheeks grew livid. An aged priest on the superior's right, laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Is it wise?" he asked, gently. "If thou frightenest the slave, he will not give thee correct information." "Thou art late to-night, father," said Lidia, reaching up her hardened little hands to caress affectionately his weatherworn cheek. "I was just going to bed." "I was late because I was watching _him_," Lucius nodded his head toward the door. "Who? the master? Surely thou wouldst not." "Be not so hasty, Lidia. It was not the master, but Alyrus." "Oh! he is worth watching," responded wise and observant Lidia. She was little thing, in spite of her twenty years, with a small face, old in anxiety, but sparkling with vivacity. Lucius had said sometimes that her eyes talked, they varied so with her different moods. She petted and humored her father in an amusingly maternal way, and carried the cares of his poor home in her heart. "I believe it. To-night, he has been for an hour at the temple in the Forum, and it bodes little good. What has he to do with the priests of Jupiter? I trust not one of them, not one. It means some evil to this dwelling." Lidia's eyes grew anxious. "I fear," she began then paused. She had learned that while her father was apt in tracing information, he was not to be relied on in moments when delicate problems were to be solved. Her own brain was much more clear. "I will watch," she added. "Go home now, dear father and get thy rest, for our God is ever near us. No harm can really destroy us. It can only touch our bodies, not our souls, as the Great Teacher saith." "And thou, Lidia," the shepherd drew her close to him and turned the determined little face so that he could see her. "Art thou happy here? Remember thou art no slave, though thou hast chosen to be a menial. Thy father wears no iron ring of bondage around his neck. He is a free man." "I wash the kettles clean," replied Lidia, laughing, while her expressive eyes danced, "and that is something. What said our Teacher? He who does the meanest work faithfully and well, has the Lord Christ by his side. I am happy. And though I am only a kitchen maid, I can see sometimes sweet Lady Virgilia whom I love. She is in danger, father. Perhaps--perhaps, the little unknown maid in the kitchen may save her. Who knows?" "As thou wilt, child, as thou wilt. But it is lonely without thee in the cave on the Campagna." He started on his long walk homeward and Lidia watched his strange, wild-looking figure until it was out of sight. "Our God protect thee," she said in her heart and going inside, closed and barred the door. Before she went to bed she sought out a woman called _The Old One_. What her real name was, or whence she had come, even Aurelius himself did not know. She had come into his possession as a legacy from his father, who had said: "Guard and care for her well, for she has view of the future beyond that of human kind." Now, she was very aged, her form was bowed and her face covered with tiny wrinkles. Some said that she had passed the century limits; but no one knew, and her secrets were buried in her own heart. The Old One was reputed to be very wise. Her expression was almost queenly in its dignity, and placid and kindly. To her, Lidia poured out the news brought her by Lucius, adding to these some things that her father did not know, which bore light upon the designs of Alyrus and his daughter, Sahira. The Old One listened, quietly. Then she laid her withered hand on Lidia's head, very gently. "Lie down and sleep, my child, and be at peace. The Lord is with thee. What the future holds we fear not." There were three Christians in the servants' quarters of the lawyer's home, one was Alexis, the Greek, one was Lidia, the scullery-maid. And the third was the Old One, whose age no man knew, or whence she came. V. THE OLD ONE SPEAKS. Aurelius, the lawyer, found his wife crying when he returned from business a fortnight later. It was one of those rainy days, coming early in October, when it seems as though the skies opened to let down streams of water, washing trees and bushes, drenching the heavy dust, which, during a long summer drouth had accumulated so much in the cracks of the stones on the streets, on the roofs and ledges of the houses and on the leaves of vines and flowers that even the thunder-storm on that night when Alyrus made his visit to the temple had not had force enough to remove it. It was a desolate day. In Rome when it rains the whole aspect changes, it becomes dreary and depressing. Even people are affected by the gloom, nerves are set on edge, and Aurelius, having had a trying morning, was a little irritated to find his wife in this condition. Remembering her weakness, he sat down beside her, took her cold hand in his and said, gently: "What is the matter, dear one? What has happened to annoy thee?" "It is that miserable sect of Christians. I cannot bear them. Here is thy son, Martius, acting the fool, stubborn, wilful, and now Virgilia must show the same traits. It is past endurance. Something must be done to break this charm whatever it is, that controls them so. I wish that every Christian in the land would be destroyed by Jupiter. He can do it if he wishes." The lawyer's face grew stern. One of his troubles that morning had been that everlasting affair of the Lady Octavia, who insisted on freeing her slaves, and by this had succeeded in involving herself in a law-suit which threatened disaster, because of a prior claim to a certain slave who was very valuable. "What has Virgilia done?" he asked, and his tone boded no good to his daughter. "She has refused," sobbed his wife, "refused to make the garlands for the gods or offer them the customary libations. Says that she cannot; it is contrary to the law of Christ--as if that mattered! Her disobedience is bad enough in itself, but the worst for us are the punishment and misfortunes which are certain to come upon us if the gods are not placated." Aurelius grew pale. This was to him, in spite of his general unbelief, a real difficulty. Who knew what might happen? "Dost thou mean that the gods have been neglected all the day? It must be attended to at once!" He sprang up, but Claudia held his hand tight in hers. "It has been attended to. Sahira wove the garlands, a slave, not my own daughter. The gods will be wrathful, of course, but perhaps we can placate them by costly offerings of gold and spices at the temple. It is of Virgilia that I would speak. What is to be done with such an undutiful child? She must be married, or sent away to some lonely place. Perhaps marriage would be better. Then her husband would control her. The Senator Adrian Soderus has asked for her hand, but thou didst send him away. Recall him." "He is seventy years old and as ugly as night. While Virgilia is so young and sweet." "So stubborn and rebellious. He is old, but very rich. She will forget this foolishness when she is surrounded by such luxury as he can give her. Send for him." "Where is Virgilia now?" "In her room, where I sent her to think over her sins and repent." Aurelius thought of the small, dark cubiculum where his daughter sat alone on this day when the floods descended, and his heart warmed to the culprit. "I will talk with Virgilia," he said, rising. "And thou wilt send for the Senator?" "We shall see." During the silent meal, eaten by the father and son under the torch-light, so dark was the room, Aurelius did think seriously. Of the two evils, marriage for Virgilia was, probably the one which would cause her the least suffering. To send her away to a lonely mountain place, to the holy women who dwelt apart, might break her will, but it would ruin her health. Yes, marriage would open out a new life and in the splendid home to which the Senator would be only too happy to welcome her, she would forget this new and detestable religion. He summoned Virgilia to him in his own private room, the most comfortable in the house, because it opened upon the street, had light and air, was hung with rich silks in green and white and provided with chairs and couches, having soft cushions. On the floor were rugs, the work of the Old One's hands, during these long years. Day by day, hour by hour, the woman had drawn the threads through the warp, inventing the designs, forming beautiful figures with tints that harmonized. Here were the faints-colors of the ever-varying opal; the bright blue of the turquoise, the rose hues of the blossoms on the tea-rose, the aqua-marine tints of the Mediterranean Sea. Truly oriental they were, giving a hint of the Eastern origin of the Old One. Like some godmother in the fairy tale, like some ancient wife of mythological times, the Old One had wrought into these designs her own life. And what had been her thoughts during those long hours and days and years? Virgilia's face was not streaming with tears, as her father had expected to see her. In fact, her eyes glowed with softness and beauty. Yet there was a set look about her mouth which the lawyer knew by past experience meant wilfulness. The sympathy which had caused his heart to grow tender, vanished at sight of this radiant young being as beautiful as a goddess who bathes her face in the early morning dew, with the stubborn mouth. Claudia was right. Something effectual must be done to bring this lovely culprit to her senses. "Thou hast grieved thy mother very much by thy disobedience and irreverence," he said, coldly. "I am truly sorry, dear father. For that I am truly sorry. But, thou seest, I could not help it. It is wrong to offer flowers and prayers to the gods." "To whom then wouldst thou offer them?" "We should bow only to the true God." "And he? Who is he? Where is he?" "He is the one invisible and mighty, the God of Heaven and of all men." "That is Jupiter, the all-powerful." "It is not Jupiter, it is our God, as revealed in the Lord Jesus Christ." "A malefactor." Virgilia smiled. "Crucified for us," she murmured, "that we might have eternal life. He sitteth now on the right hand of God.". Her father gazed at her in astonishment. The girl was certainly out of her mind? But, if she were then so was the Lady Octavia and her son and daughter, and Martius, and hundreds, perhaps even thousands of others, if rumor spoke truly. It was a dangerous heresy, and must be destroyed. It was no use to argue with a person who was really scarcely responsible, as Virgilia now appeared to him to be. He must deal very gently with her. "Sit down here by me, dearest, I want to talk with thee a little." So Virgilia sat down on a little stool at her father's feet and leaned her arm on his knee, and while he stroked her soft hair, bound with fillets of chased gold, set with large turquoises, he strove to calm her and distract her mind from its vagaries. When he sent her away, he was fully determined on a line of action. He drew the tablets to him, and wrote a note to the most honorable Senator Adrian Soderus, asking him to make an appointment. Calling Alexis, he ordered him to carry the message to the house of the Senator and bring him the answer. The Greek returned, promptly. If it stopped raining, the Senator would come to the house of the lawyer Aurelius Lucanus that evening, after sundown, accompanied by the notary. Then he summoned Sahira. "Thou wilt clothe the Lady Virgilia in her most costly garments. Thou wilt bind jewels in her hair and hang strings of pearls about her neck. Her fingers, too, shall be laden with rings. Tell Alexis to decorate the whole house with flowers and make it beautiful for a feast." Sahira went away, wondering what new turn affairs were taking, but she did as she was bid, and at sundown in all Rome no more lovely maiden could have been found than Virgilia, in her costly robes and flashing jewels. But more beautiful than all, was the white, pure soul which no man could see. "Is it for a feast, Sahira?" asked Virgilia, looking at herself in the long metal mirror, and smiling at the reflection. Virgilia was human. "For a feast, your father said," replied the slave, leaving Virgilia in her splendor, sitting in the fast-darkening room, alone. The Senator Adrian Soderus, indeed, lost no time. He arrived at the lawyer's house just at the hour of sundown, when the heavy clouds were scattering and the sun sent shafts of golden light to turn the mists overhanging the towers and pinnacles of Rome's palaces and temples into filmy veils. It looked like a wraith-city, hung with yellow gauze. The chair stopped at the door and the noted man alighted with much difficulty, for he was very stout from too much indulgence in the good things of the world, and half-crippled with rheumatism, besides. It took two strong slaves to lift him out and support him until he sank, with a groan, on the largest and strongest seat possessed by Aurelius Lucanus. Claudia was given new life by the prospect of her daughter's marriage to one of the wealthiest men in Rome, a thing which she had tried to bring to pass some months before, but failed because of her husband's opposition. He had said that it was wicked to give so fair a maiden as Virgilia to this old and feeble man. Now, Claudia thanked the gods, the objection had been removed by Virgilia's own fault. She arrayed herself to receive the Senator with as much care as if she were going to be a guest at Caesar's table. This marriage of Virgilia's would bring her and her husband into the first rank of society, a thing for which her soul had longed for many a year. A lawyer, though a man highly honored and received at the palace, was nevertheless, considered of medium rank. The mother of a Senator took a different position. And all this had been caused merely by a chance meeting with Adrian Soderus, when he had been charmed by Virgilia's lovely face. Well, she was lovely, Claudia acknowledged, in the intervals of scolding her waiting-woman because she did not arrange the curls on her forehead to her satisfaction; no lovelier could be found in the whole province, even the emperor himself had smiled upon her one day, when she had gone with her father and mother to the palace. Emperor's smiles, however, had little value, whereas the Senator's riches were practical. Claudia greeted the ponderous guest with deepest courtesies, and soon she and the lawyer, with the notary, a little dried-up man who took snuff freely from a golden, bejeweled box, and sneezed so violently thereafter that Virgilia, sitting alone in her room, heard him and laughed outright, had arranged the whole affair. Virgilia was only a child and did not dream that in another part of the house, she was being discussed as if she were a package of merchandise, bargained over as coolly as though the affair concerned the sale of a slave. This was no unusual thing in ancient Rome. A girl was her father's property, to be disposed of as he saw fit and to his advantage. Neither Aurelius nor Claudia intended to be cruel to Virgilia. It was the custom of the times and her mother, at least, was thoroughly frightened over the fact that Virgilia had been led away by strange doctrines, taught by what she considered a very low class of persons. She actually believed that this disposal of the daughter whom she truly loved, would be in the end for her happiness. The Senator had a kind face. He would be good to Virgilia. Her father was not, however, so convinced of the right, moral right, of what they were doing. He knew that he was fully within the civil right. He felt very uncomfortable and inclined to throw the whole thing up, if it were possible. It was too late now, he feared. Claudia had set her heart on this--had been urging it for a long time. She looked brighter this evening, more like herself. Perhaps on the whole, Virgilia would not be any more unhappy in the home which this old man could give her, than she would be married to some young man whom they would choose. The Senator provided very handsomely for Virgilia, according to the legal document already drawn up by the notary, and this was finally signed by all three contracting parties and by two freedmen brought by the notary to be witnesses. Then, the little man, after many profound bows and a parting series of sneezes just outside the curtained door, went away. Martius was called and told to bring Virgilia. A feast was not unusual in the house of Aurelius, and Virgilia anticipated it with pleasure. The memory of her disobedience and daring in the morning had faded from her mind for the moment. Very gaily she took Martius' hand and walked by his side. "Thou art very beautiful to-night, sister mine," he said, with a boy's admiration for her finery. Virgilia's laugh rang out and the group waiting silently for her arrival, heard it. The Senator smiled, Claudia drew her draperies around her with a hand that trembled a little. Aurelius frowned. He wished with all his heart that he had never signed that document which bound her to this man. "It is my fine clothes," replied Virgilia. "A peacock would be nothing without his gay feathers. What is the feast to-night, Martius?" "I know not. Perhaps some friends of father's have come to eat and drink with us." The Senator rose with difficulty as the radiant girl entered, led by Martius. Amazed, Virgilia looked at her mother. "I was called," she said, and she grew very pale. Some time before, her mother had informed her that the great Senator had asked her hand, but, after a conversation with her father she had been assured that negotiations would be dropped. This man, the meaning of the decoration of the rooms with gay Autumn blossoms of yellow and purple; this was to be her betrothal and she had not been told. In a flash, it was revealed to her that it was a result of her refusal to do homage to the gods that morning. Very well, she would suffer the consequences bravely. But, in the house to which she was to go, she would never bow down to the idols, no matter what the result might be. She signed the contract, submitted to the Senator her hand, and sat by his side at the table, decorated his head with the marriage garland and received from him another wreath of fine white orange-blooms. Her father saw, with sorrow, that her face was deathly white. There was eating and drinking and merriment, in which Virgilia, in spite of her sadness, tried to join. It did not occur to her to protest or question her father's judgment. A daughter must accept the husband chosen for her; but she wished with all her heart that it might have been Marcus, the son of Octavia, who was sitting by her side, wearing the bridal garland, rather than this feeble old man. Yet, even the thought was disloyal and unmaidenly. She dismissed it. The merriment was at its height, and Aurelius began to feel that Virgilia would not suffer much from this necessary solution of a difficult problem, when the curtain of Persian silk at the door was suddenly torn aside and the Old One entered. Very slowly, leaning on her staff, bowed half over, and with white hair streaming down to her shoulders, she approached the table. Claudia screamed when she saw her and the Senator trembled. People were very superstitious in those days, and the Old One was known to be a prophetess. Aurelius left his place. "What dost thou desire, Mother?" he asked. She lifted to him eyes filled with a strange light. The gray mantle she wore fell away from her skinny arm as she raised it high. "Woe! woe to the house of Lucanus!" she cried shrilly. "Your feasting shall be turned into sorrow, your rejoicing shall be changed into mourning and the voice of weeping shall be heard, a mother weeping for her daughter, a father bemoaning the loss of his children, a bridegroom grieving over a lost bride. Woe! Woe!" Virgilia and her mother were clinging to each other. The Senator was pallid and shaking with fear. "Woe! woe to the house of Lucanus!" wailed the aged woman, and would have fallen if Martius had not caught her in his strong arms. The slaves, frightened, had gathered in the doorway. At a sign from Aurelius, they carried her away, while Sahira tried to assist Virgilia to calm her mother. "She is very aged," explained the lawyer. "She must be crazy," energetically remarked the Senator, demanding his chair. When he had gone away, and Claudia was in bed, with Virgilia, by her side, the lawyer sat a long time in his little room and thought. What was this woe that the Old One had prophesied for him and his household? As the light of a rosy dawn bathed the world in the beauty of a promised day, he arose. "She must be crazy," he said, repeating the Senator's words. But he did not forget. VI. THE FEAST OF THE GRAPES. Sunshine and laughter came after clouds and sadness. It was natural that the effects of the Old One's strange words should pass away and be almost forgotten, except by the lawyer, who feared disaster. He did what for him was a novel thing. He made an offering to Jupiter. After all, there might be something in this worship of the gods; it was safer to be on the right side. It was a gift of money that he made, a large gift, for Lucanus was prosperous and received many sesterces of gold from the imperial treasury, besides having a lucrative practice. Being so large a gift, he decided to present it in person and get full credit for his piety and devotion to the gods. So, on a morning, a week later, accompanied by Alexis, the Greek slave, who followed Christus--though this was not known--he went to the main door of the temple in the Forum and boldly asked for the Lycidon, chief priest of Jupiter. "Wait thou here," he commanded, and Alexis seated himself on the steps, watching the busy crowds passing by. It was a feast-day, and a white bull, hung with flowers was being led through the Sacred Way to a shrine where the people would worship him as possessing the spirit of a great god. Everything was a god to the Romans, even trees and animals were possessed of spirit. Alexis looked at the bull and the procession of priests following it; at the dancing girls and the motley crowd of men and women. He prayed to Almighty God that he might show these poor deluded beings the better way to Eternal Life. The tall superior was more gracious to the lawyer who brought rich gifts than he had been to the slave Alyrus. When he learned the name of the donor, he was still more suave and his eyes were very keen. "Thy name shall go down to all generations as a faithful follower of the gods," he said, laying aside the golden chalice and purse of gold pieces. "In these days when Rome is filled with new doctrines and heretics are found on every side, it is cheering to know that the learned lawyer Aurelius Lucanus gives richly to the gods." But when Lucanus had gone away, flattered, yet relieved to get out of those dismal corridors into the brilliant October sunshine, the priest smiled, a cruel smile of one who meditates evil. Alexis rose from his seat on the steps and followed his master to his office. Claudia, in the excitement of preparing a handsome outfit for Virgilia, forgot the Old One's words entirely and recovered her health marvellously. She was very affectionate to Virgilia and her offense was no more mentioned, nor was she required to worship the gods. Her mother left this fever to run its course and be healed by new scenes and costly jewels. Even Virgilia, herself, grew interested in the preparations for her departure to her husband's house, which had been fixed for a day in November, when the religious ceremony should take place. There were cedar chests to be filled with piles of linen, woven by the slaves. One very handsome oak marriage chest was full of silks and gauzes of much price, brought on the ships which sailed up the Tiber from the port of Ostia, on their return from Egypt. A copper box held jewels, set in Etruscan gold, exquisitely chased by the cunning hands of workers in the Way of the Goldsmiths. There were opals, shimmering in the sunrays, alive with inner fires of flame-color. There were diamonds, half-cut, and pearls found in the Ganges, with emeralds and sapphires, rubies and garnets, many of them gifts from friends to whom announcements of the betrothal had been sent on ivory tablets engraved in blue. Claudia lifted out the diadem which the emperor, himself, had caused to be brought to their door by a train of slaves, thus calling attention to their high social standing in the eyes of all the neighbors. When the Senator gave Virgilia a necklace of diamonds to match those in the diadem sent by Caesar, Claudia felt that her cup was full of happiness. Even Virgilia was pleased and for the moment, being young and fond of pretty things, forgot that the Christian maiden should be unadorned save by her own modesty. Martius was the gravest of the family. Now that Virgilia was so occupied that she could not go to the meetings of the Christians, although this had always been difficult for her, he went alone, or joined Hermione and Marcus. From them and other Christians he heard news which greatly alarmed him. There were rumors of an uprising against the followers of Christ. It was said that the priests of Jupiter were arousing the senators and even the emperor to a sense of the danger in which the government would find itself if these heretics were allowed to increase as they were doing at the present time. The Senator Adrian Soderus, who visited the lawyer and his wife frequently and in view of the coming marriage was permitted to see Virgilia, confirmed the news, entirely unaware of the fact that both his betrothed and her brother Martius belonged to the despised people. "They multiply like rats," he said, sipping from a silver goblet the sweet orange juice Sahira prepared. "And like rats they live in holes in the ground. There they hold their wicked meetings and form their impious designs. They are a menace to Rome and must be destroyed." "Ought I to tell him?" Virgilia asked her brother after one of these conversations. "How do I know, dearest? It is for father to speak, and he does not. I fear--I fear. Yet, if thou art once married to him, he is bound to protect thee. Thou wilt surely be safe." "But thou--and Hermione--and--Marcus?" "God is all-powerful. We are in his hands." There came the messenger from the Lady Octavia bearing a pearl anklet as a wedding gift to Virgilia with many greetings and good wishes. And if it were possible, would they all come "to celebrate the Feast of the Grapes, in five days?" "I will not go," said Claudia. "The Lady Octavia is not to my liking." "Nor I," added Aurelius, "but we must not be discourteous, she is a good client. It will be an enjoyable feast in this fine weather. Virgilia's cheeks are too pale. She and Martius shall go." On the day of the Feast, Virgilia was glad to go out into the fresh air, to leave the seamstresses busy sewing in the inner courtyard. They were embroidering fine garments of silk so soft that it could be drawn through a ring. They were hemming and drawing threads, draping and cutting the rich material from Tyre which was to form part of Virgilia's wedding outfit. The young girl was sad on this beautiful October day when the air was spicy with the whiffs of ripe grapes and pomegranates in the gardens and vineyards. She was thinking of what it would mean to go away from her home, to leave her parents and Martius, to take up another life, and be obedient to the old Senator, who, kind and indulgent as he might be, was, nevertheless, little more than her master, or she, little better than one of her own slaves. Not once, however, did the thought enter her mind that she was a free being, at liberty to rebel and decline this marriage so suddenly arranged for her. It was for her parents to decide what her future should be, and for her to obey. Early in the morning of the day which they were to pass in the lovely gardens of Octavia, Virgilia ascended a narrow steep staircase and went out upon the flat roof. It was like a garden up here, with trellises and vines. Some late tea-roses were in bloom. The girl broke off one and placed it in the folds of her gown. She could breathe in its sweetness. Over at one end of the roof--or terrace, as it is called--sat the Old One, making a carpet. Above her head was a gay scarlet and blue awning, to protect her from the sun, still hot, even in cool October. The slave looked up and smiled when Virgilia came near, motioning to a pile of cushions. "Ever busy, Mother?" said the young girl, examining the work. The rug was very handsome. It had five borders wrought in dull blues, white and yellow, covered with conventional designs, and the centre was exquisite, a white ground on which loose flowers were thrown negligently, carelessly, without regular form, yet the whole was perfect. "It is almost finished, my child, and when it is done, it shall be for thee, to adorn thy home." "For me?" "My wedding gift to thee. On the day that thou wast born, I began it, and all through these seventeen years I have worked at it, thinking that on the day when thou shouldst go away to thy husband, the rug would go with thy household goods to remind thee of the aged woman whose gnarled and withered hands wrought it for thee." "I shall ever hold it precious." Virgilia sank down on the cushions, listlessly. Far away she could see the blue lines of mountains, bordering the fields where Lucius the Water-Carrier lived, where were the marvellous tombs of the great on the Appian Way; where stately homes bordered the fashionable Ostian Way, and where were the Catacombs where the Christians buried their dead and gathered for worship. She looked with some curiosity at the placid, gentle face of the old woman. That night, when she had burst in upon the betrothal feast with her dire prophecies, she had been transformed, a creature of whom they were afraid. Had she been conscious of what she said then? Virgilia thought not. "Mother," she said, "thy many years of life have brought to thee wisdom. Should one tell everything to one's husband? Even when it may be dangerous?" The Old One held a yellow thread suspended from her ivory hook and looked keenly at Virgilia. "Thou hast a secret, my child?" "Yes, mother." "One of which thou art ashamed?" "No, no. But it involves others." The bricks were sprinkled with sand. Virgilia stopped and drew a fish in the sand. She had for some time suspected that the Old One was a Christian. If she were, she would recognize the symbol of Christ, the "Icthus." If she were not, it would do no harm. "And thou, too, art a little fish," murmured the Old One. "Thanks be to His holy name, when the Lord Christ was born, I was a Princess in the court of Herod, the King, who was sore afraid, because it was told him that a new King had come to reign over Israel. The angels sang at His birth and the kings from the East brought presents of frankincense and myrrh. I fell into the hands of the Romans, and here I am, a slave. But it was a plan of God. In Rome, I learned to know Christ." "Virgilia! Virgilia!" Martius called. "It is time to go. Hurry! The chair is at the door." "If the time comes when for conscience' sake thou must disclose that thou art a follower of Christ, do so. If not, keep silence and worship Him in thine heart lest evil come upon the thousands who love Him," said the Old One. Her eyes grew filmy and she stretched out her hands, tremblingly. "I see--I see--a shadow of death--approaching. But in the shadow--shines the face--of our--Risen Lord." "Mother, Mother!" said Virgilia, alarmed. "Was I speaking? What did I say? This work must be finished soon, for the marriage." "Virgilia!" came Martius' peremptory summons. "Yes, I am coming." Stopping only to call Sahira to bring the Old One a refreshing drink, Virgilia veiled herself, entered her chair, and with Martius walking by her side, was borne out of the city gate guarded by men in full uniform, armed with staves and knives, and through the road leading to the Lady Octavia's house. What a day that was! The vines, festooned gracefully between dwarf mulberry trees, were loaded with huge bunches of purple and white grapes. The men and women slaves were gathering them and heaping them up in baskets. The red juice escaped and ran in streams over the yellow earth. Laughing and merry the four young people passed among the servants eating grapes to their heart's content, telling stories of other days, leaving the future to unfold for itself. They did not try to foresee it. At noon, they went to the cool, shady room overlooking the garden and ate the cold meats and fresh green salad, luscious fruit and white goat's cheese, finishing the meal with sweet cakes and a delicious drink made from the fresh juice of the grapes just gathered. Before they ate, the freedmen stood, respectfully waiting, while Octavia, in a low voice, offered a prayer of thanksgiving for the food so bountifully provided. Only a small part of the servants, formerly slaves, were Christians, and Octavia had often been warned that her life and that of her children was in danger through her open defiance of the priests and declaration of her own Christian faith. "I trust in God," was all that she would say. In her house were no gods, no images. Flowers there were, in abundance, the rooms were bowers of beauty, the table, with its spotless cloth of fine white linen, bore silver vases filled with roses and autumn blossoms, but there were no shrines and no statutes. On this Feast of the Grapes around Rome Bacchus was worshipped and much wine was drunk, until the people lost their senses and became brutes. In Octavia's home, the feast was observed with games and songs and merriment, but all was done decently and in order. It was because her views were not theirs that many of the friends who had visited them when the Senator was alive--now refused to associate with the Lady Octavia, although they could not openly ignore her on account of her great wealth. It drew toward evening. The days were still long, and Martius planned to return home by moonlight. At seven o'clock, they were eating supper in an arbor at the side of the Villa. The big, round moon was rising over the Alban Hills, soon it would be a great lamp in the sky. All over the Campagna the Feast of the Grapes had been celebrated that day. The sounds of boisterous laughter, of loud singing, came to their ears from the crowds who were passing outside the high walls surrounding the entire estate. "There is more noise than usual," remarked Octavia. The sounds had changed. They grew menacing. People were quarreling with each other. "It is nothing," replied Marcus. "Always on this Feast, there is much drunkenness and revelry." But his mother was uneasy. "It is wiser for thee to return home at once, Martius," she said. "I will carry thy chair, Virgilia. The bearers have been resting long." "I have a strong stick," Martius said, laughing, "and Alexis is armed. We can easily protect Virgilia." "Is it not better for you to remain here," suggested Marcus. "We will send a messenger to thy father." "Nonsense. There is no danger. But it is wiser that we should start at once. Later, there will be thousands returning home." At that moment, the porter from the gate came running toward the arbor. He was, plainly, very much excited. With him was a man of dark swarthy skin, and a scar across his forehead. "Thou, Alyrus?" exclaimed Martius, surprised to see the Moor here. "I have a message for you, my young master." Martius failed to observe the bitterness in which he spoke the last words, or the glow of his dark eyes, resting by turns on each member of the group. "You and the Lady Virgilia are to return home at once. Your father desired me to tell you that the people are enraged at an insult offered by some Christians to one of the holy gods." "Go, go!" said Octavia. Martius stopped a moment to speak to Hermione, while Marcus assisted Virgilia into her chair. "Is it safe for thee?" he asked. "We cannot tell what may happen." She smiled at him. "God is with us, Martius, my friend." "I would that I had thy great faith, Hermione. We part but to meet again." "If God will?" The chair, carried by four men, passed out of the iron gate, which swung shut behind them. The heavy bolts were shot quickly into place by the frightened porter. Riots were not unknown in Rome, but riots which were against Christians were very serious matters. If glances full of meaning were exchanged between Alyrus and the bearers, neither Martius nor Alexis noticed them. The crowd in front of Octavia's gate was now very menacing. The men were throwing stones over the wall and crying: "Down with the Christians!" "Way! Way for the daughter of Aurelius Lucanus, worshipper of the gods," cried Alyrus, and the crowd parted to let them through. VII. ENTER, LYCIAS, THE GLADIATOR. Lidia, the scullery maid, stole out of the back door of her master's house. Bare-foot she was and her black hair streamed out behind her as she ran swiftly through the streets of Rome. Few noticed her, for the people were still excited from the doings of the night before. Groups stood at the places where roads crossed, or in the shadows of the columns and discussed what had occurred. When such important matters as the arrest of a few hundreds of Christians were concerned, the little maid with frightened eyes and ragged clothes was not of any moment. "It is the priests who stirred up this trouble," said one man looking up at the grim grayish-white walls of Jupiter's temple. "I am no follower of Christus, but I employed a man who was, and he was ever industrious and sober. They are not such a bad lot. It is a pity--" "Whist!" exclaimed another man. "Speak not so loud. Even the walls of yonder temple have ears. They say that there are speaking tubes hidden in every room so that the Superior may know just what goes on. I'll tell you the one thing, my friend, if the priests are in it there's gold somewhere. They don't do things for nothing." "That they do not. Didst hear that the splendid villa of Octavia, widow of Aureus Cantus, the Senator, was raided by a mob last night? The freedmen are scattered or seized again as slaves and the family, the lady and two children have entirely disappeared. Her home and all its treasures have already been confiscated, as belonging to a traitor and I'll venture that the priests in yonder get a good share of the wealth." "She was an honorable woman. It is a shame." "Shame, yes, but it pleases the people and gratifies the priests, two things very essential to him who sits upon the throne." "Dost think--" "Aye, I think much that I do not say. Hundreds of Christians have been herded into the prisons, the uprising of the multitude yesterday was but part of the game. It was all planned. They say, too, that a dark man, with great gold rings in his ears and a scar on his face, has been tracking these Christians for weeks. No doubt he was an emissary of the priests." "I have seen him myself. There he goes, now." Alyrus walked through the crowd like a king, as if he expected them to bow before him. "I've seen him before," said the first man. "Where was it? I remember now. It was he who sat in the ante-chamber of Aurelius Lucanus' office. He is his slave." "And is the honorable lawyer mixed up in this business?" "Who knows? One thing is certain. The people will be amused and forget the cruelties of the Emperor, for there will be a grand show in the amphitheatre, far grander than any gladiatorial show." "Thou meanest--" "That these Christians must be disposed of, or they will rebel. The lions are even now growling in the underground cages." Lidia sped on, though her feet grew very weary before she reached the cave where Lucius dwelt. He was standing in front of it, blowing into a flame some charcoal in a small iron brazier. She approached him unseen. He looked up, startled when he heard her calling him. "Ah, Lidia, is it thou? Hast come to have supper with thy father? Thou art welcome. There is a tender kid roasted and I have gathered some fresh greens in the field. I will make thee a salad." "Please do, dear father. I am very weary and have tasted no food since morning." Sitting down on the grass, they gave thanks and ate. The shepherd gave her a large plantain leaf for a plate. Their food was such as Jacob ate in days of old, long before Rome was built. "Thou art very weary, my child." "And heart-sick. Thou hast not been in the city for two days." "No. The rains have been so heavy that the sprinkling from my sheepskin bag was not needed. So I stayed here to care for the herds." "Then thou dost not know what has happened. Father, my master and the Lady Claudia are in deep distress. Martius and the Lady Virgilia went to visit the widow of Cantus outside the gate, on the day when the Feast of the Grapes was celebrated. They have never returned. Nor has Alyrus, who was sent on an errand by Aurelius that afternoon, nor Alexis, the Greek. Not one has come back to tell of their fate. This morning, Sahira, my Lady Claudia's waiting-maid disappeared and the mistress lies there moaning and crying. It is pitiful. Everyone is in disorder of spirit. I, even though I am but a scullery-maid, did creep into my Lady's room and put cold cloths on her head and fanned her face. No one else thought of her. The servants go here and there, without a head; the whole house is in confusion. Some of the slaves have already run away. It is rumored, father, that many Christians have been arrested. No doubt Martius and Virgilia are among them." "But thou?" "I am safe. Who cares for so humble a person as I? The Old One is very ill. I think she is going to die. No one cares for her but me. But I am safe. No one notices me, for I am little and ugly, thank God. I soothe the Old One, who moans and cries: 'Woe. Woe! to this household,' I must go back now. It is but four and twenty hours, father, since the home of Aurelius was full of joy and gladness. Now it is desolate." The shepherd rose and picked up his staff. "Lidia, it is Alyrus who has wrought all this. He and the priests of Jupiter. I will seek out Lycias, the gladiator. He will know what to do." A warm red shone in Lidia's thin, sallow cheeks. "Thou wilt greet him from me, father?" He nodded, and walked rapidly away, while Lidia, taking another path, ran toward the gates of Rome. Inside the walls, she almost collided with Alyrus, the Moor, who strode by not recognizing her. Slipping along in the shadows, she followed him eagerly, as intently as her father would have done, through the streets, into the Forum to the Temple of Jupiter, and saw him enter the side door. Then she hastened back to her duties, going into the house which was very still and deserted. Only a few of the many slaves owned by Aurelius the lawyer, remained to guard his interests. When the displeasure of an emperor falls on a man, it means disaster. She looked in at her mistress' door and found her sleeping, moaning as she slept. She went to the servant's quarters. On her humble couch lay the Old One, who had been a Princess in the court of Herod sixty years before, beautiful, admired. Her face was very quiet and the expression was sweet. Death had touched her lightly when he bore her into the presence of the Lord whom she had loved. The finished rug which she had made for Virgilia's wedding present lay under the scarlet and white awning on the Terrace. Alyrus had come into his reward. He was free, and Sahira his daughter was free, a purse of gold was in his hand and a ship lay waiting in the harbor, to carry them away to their home by the desert. Alyrus was not ready to go, yet. He wanted first to see all the amusement which there would be in Rome. He could not miss the climax of what he had intrigued for. He knew nothing of that Judas who had sold his Lord for thirty pieces of silver, or he might have likened himself to this traitor. No, he would not leave until the games were over. The scheme had worked well. There had not been the slightest hitch from the moment that they left the gate of Octavia's villa, until the bearers, who were in the plot, carried Virgilia into the Temple of Jupiter, and Martius and Alexis, little noticed in the unusual excitement stirred up by the priests, were easily overpowered and cast into one of the lowest dungeons. Yes, it had been most successful. Alyrus returned to the temple now to see Sahira who was in charge of the holy women and sallied forth again to sit in one of the shops and drink a glass of grape juice. He was a thoroughly temperate man, knowing that wine muddles the brain and perverts the judgment. It was now late in the evening. Proclamations were already on the walls announcing that on the fourth day, there would be grand games in the Circus. Gladiatorial contests would be the first thing on the program, followed by the lions and Christians. The learned ones were reading this notice aloud to the ignorant and the women, and all seemed to be much pleased. Alyrus sat down and ordered his cup of fresh grape juice, with snow from Mt. Hermon to cool it in. As he sipped it, he saw the great gladiator, Lycias, come into the circle of light from the flaring torches, but he did not perceive the shepherd, who remained outside, in the shadow. Now, Lycias was a great man in the eyes of the Romans. He had been a poor boy, but by reason of his strength had risen to be the first gladiator. He and Lidia the kitchen-maid, had grown up together in the cave of Lucius, for Lycias had been found, a tiny baby, lying at the door of the sheepfold. For the love and care bestowed upon him, Lycias had always been grateful. Therefore, at the request of Lucius, was he here. At the entrance of the famous gladiator, a shout arose from the men seated at the small tables. "Hail, Lycias! Hail, Lycias!" came from every side. The tall man bowed to one friend and then another, smiled and walked through the room, seeking a place to sit. With a smile, he declined proffered seats with groups of men, and finally took a place near Alyrus, the Moor. "If it does not inconvenience you," he said. "Not in the least," replied Alyrus, flattered at the attention thus drawn to him. The gladiator laid aside his silver helmet, unloosed his short sword and ordered light refreshment from the proprietor who came himself to serve so noted a guest. Had some great philosopher entered, he would have been greeted with respect but would not have aroused anything like so much interest or enthusiasm as did the victorious gladiator. Even the boys in the streets knew his name and tried to imitate him. For some time, while he had satisfied a very hearty appetite, Lycias did not open a conversation, and Alyrus, a little awed, had hesitated to speak. Apparently for the first time, the gladiator examined the Moor's face. Springing to his feet, he saluted in a military fashion. "Your pardon, my lord, I knew not that I had ventured to presume upon the kindness of Claudius Auranus, governor of Carthage." Alyrus stammered. "Be seated, sir, I--I am not his excellency the governor of Carthage. I am a much humbler man, a chieftain of Tripoli." "Ah! I knew that you were some distinguished person, from your bearing and dress." When Alyrus smiled, he was uglier than ever. "A brute!" muttered Lycias, under his breath. Then aloud: "Are you on some mission to the Emperor?" "Ahem. Not so. But very high in the secrets of the chief priest of Jupiter." "One might call him the power behind the throne." "Thou hast said truly." "And it is really true that thou art admitted to those holy precincts?" "Behold!" Alyrus drew from the folds of his garment the bronze lizard. "Not only does this admit me to the temple itself but to any place in the city of Rome. Thou seest. It is the symbol of the priests of Jupiter." "I see," Lycias' eyes gleamed, as he watched Alyrus placing the precious symbol in a safe place. Then, Alyrus, intoxicated by the events of the past few moments, by his sudden transition from slavery to freedom, at the prospect opening before him of a speedy return to the home he loved, flattered at the homage shown him by the gladiator, poured out the whole story into ears only too willing to hear. He narrated everything except that he had been a slave, representing himself as a client of Aurelius Lucanus, who had been grievously wronged by him. He told how he had discovered, one day in the public Forum, that the son and daughter of the lawyer were Christians, and Aurelius sympathized with them; how, by the chief priest's desire, he had assisted in tracking many more of the despised sect, of whom several hundred were now languishing in prison, among them, Octavia the widow of the proud Senator Aureus Cantus, and her son and daughter. Lycias passed his big hand over his smoothly shaven face to hide his expression of disgust. He rose. "If you permit, honored sir, I will now retire, with the hope that we shall meet again." "Willingly will I continue the conversation. Perhaps--" Alyrus was swelling with importance, "it would interest you to visit the prisons and see these Christians before they are thrown into the arena. I understand that you are first on the program." "Yes. I had thought of asking such a privilege as a visit to these prisoners. By the way, where is the daughter of Aurelius?" Alyrus shot a keen glance at him, but the face of Lycias was guileless as that of a child. "She is well guarded. I can tell you that, and her brother Martius, with Alexis the Greek slave--who ever looked down upon me," he added, unguardedly, continuing in haste, as he perceived his mistake, "I should have said, who was impertinent to me one day, lie in a dungeon far in the earth below the temple. From there, is a private underground passageway to the Circus. They will never see the light of day again." "A faithless friend, a bitter enemy," was Lycias' thought as striding forth from the room, he joined Lucius. "It is worse than I feared," Lucius said. "There is little hope." "We shall see," responded the gladiator, thoughtfully. "Art thou willing to take great risks to save the son and daughter of Aurelius?" "For the sake of Lidia, who loves them, I am." "Await my instructions, then," and they parted. The next afternoon, Alyrus let Lycias through the dark prisons in which the Christians were herded like beasts. The guards opened every door at the sight of the symbol of priestly authority, the bronze lizard. Lycias, brave and strong man, grew sick at the dreadful suffering of delicate women, frail young girls accustomed to luxury, who were so suddenly thrown into surroundings and as they had never dreamed of. All because of their faith? Lycias began to wonder what the power was which enabled these feeble creatures to face death with calmness and courage. "There must be something in this religion of Jesus Christ which makes them forget themselves," he thought. "I will ask Lidia to tell me the secret." In one corner of a dark, damp cell, several persons were kneeling in prayer. The voice of an old man could be heard, petitioning God, for Christ's sake, to lead them through this valley of the shadow of death and bring them to the holy city in its beauty and into the presence of their Lord and Master. "There, that is Virgilia, the fair one, yonder, with face upraised," said Alyrus. Lycias took a long look at the young girl, so that he would know her again. "Next to her is Hermione, and Octavia, widow of Aureus Cantus and her son. All three are there!" The laugh of the Moor was hideous in its coarseness. The young girls shivered and drew closer to Octavia. "Fear not," Octavia whispered, smiling at them. God had given her great courage. It was on this day that Alyrus, growing more confidential, told Lycias of the vessel lying in the River Tiber, ready to set sail as soon as he and Sahira went on board. "I have only to show them the symbol," he quoted, "and the sailors and officers are subject to my orders." That evening, the gladiator went to the cave, and finding Lidia with her father, ate the supper of coarse bread and goat's cheese with them. "Thou art accounted of much wisdom," he said to Lidia, "thy little head hath been ever steady on thy shoulders. Tell us what to do." "I am only a kitchen-maid," Lidia replied, blushing at the compliment, "but I should think that we might do thus." And a plan was made to their satisfaction, a very difficult plan involving great danger for all of them, perhaps death to Lycias and Lucius. It hung to a large degree on one thing which seemed to be unattainable. "With God, all things are possible," said wise little Lidia. "Let us pray," said the shepherd, and he and Lidia fell upon their knees on the grass in front of the cave, where even now in late Autumn, some tiny pink-tipped daisies were blooming. After a moment's hesitation, Lycias, who had never knelt to any but heathen gods, bent his knee also and uncovered his head in the presence of the unseen but powerful Ruler of the Universe. He and Lidia walked back to Rome together. As they parted, the big gladiator looked down into her earnest little face, with the clear, honest eyes. "I should like to learn about Christ," he said. "I will teach thee, Lycias, though I am but a weak follower of my Master." The next day, the one before the games were to take place in the Circus, two things happened. Alyrus, met again by Lycias, took him to the marble quarry by the Tiber, where, on the slowly flowing river, were moored great ships. There was a veritable forest of masts, cut from the strong cedars of Lebanon, and the groves of Mt. Hermon. "That is my ship, yonder," he said. As they emerged from the wharf, Alyrus was suddenly jostled by a rough-looking shepherd. Lycias caught the Moor in his arms to prevent his falling. The draperies Alyrus wore were disarranged and a small object fell, unnoticed by him, to the ground. Lycias placed his big, sandaled foot over this object. "Dog of a shepherd!" raved Alyrus, running after the man. Lycias stooped, picked up the small object and thrust it into his gown and soon reached the Moor by a few long strides. "Let him go!" he advised. "See, he is already almost out of sight." VIII. THE SYMBOL OF THE LIZARD. The games in the amphitheatre on this, the first day of November attracted an unusual number of persons. The emperor was there, with all his court, and the Vestals honored the games with their presence. Alyrus sat in a prominent place, with Sahira, former slave of Aurelius Lucanus and maid to Claudia, beside him. The dark-faced girl attracted much attention, so great was her beauty. Freed by special decree of Caesar, at the request of Lycidon, the priest, she had, by her father's desire been dressed like a fashionable girl of the period. "Dost see them coming?" asked Alyrus, eagerly. "Thine eyes are younger than mine. Dost see them yet?" "No, father. It is only the gladiators. Ah! that Lycias is a king among men! how strong! how noble!" A shade passed over the face of Alyrus the Moor. "Yes. A fine youth, yet--I wish that I had not lost that bronze lizard, Sahira. It bodes misfortune. Rome is not a safe place for us, in spite of the favor of Lycidon. We must go as soon as the games are over. Could it be possible that Lycias--" "Look, father, see Lycias, the conqueror. The emperor smiles upon him; a lady has thrown him a jewel. He bows. He is gone. How proud he must be!" "And now, they will come! See, yonder, Sahira, that group of white-robed men and women. Ha! hear the wild beasts, how they growl in their cages, pawing the bars, pleading to be let loose." Alyrus, wild with gratified hatred, his face as evil as that of a demon, leaned far over that he might lose nothing of the pitiful drama about to be enacted in the arena. The Christians came forward slowly, the women clinging together in their physical weakness, though their souls were strong in the strength of their faith. There was Octavia, leading Hermione and Virgilia. The widow's face was bright with a great light. There was Martius almost blinded by the contrast between the terrible darkness of the dungeon beneath Jupiter's temple, where he had spent four days and nights of misery, frantic when he thought of Virgilia and what her fate might be. He and Alexis had only a half hour before been brought through the underground passage-way to the cells where the Christians were waiting. He and Virgilia met here, on the sanded arena, where thousands of persons were gazing at them. Martius stepped to his sister's side, and put his arm around her. He stretched out his hand to clasp that of Hermione. "We shall meet again, yonder," he whispered, glancing upward. Now, just as they were being pushed into the arena, a strange thing had happened. A tall man, whom Martius had not recognized as Lycias, the gladiator, approached him and said: "In the arena, I will be near you, standing by one of the gates. If you can be calm enough in the moment of excitement, note where I am. When I give the signal, take your sister in your arms and follow me." He had said the same to Marcus, telling him to assist Octavia and Hermione and bear them forth. "Fear not," the stranger had said. "If your God has power, he will save you all out of the lion's mouth." Opening from the arena were several iron gates. Some of these served as entrances to the prisons or cells, where the Christians had been kept until the moment when they were commanded to come forth and perform their part in amusing the wicked emperor and his impious people. Others, four in number, were the entrances to passageways leading to the open air. There were used by the gladiators and by the employees whose duty it was to arrange the "scenery." Each gate was guarded, in the arena and at the outer exit, by a soldier, well armed. It was by one of these open gates that Martius and Marcus obeying the words of the gladiator, eager to seize any chance of escape, kept the women. The shouts of the multitude arose. "The Christians! The Christians! To the lions!" It was then that Alyrus shrank back and a deadly fear seized him. What had he done? What had he done? He remembered past kindnesses. He remembered how Sahira had been saved from a life of sorrow and shame by Aurelius Lucanus. How had he repaid him? By treachery and evil. For the first time in his life, Alyrus was conscious of sin. The Christian's God! Who was He? Could he avenge? A horrible coldness enveloped him. He could not move. Then he knew nothing more. But Sahira, not noticing that her father was ill, was looking down at the white group, now kneeling on the ground, while the white-haired elder prayed, with arms up-raised. There was another shout. Martius who had never felt cooler in his life, saw Lycias and touched Marcus on the arm. "Come," he said. "We are not far from the entrance. Quick!" Martius seized Virgilia in his arms; Marcus led his mother and Hermione. It was but a step, a moment and they were by the side of Lycias. Hermione was fainting. The gladiator lifted her as easily as if she were a child. "Follow me," said Lycias, striding before them. Dazed, scarcely knowing where they were or what they were doing, the women, clinging to the men; walked along the narrow way. In the circus, there were more shouts and cries. Hermione trembled in the strong arms of Lycias. He soothed her gently. "Pray to your God," he said, "that He may bring us safely through." "Who are you?" "I am Lycias, a friend of Christians, and I, too would learn of the faith." One great danger lay before them. It was the guard at the outer doorway, which opened on the street. He opposed their exit. "No one passes here," he said. "No one except me and my friends," responded the gladiator, boldly. "Dare you say to Lycias that he may not pass?" The soldier's face relaxed, but still he stood in the path. "To-day, I have specially strict orders lest some of the Christians escape. For my part, I would willingly let some of those poor creatures flee, but I value my head." "Perhaps thou wilt not gainsay me when thou seest my pass." Lycias held up the bronze lizard. Really, the big gladiator himself doubted the power of this symbol. He began to fear that they would all be forced back into the arena, which was sure death, not only for those whom he wished to save, but for himself, also. He would receive no mercy, even though he had been the idol of the people but an hour before and the air had rung with his praises. It would count him little, if he were caught helping the victims to escape. The soldier looked at him with staring eyes. "The symbol of the chief-priest," he whispered. "In the name of Jupiter, go by in peace, and may his wrath not fall upon me and mine." A few paces more, and the light of air of the blessed day bathed them in warmth and gave them courage. The gladiator set Hermione on her feet and wiped his dripping forehead. "Barely escaped," he muttered. No one was in this part of the street by the amphitheatre. All the interest was in the interior. So great had been the number of Christians that Octavia and the others in this little group had not been missed. Where they were going, they knew not; but that, for the moment, they were safe, they all thankfully realized and that they owed it to this big stranger with the honest face. "Let us, for one moment, thank God for our deliverance," said Octavia. Not daring to kneel, they turned their faces toward Heaven while Octavia breathed forth a fervent prayer. "We must hurry," said Lycias, leading the way to the Forum, to-day deserted for the greater amusements of the games, in which the Christians were the chief attraction. It was a long, hard walk to the marble wharf where the ship lay on which Alyrus and his daughter were soon to set sail, as Lycias well knew. His great fear was lest the Moor might have decided to go earlier and not wait for the conclusion of the games. Suppose they arrived at the wharf and found the ship gone? What should they do? Lycias' brain studied this problem. All these people were homeless, except the shepherd. Ah! that was it! If the ship had sailed, he would take these delicately nurtured women to the cave on the Campagna. It grew necessary for the men to help the women, who were very weary and weak from excitement; although Lycias did not wish to call any more attention to them than was necessary, for fear that the ladies, especially Octavia, who was well known, might be recognized. All the Romans had not gone to the Circus, some were sitting in the eating-places, and women were knitting in the doorways. Fortunately, it was getting toward evening, but that would be a signal for the thousands to leave the amphitheatre and scatter to their homes. There was need for haste. They approached the shores of the Tiber, turned into gold by the sunlight from the setting sun. The masts were visible now. Lycias gave a sigh of satisfaction as he saw, sitting on a grassy bank a man and a woman, who was heavily veiled. Standing beside them was a slender girl. It was Lidia, the daughter of the shepherd, who sprang forward and put her arms around her father's neck, while great tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks. "At last! at last! thou art come. Thanks be to our God." It had not been a difficult matter for the little scullery-maid to persuade the lawyer to venture upon a scheme as bold as it was doubtful in its outcome. Aurelius Lucanus was a broken man. He had lost his children. He had not known how dear they were to him until they disappeared. What mattered it if they were followers of Christians, members of a despised sect? They were his own, and he loved them. His business was ruined, his home deserted, the emperor no longer looked on him with favor. All was gone. In the room near by, Claudia lay weeping. She, too, was broken-hearted. Her daughter, her ambitions, all those things which formed her life had vanished as suddenly as the dew dries upon the green grass in midsummer. The lawyer was sitting in the garden. Bright yellow and scarlet dahlias bloomed around him; plumy lavender and rose colored asters nodded cheerfully in the chill breeze of this first of November. The water in the fountain rippled as musically as in those happy days, now gone. That morning early, Aurelius had gone again to the Senator Adrian Soderus, to whom Virgilia had so cruelly been betrothed. It was a sign that no longer was the lawyer held in high esteem, when he was kept waiting in the outer chamber, and a message was brought him by a young slave that the Senator could no longer receive him. He would have no dealings with the parents of Christians. Then he, too, knew their disgrace. It must have been noised--abroad in the city. Aurelius hurried home and sitting down where Claudia had rested, looking so beautiful, on her return from the amphitheatre on the Spring day which seemed so long ago, he buried his face in his hands. An awful fear haunted him. To-day had been fixed for the games. Could it be possible that Virgilia, so fair, so delicate, shielded all her life from the rough and hard things, protected and loved, was among those Christians whom Caesar had, in his cruelty, doomed to death? And Martius, where was he? He felt a light touch on his shoulder and looked up with dull eyes, clouded with misery and loneliness, into the dark, sallow face of the kitchen-maid, whom he had never noticed before until he saw her tenderly ministering to his wife. In a few concise sentences, she told him all. Virgilia and Martius were to be sacrificed, with hundreds of other Christians that afternoon. It was known that Octavia, and her children were also condemned. Lycias, the gladiator, would try to save them. Perhaps he could succeed; there was a little hope. In any case, he would try. Aurelius and Claudia, with herself, would go to a quiet place near the marble quarry, and wait for them. If they did not come, all was lost, and there remained nothing but to return to this house. If they came, there was a chance of escape for them all. She told him of the ship belonging to Alyrus, his porter, now a freedman. It was he who had wrought the mischief. If possible--God only knew!--they would all sail away together. Whither, who could tell? Away from Rome, away from all this trouble and sorrow. Lidia possessed a lovely voice, thrilling sweet. As she talked, the lawyer's brain cleared. He was more himself than he had been since the children had disappeared. Now, he knew the worst. Sometimes certainty, even though bad, is better than the agony of suspense. There was a chance, and if they escaped--a thought came to him. "Thou wilt dress thy Lady." Lidia nodded. "And gather together the jewels. Bring the diadem sent by the emperor to Virgilia and the necklace, the gift of Adrian." Even in his anguish of soul, the lawyer smiled, grimly. When the Senator sent to reclaim his valuable gift, he would not find it. At least, he would have contributed that much to Virgilia's future happiness. His wealth was so great that he would not miss the game. "I will gather together all the jewels, my master, also those of the Lady Claudia, and will hide them in my bosom. No one will imagine that the kitchen-maid carries such treasures." "A quick-witted girl," muttered Aurelius, "and now for my part. If the gods please, they will escape, and we shall be happy again. If not--then we will never return to this house." It took him until noon to examine the papers in his strong-box. Three of the documents he placed in his toga. The others, he burned. It was a long and difficult matter to bring the Lady Claudia, in her weakness, to the place agreed upon. Here, they waited, while the sun, burning hot in Rome even in October, beat upon them pitilessly, for there was no shade here. The whole story had not been told Claudia, who was saved that suffering. She knew, only, that they were to set sail in a ship and leave this city where she had been so happy. She was utterly apathetic, caring nothing where they went. Losing hope, as time passed, Aurelius grew more and more silent. Even Lidia began to fear that the worst had happened. The sun sank and the vessels were shrouded in shadow. No sound was heard save the monotonous singing of a sailor, or the creaking of a sail. Then around the corner came the forlorn little group, and Lidia threw herself in her father's arms, while her eyes sought Lycias, who smiled at her. The rest was easy. The bronze lizard worked like magic. No one inquired where was the dark man with the gold rings in his ears. The vessel had been chartered and paid for by the priest of Jupiter. The orders were to sail, when the symbol was shown them. As the tide was high and the wind fresh, the sails were raised and just as the people were swarming out of the Circus, just when the Emperor in his golden chair, was being carried to his marble palace, the fugitives, scarcely knowing where they were and not caring whither they should go, sat on the deck, breathed in the cool air of life, watched the stars come out, one by one, and thanked God for delivering them out of the mouth of the lion. Day after day they sailed over a blue sea, where the waves danced and broke into froth, which in its turn, dissolved into a million jewel-points of colors as brilliant as those flashed by the diamonds in Virgilia's diadem, the gift of the emperor. Among the papers brought away by the lawyer was the deed of a small villa on the Island of Cyprus. It had belonged to his father and a revenue was received each year from the steward who cultivated the vineyard. To Cyprus, the vessel went, landing there a fortnight later, for the winds had been favorable, and they had made a quick voyage. On the broad terraces, commanding a view of the sea, with passing vessels, Claudia lay on a couch, daily gaining strength. She held Virgilia's hand as if she could never let it go, while the young girl told her of Jesus and His love, and read to her the precious letter of Paul, the Apostle, a copy of which Martius had made in the days of his exile. Here, they heard of the martyrdom of the Apostle, and his burial in the vineyard of Lucia, the Roman matron. He had "finished his course" and "kept the faith," and had gone to receive his "crown of righteousness." As the days passed, peace and happiness came to them all. The gladiator, forgetting his prowess in the arena, worked diligently in the vineyard, while Lucius guarded the flocks of sheep, grazing beneath the light-green olive-trees. And Lidia cooked for them in a small stone cottage, singing as she worked. Martius and Marcus, grown to be men, worked also, and when the labors of the day were over, sat on the terrace in the moonlight, while Hermione and Virgilia talked with them, and Claudia and Octavia smiled at their happiness. One thing, they did not know; that Alyrus, the Moor, justly punished for his misdeeds, never spoke again after the games in the Circus. He died soon afterward. Sahira, robbed of her freedom by the jealousy of a woman high in favor in the imperial court, who envied her beauty and the favor of the emperor, sank again into slavery, and as the years passed, became a drudge in the palace. When the sun crept lower to the waves of the sea, and as the darkness shrouded all nature, young and old knelt on the terrace and prayed that God would keep them safe. And Aurelius, the lawyer, with Claudia, his wife, knelt also, for there were no statues of the gods in this home set among the trailing festoons of the vineyard on the Island of Cyprus. [FINIS.] 
45666	----	A CHRISTMAS MORALITY [Illustration: Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow. _Frontispiece._] [Illustration] LITTLE PETER A Christmas Morality for Children of any Age By LUCAS MALET AUTHOR OF 'COLONEL ENDERBY'S WIFE' ETC. [Illustration] WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY PAUL HARDY LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1888 TO CECILY IN TOKEN OF AFFECTION TOWARDS HERSELF, HER MOTHER, AND HER STATELY HOME THIS LITTLE STORY IS DEDICATED BY HER OBEDIENT SERVANT LUCAS MALET CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Which deals with the opinions of a Cat, and the sorrows of a Charcoal-burner 1 II. Which introduces the Reader to an Admirer of the Ancient Romans 19 III. Which improves our acquaintance with the Grasshopper-man 36 IV. Which leaves some at Home, and takes some to Church 50 V. Which is both Social and Religious 68 VI. Which attempts to show why the Skies fall 84 VII. Which describes a pleasant Dinner Party, and an unpleasant Walk 95 VIII. Which proves that even Philosophic Politicians may have to admit themselves in the wrong 115 IX. Which is very short because, in some ways, it is rather sad 132 X. Which ends the Story 143 _ILLUSTRATIONS._ 'Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow' _Frontispiece_ 'What will happen? please tell me' _To face p._ 10 'Go to bed when you are told' " 34 'You all despise me' " 66 Going to Church " 72 Lost " 110 Waiting " 120 Found " 138 The Charcoal-burner visits Little Peter " 150 [Illustration: Little Peter.] CHAPTER I. WHICH DEALS WITH THE OPINIONS OF A CAT, AND THE SORROWS OF A CHARCOAL BURNER. The pine forest is a wonderful place. The pine-trees stand in ranks like the soldiers of some vast army, side by side, mile after mile, in companies and regiments and battalions, all clothed in a sober uniform of green and grey. But they are unlike soldiers in this, that they are of all ages and sizes; some so small that the rabbits easily jump over them in their play, and some so tall and stately that the fall of them is like the falling of a high tower. And the pine-trees are put to many different uses. They are made into masts for the gallant ships that sail out and away to distant ports across the great ocean. Others are sawn into planks, and used for the building of sheds; for the rafters and flooring, and clap-boards and woodwork of our houses; for railway-sleepers, and scaffoldings, and hoardings. Others are polished and fashioned into articles of furniture. Turpentine comes from them, which the artist uses with his colours, and the doctor in his medicines; which is used, too, in the cleaning of stuffs and in a hundred different ways. While the pine-cones, and broken branches and waste wood, make bright crackling fires by which to warm ourselves on a winter's day. But there is something more than just this I should like you to think about in connection with the pine forest; for it, like everything else that is fair and noble in nature, has a strange and precious secret of its own. You may learn the many uses of the trees in your school books, when men have cut them down or grubbed them up, or poked holes in their poor sides to let the turpentine run out. But you can only learn the secret of the forest itself by listening humbly and reverently for it to speak to you. For Nature is a very great lady, grander and more magnificent than all the queens who have lived in sumptuous palaces and reigned over famous kingdoms since the world began; and though she will be very kind and gracious to children who come and ask her questions modestly and prettily, and will show them the most lovely sights and tell them the most delicious fairy tales that ever were seen or heard, she makes very short work with conceited and impudent persons. She covers their eyes and stops their ears, so that they can never see her wonderful treasures or hear her charming stories, but live, all their lives long, shut up in the dark fusty cupboard of their own ignorance, and stupid self-love, and self-satisfaction, thinking they know all about everything as well as if they had made it themselves, when they do not really know anything at all. And because you and I dislike fusty cupboards, and because we want to know anything and everything that Nature is condescending enough to teach us, we will listen, to begin with, to what the pine forest has to tell. When the rough winds are up and at play, and the pine-trees shout and sing together in a mighty chorus, while the hoarse voice of them is like the roar of the sea upon a rocky coast, then you may learn the secret of the forest. It sings first of the winged seed; and then of the birth of the tiny tree; of sunrise and sunset, and the tranquil warmth of noon-day, and of the soft, refreshing rain, and the kindly, nourishing earth, and of the white moonlight, and pale, moist garments of the mist, all helping the tree to grow up tall and straight, to strike root deep and spread wide its green branches. It sings, too, of the biting frost, and the still, dumb snow, and the hurrying storm, all trying and testing the tree, to prove if it can stand firm and show a brave face in time of danger and trouble. Then it sings of the happy spring-time, when the forest is girdled about with a band of flowers; while the birds build and call to each other among the high branches; and the squirrel helps his wife to make her snug nest for the little, brown squirrel-babies that are to be; and the dormice wake up from their long winter sleep, and sit in the sunshine and comb their whiskers with their dainty, little paws. And then the forest sings of man--how he comes with axe and saw, and hammer and iron wedges, and lays low the tallest of its children, and binds them with ropes and chains, and hauls them away to be his bond-servants and slaves. And, last of all, it sings slowly and very gently of old age and decay and death; of the seed that falls on hard, dry places and never springs up; of the tree that is broken by the tempest or scathed by the lightning flash, and stands bare and barren and unsightly; sings how, in the end, all things shrink and crumble, and how the dust of them returns and is mingled with the fruitful soil from which at first they came. This is the song of the pine forest, and from it you may learn this lesson: that the life of the tree and of beast and bird are subject to the same three great laws as the life of man--the law of growth, of obedience, and of self-sacrifice. And perhaps, when you are older, if you take care to avoid that spirit of conceit and impudence which, as we have already said, gets people into such trouble with Nature, you may come to see that these three laws are after all but one, bound for ever together by the golden cord of love. Once upon a time, just on the edge of the pine forest, there lived a little boy. He lived in a big, brown, wooden house, with overhanging eaves and a very deep roof to it, which swept down from the high middle gable like the wings of a hen covering her chickens. The wood-sheds, and hay-barn, and the stable where the brown-eyed, sweet-breathed cows lay at night, and the clean, cool dairy, and the cheese-room with its heavy presses were all under this same wide sheltering roof. Before the house a meadow of rich grass stretched down to a stream, that hurried along over rocky limestone ledges, or slipped away over flat sandy places where you might see the little fishes playing at hide-and-seek or puss in the corner among the bright pebbles at the bottom. While on the shallow, marshy puddles by the stream side, where the forget-me-not and brook-lime and rushes grow, the water-spiders would dance quadrilles and jigs and reels all day long in the sunshine, and the frogs would croak by hundreds in the still spring evenings, when the sunset was red behind the pine-trees to the west. And in this pleasant place little Peter lived, as I say, once upon a time, with his father and mother, and his two brothers, and Eliza the servant-maid, and Gustavus the cowherd. He was the youngest of the children by a number of years, and was such a small fellow that Susan Lepage, his mother, could make him quite a smart blouse and pair of trousers out of Antony's cast-off garments, even when all the patches and thin places had been cut out. He had a black, curly head, and very round eyes--for many things surprised him, and surprise makes the eyes grow round as everybody knows--and a dear, little, red mouth, that was sweet to kiss, and nice, fat cheeks, which began to look rather cold and blue, by the way, as he stood on the threshold one evening about Christmas time, with Cincinnatus, the old, tabby tom-cat, under his arm. He was waiting for his brother Antony to come home from the neighbouring market-town of Nullepart. It was growing dusk, yet the sky was very clear. The sound of the wind in the pine branches and of the chattering stream was strange in the frosty evening air; so that little Peter felt rather creepy, as the saying is, and held on very tight to Cincinnatus for fear of--he didn't quite know what. 'Come in, little man, come in,' cried his mother, as she moved to and fro in the ruddy firelight, helping Eliza to get ready the supper. 'You will be frozen standing there outside; and we shall be frozen, too, sitting here with the door open. Antony will get home none the quicker for your watching. That which is looked for hardest, they say, comes last.' But Peter only hugged Cincinnatus a little closer--thereby making that long-suffering animal kick spasmodically with his hind legs, as a rabbit does when you hold it up by the ears--and looked more earnestly than ever down the forest path into the dimness of the pines. Just then John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner, came up to the open door, with a couple of empty sacks across his shoulders. Now the charcoal-burner was a great friend of little Peter's, though he was a queer figure to look at. For his red hair hung in wild locks down over his shoulders, and his eyes glowed red too--as red as his own smouldering charcoal fires--and his back was bent and crooked; while his legs were so inordinately long and thin, that all the naughty little boys in Nullepart, when he went down there to sell his sacks of charcoal, used to run after him up the street, shouting:-- 'Hurrah, hurrah! here's the grasshopper man again! Hey, ho! grasshopper, give us a tune--haven't you brought your fiddle?' But when Paqualin got annoyed, as he sometimes did, and turned round upon them with his glowing eyes, they would all scuttle away as hard as their legs could carry them. For, like a good many other people, they were particularly courageous when they could only see the enemy's back. You may be sure our little Peter never called the charcoal-burner by any offensive names, and therefore, having a good conscience, had no cause to be afraid of him. 'Eh! but what is this?' he cried, in his high cracked voice as he flung down the sacks, and stood by the little lad in the doorway. 'Remember my ears are so quick I can hear the grass grow. Just now I heard the best mother in the world call her little boy to go indoors, and here he stands still on the threshold. If you do not go in do you know what will happen, eh?' 'No; what will happen? Please tell me,' said Peter. [Illustration: 'WHAT WILL HAPPEN? PLEASE TELL ME.' _Page 10._] The charcoal-burner stretched out one long arm and pointed away into the forest, and sunk his voice to a whisper:-- 'The old, grey she-wolf will assuredly come pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat over the moss and the stones, pit-a-pat over the pine-needles and the fallen twigs and branches, pit-a-pat out of the wood, and--snap!--like that, catch your poor Cincinnatus by the tail and carry him off to make into soup for her little ones. Picture to yourself poor Cincinnatus in the wolf's great, black, steaming soup-pot, and all the wolf-cubs with their wicked, little mouths wide open, sitting round, with their wooden spoons in their hands, all ready to begin.' Peter retreated hastily into the kitchen, cat and all, and took up his stand rather close to his mother. 'Is it true, mother?' he said. 'But where do the wolves buy their wooden spoons, do you think--in the shop at Nullepart?' 'Nay, how should I know?' said Susan Lepage, as she stooped down and kissed the child, and then looking up kindly nodded to the charcoal-burner. 'You must ask the old she-wolf herself if you want to know where she buys her spoons, and her soup pot too for that matter. She is no friend of mine, little one.' After a moment's pause, she added:-- 'You will stay to supper, John Paqualin? My husband and sons will be in soon, and there is plenty for all, thank God. You will be welcome.' But Paqualin shook his head, and the light died away in those strange eyes of his. 'Welcome?' he said. 'The pretty, false word has little meaning for me. And yet perhaps in your mouth it is honest, Susan Lepage, for you are gentle and merciful as a saint in heaven, and the child, here, takes after you. But, for the rest, who welcomes a mad, mis-shapen, half-finished creature on whom Nature herself has had no mercy? Master Lepage will come in hungry. Will he like to have his stomach turned by the sight of the hump-backed charcoal-burner? No, no, I go home to my hut. Good-night, little Peter. I will tell the grey wolf to look elsewhere for her supper.--Ah! I see wonderful things though sometimes, for all that I live alone and in squalor. The red fire and the white moon tell me stories, turn by turn, all the night through.' And with that he swung the empty sacks across his back again and shambled away into the growing darkness. [Illustration] 'A good riddance,' muttered Eliza, as she set the cheese on the table. 'It is an absolute indignity to ask a respectable servant to wait at table on a wild animal like that.' But Susan Lepage sighed as she turned from the doorway. 'Poor, unhappy one,' she said. 'God gave thee thy fair soul, but who gave thee thy ungainly body?' Then she reproved Eliza for her conduct in various matters which had nothing in the world to do with her remarks upon the charcoal-burner. Even the best of women are not always quite logical. Meanwhile little Peter had sat down on his stool by the fire. For a little while he sat very still, for he was thinking over the visit of his friend John Paqualin. He felt rather unhappy about him, he could not quite have said why. But when we are children it is not easy to think of any one person or one thing for long together. There are such lots of things to think about, that one chases another out of our heads very quickly. And so Peter soon gave up puzzling himself about the charcoal-burner, and began counting the sparks as they flew out of the blazing, crackling, pine logs up the wide chimney. Unfortunately, however, he was not a great arithmetician; and though he began over and over again at plain one, two, three, he always got wrong among the fifteens and sixteens; and never succeeded in counting up to twenty at all. Nothing is more tedious than making frequent mistakes. So he got off his stool, and began hopping from one stone quarry in the kitchen floor to the next. Suddenly he became entangled in Eliza's full petticoats--she was whirling them about a good deal, it is true, being in rather a bad temper--and nearly tumbled down on his poor, little nose. 'Bless the child, what possesses him?' cried Eliza. Peter retired to his stool again, in a hurry; and after thinking for a minute pulled a long bit of string, with a cross-bar of stick at the end of it, out of the bulging side pocket of his short trousers, and drew it backwards and forwards, and bobbed it up and down just in front of Cincinnatus' nose. But Cincinnatus would not play. Cincinnatus sat up very stiff and straight, with all his four paws in a row and his tail curled very tight over them, blinking his yellow eyes at the fire. For Cincinnatus was offended! Even cats have feelings. And on thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that he had not been treated with sufficient respect. 'Soup-pots and wooden spoons--fiddledee-dee,' he said to himself in the cat-language. 'Why pervert a child's mind with such inane fictions?' For you see Cincinnatus was not a common cat; being first cousin once removed, indeed, to the Sacristan's cat at Nullepart--who knew all the feast and fast days in the church calendar as well as the Sacristan himself, and had not eaten a mouse on a Friday for I cannot say how long. When you have a scholar in the family it obliges you to be dignified. And so poor little Peter, as nothing and nobody would help to amuse him and pass away the time, pressed his two fat, little hands together in a sort of despair, and gave a terrible sigh. 'Bless the child, what possesses him?' cried Eliza again. 'Ah, my heart! How you made me jump!' 'What is the matter, Peter?' asked his mother. 'Oh! I don't believe Antony will ever come home,' said the boy, while the great tears began to run down over his chubby cheeks. 'And I am so tired of waiting. And I want so badly to know whether they have dressed the stable in the big church at Nullepart; and whether we shall really go there on Sunday, to see the dear baby Jesus, and the blessed Virgin, and good St. Joseph, and the donkeys and cows, you told me about. I have never seen them yet. And I want so dreadfully to go.' Then his mother took up Peter in her arms, and sat down in the wooden chair in the chimney-corner, and held him gently on her lap. 'There, there,' she said, as she stroked his pretty hair, 'what cause have you to fret? The stable will be dressed all in good time; and the donkeys and cows certainly won't run away before Sunday. And St. Joseph and the blessed Virgin will be glad that a little lad like you should come and burn a candle before them--never fear. If the day is fair we will certainly all go to church on Sunday. What is to be will be, and Antony's coming late or early can make no difference. Patience is a great virtue, dear, little one--you cannot learn that too soon.' But Cincinnatus sat up very stiff, though he was growing slightly sleepy; and still winked his yellow eyes at the fire. He was not at all sure that it was not incumbent upon him to spit at the charcoal-burner next time he saw him. It was an extreme measure certainly, and before adopting it he would have been glad to take his cousin the Sacristan's cat's opinion on the matter. Social position brings its responsibilities. Yet all the same, it is a fine thing to have a scholar in the family. [Illustration] CHAPTER II. WHICH INTRODUCES THE READER TO AN ADMIRER OF THE ANCIENT ROMANS. Now, Peter's father was a person of some consequence, or, to speak quite correctly, thought himself of some consequence, which, as you will probably find when you grow older, often comes to much the same thing. He had his own piece of land, and his own herd of cows, which the boys, in the spring time, would help Gustavus to drive, along with the cows of their neighbours, to the wide, grass lands that border the forest on the west, where the blue salvias, and gentians, and campanulas, and St. Bruno's white lilies grow in the long grass. But years ago Peter's father had been a soldier in the French army, and had fought in great battles, and had been in Italy, and even across the sea to Africa. He could tell surprising stories of sandy deserts, and camels, and lions, and Arabs, and a number of other remarkable things that he had seen during his travels. And when he went down, as he frequently did, and sat in the wine shop at Nullepart, everybody treated him with deference and distinction, and called him not plain Lepage, but Master Lepage, and listened respectfully to all that he had to say. Then Master Lepage was very well pleased, and he would take his pipe out of his mouth, and spread out his hands like some celebrated orator, and give the company the benefit of his views upon any subject--even those he did not very well understand. For the great thing is to talk, if you want to make an impression upon society--the sense of that which you say is quite a secondary consideration. Lepage was a handsome man; with a bright, grey eye, and a nose like a hawk's beak; and a fine, grey moustache, the ends of which curled up till they nearly touched his eyebrows. He held himself very erect, so that even in his blue blouse and peg-top trousers, with a great, brown umbrella under his arm, he still looked every inch a soldier. [Illustration] But Master Lepage, notwithstanding his superior knowledge of the world, did not always contrive to please his friends and companions. For he was--so he said--a philosophic politician; and, like most other philosophers and politicians, he sometimes became both tedious and irritable. On such occasions his voice would grow loud, and he would thump the table with his fist till the plates danced and the glasses rattled again; and the more the person with whom he was conversing smiled and apologised, while he differed from him in opinion, the louder his voice would grow, and the more he would thump the table, and stamp and violently declare that all who did not agree with him were idiots and dolts, and traitors. He had two fixed ideas. He venerated the republican form of government, and he despised the Prussians. If one of his sons was idle, loitering over his work or complaining that he had too much to do, Master Lepage would say to him sternly:--'Sluggard, you are unworthy to be the child of a glorious republic.' Or if one of the cows kicked, when Gustavus was milking her, he would cry out:--'Hey then, thou blue imbecile, recollect that thou art the cow of a free citizen, and do not behave like a cut-throat Prussian!' And during the long evenings of all the winters that little Peter could remember--they were not so very many, though, after all--when the supper was cleared away and the hearth swept, his father, after putting on a big pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and drawing his chair close up to the table so that the lamp-light might fall full on his book, would read to himself the history of the famous Roman Republic. And always once or twice, during the course of the evening, he would lay down the book and take off his spectacles, and as he rubbed the glasses of them with his red pocket-handkerchief, would sigh to himself and say quite gently:--'Ah! but those were times worth living in! They had men worth looking at in those days.' The elder of little Peter's brothers was named Antony. He was a smart, brisk young fellow. He was always in a little bit of a hurry and full of business. He liked to go down to the town to market. He liked to drive a sharp bargain, and when he had nothing else to do he would roam away to the railway station, and hang over the blue wooden railings at the back of the platform, staring at the crowded passenger or heavily laden freight trains going through to Paris, or over the frontier into Switzerland. And if he ever happened to catch sight of any soldiers on the trains, his eyes grew bright and his face eager, and he would whistle a stirring march as he walked home through the forest, and would chatter all the evening about the glorious fun he meant to have when the time came for him to serve his term in the army. And, at that, Master Lepage would look up from the pages of his Roman history book, and nod confidentially to his wife, and say:-- 'Eh! our Antony is a fine fellow. He will help some day to thrash those rascally Prussians.' But she would answer rather sadly:-- 'That will be as the Lord pleases. There is sorrow and sin enough in the world already, it seems to me, without war to make it greater.' Then Lepage would shrug his shoulders with an air of slight disgust, and say:-- 'My wife, you are no doubt an excellent woman. But your mind is narrow. Only a secular education, and, above all, a careful study of ancient history, can enable us to speak intelligently on these great questions.' Then he would wipe his spectacles and return once again to the campaigns of the Romans. [Illustration] Paul, the second boy, was very different to his brother. He was tall and lanky, with quiet, brown eyes and straight, black hair. He had a great turn for mechanics, and made little Peter all manner of charming toys--mill-wheels that turned all splashing and sparkling in the clear water of the stream; or windmills, to set up in the garden, and scare the birds away from the fruit with their clatter, and many other pretty ingenious things. Paul did not talk much about himself; he was a quiet, silent fellow, but he was always busy with his fingers making little models of all the machinery he could see or get pictures of, and, though his father was not quite so partial to him as to Antony, he would sometimes say:-- 'Eh! our Paul, too, will distinguish himself, and bring credit upon his family and country.' Now on the particular evening that I was telling you about in the last chapter, Antony did not come in till quite late. The rest of the family had had their supper, and Eliza was grumbling to Gustavus as she rummaged about in the back kitchen. 'Why can't people be punctual?' she said. 'It would vex a saint to be kept muddling about till just upon bed-time unable to complete the day's work and wash up the plates and dishes. Those who come in late should go to bed supperless if I had my way.' 'Umph,' said Gustavus--which was a remarkably safe answer, since it meant chiefly nothing at all. Master Lepage sat studying the story of the gallant Horatius, how he and two others defended the falling bridge over the river Tiber against all the host of Clusium and the allied cities. Paul, with a pocket-knife and a number of bits of wood on the table before him, was making a model of a force-pump. And Susan Lepage sat in the chimney corner knitting, little Peter on a stool at her feet resting his head against her knees. He was getting so sleepy that his eyes would shut though he tried very hard to keep them open. Sometimes his poor, little head nodded over all on one side; and then he woke up with a great start, dreaming that he had tumbled out of the old pear-tree in the garden, bump, on to the ground. And the dream was so vivid that it took him quite a minute and a half to remember where he was, and to realise that he was sitting on his own little stool in the kitchen, instead of lying on the asparagus bed under the pear-tree. But sleepy or not, Peter was determined not to go to bed till he had heard the news from Nullepart. The longest waiting must needs end at last. There was a sound of brisk footsteps, the door was thrown open, and Antony entered the kitchen, with the rush and bustle of a healthy, young whirlwind. Peter was wide awake in a moment. He jumped up and caught hold of the skirt of his brother's blouse. 'Oh, tell me, tell me,' he cried, 'have they dressed the stable in the church, and can I go on Sunday and see it?' Now, it is always a great mistake to rush at people with questions when they are full of their own affairs; and so little Peter found in this case. For Antony had some money to pay over to his father, and a great many things to say on his own account; and then, too, he was very hungry and wanted his supper, so he pushed poor Peter aside rather roughly, and told him to get out of the way and mind his own business, and intimated generally that he was an inconvenient and superfluous person. Peter retired to his stool again feeling very small. Between sleepiness and disappointment he was very much inclined to cry. Perhaps, indeed, he would have done so, had not Cincinnatus got up and rubbed gently against his legs, with a high back and a very upstanding tail, purring very loud, too, and saying as plain as cat-language could say it:-- 'Console yourself. I, Cincinnatus, regret what has occurred. I am your friend. Confide in me. All will yet go well.' For Cincinnatus was a cat of feeling, and never lost an opportunity of making himself agreeable if he could do it without loss of dignity. However, when Antony had transacted his business, and eaten his supper, and bragged a little about his own performances of one sort and another, he became a trifle ashamed of having behaved so roughly to his little brother. He did not say so, for few people have courage to make a public confession of their faults. But he described, with great animation, how the workmen and the good sisters were busy in the church; how bright everybody said the Virgin's blue mantle would be, how there was real straw in the stable, how charmingly natural the cattle and the donkey looked, and how ingeniously a lamp would be arranged--just like the star, in fact--to shine above the manger. Peter felt satisfied again. But he was still a little hurt; so he sat quiet and rubbed Cincinnatus' head in silence, though there were a hundred and one questions he was longing to ask. 'You will come with us, _mon ami_?' said Susan Lepage, looking across at her husband, who had just laid down his book, and was wiping his spectacles with his red handkerchief. 'Your sons will take good care of you,' he answered. 'As for me, I will keep house.' 'It is the first time we take our little Peter,' she said, and there was a pleading tone in her voice. The little boy loved both his father and mother; though perhaps he loved his mother best, for he was rather afraid of his father sometimes. But now for some reason he grew very bold. He jumped up and trotted across the kitchen, and climbed up on his father's knee. 'Oh, it will be so beautiful,' he said--'And we shall all be so happy--do come, father, do come too.' Master Lepage looked at him very kindly out of his shrewd, grey eyes, and gently pinched his cheek. [Illustration] 'No, no, my son,' he answered, 'go with your mother and your brothers. These shows are admirable for pious women and for the young. But you see I am no longer very young, and they no longer greatly interest me. Those who think deeply upon politics and philosophy outgrow the satisfaction that others derive from such devout illusions. Every age has its appropriate pastimes. Go, my children. As for me, I will remain at home, read the newspaper, and pursue my studies in ancient history.' 'Cannot you think of something better than the doings of those unhappy, old heathens for one day in the week, _mon ami_?' asked his wife. Little Peter looked up at her quickly. She had laid aside her knitting, and coming across the room placed her hand lightly on her husband's shoulder. Master Lepage made a grimace, moved a little in his chair, and smiled good-humouredly at her. 'Ah! my dear, you are the best of women,' he said. 'Then why will you not oblige me?' Lepage pressed his lips together and put up his eyebrows. 'There are points,' he said, 'on which compliance would be a mere manifestation of weakness. We will not discuss the situation. About those small matters upon which we do not, unfortunately, quite agree, it is wise to maintain silence. There are your three sons--an escort worthy of a Roman matron! Be contented, then. I remain at home.' Susan Lepage turned away, and calling to Eliza bade her clear the table. 'Indeed, is it worth while? It will be breakfast time directly,' replied Eliza, who was still in a bad temper at Antony having been late for supper. Susan Lepage looked up at the cuckoo clock in the corner. 'It is late,' she said. 'Come, come, Peter, we will go upstairs; it is long past your bedtime.' But the boy did not want to go to bed. He felt a little disturbed and unhappy, and wanted Lepage more than ever to go with the rest of the family on Sunday to church at Nullepart. So he rubbed his black head against his father's shoulder coaxingly:-- 'Mother wants you to go, and we all want it. Do please go with us to the church on Sunday.' Master Lepage took the child and stood him down on the floor in front of him. 'Go to bed, when you are told to,' he said. 'Obedience was a virtue greatly prized by those grand old Romans.' [Illustration: 'GO TO BED WHEN YOU ARE TOLD.' _Page 34._] 'Out of the mouth of babes--' murmured Susan Lepage, gently. For some reason this observation appeared to incense her husband. 'Ten thousand plagues!' he burst out vehemently. 'Twenty thousand cut-throat Prussians! This is a conspiracy. Can I not stay at home when I please? Can I not sit peaceably in my own kitchen, without cabals and flagrant acts of insubordination? The rights of a husband and father are supreme and without limit, I tell you--read the domestic history of the ancient Romans.' Susan Lepage waited till her husband had finished speaking; and then taking poor, frightened, little Peter by the hand, she said calmly:-- 'Do not trouble your father any more, my child. He has his reasons for remaining at home, and doubtless they are good ones.' Perhaps it was a dream--for Peter was very tired and sleepy, and it came to him when he was snugly tucked up in his little bed, just before his mother put out the candle and left him alone with a faint glimmer of starlight coming in at the uncurtained window at the end of the room. Perhaps it was a dream; but certainly he seemed to hear Master Lepage's voice saying softly:-- 'Forgive me, my wife. I was over hasty. Your path appears to lie in one direction and mine in another, at present; but let us both be tolerant. Who knows but that they may yet meet in the end!' Then someone stooped down over the little boy's bed and kissed him. Yes, it must have been his father, for on his forehead he felt the rough scrape of a thick moustache. CHAPTER III. WHICH IMPROVES OUR ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE GRASSHOPPER MAN. 'I am going to Nullepart on Sunday,' cried little Peter. '_Pfui!_ what a traveller,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'And how do you go? In a coach and four, on the back of a fiery dragon, in the giant's seven-league boots, or flying through the air with the wild ducks, there, crying "Quack, quack, quack, we are all going south because the snow is coming? "' 'I shall walk, of course, like a big boy,' said little Peter. 'But the snow isn't coming just yet, is it?' 'They all say it will be here in a day or two.' John Paqualin shook his head, and looked up at the sky. He was sitting on the rough, wooden bench set against the southern wall of his hut, with his back bent, and his elbows resting on his thin knees. Little Peter climbed up on to the bench beside him. It was rather difficult, you see, because the bench was a very high one, to suit the length of the charcoal-burner's long legs. 'Who are they?' asked the boy, as soon as he had settled himself comfortably. He tried to lean forward with his elbows on his knees like his companion; but his short legs were dangling, and his feet were far off the ground, and he did not find it altogether easy to keep his balance. 'Who are they?' he asked. 'Oh, the earth spirits, who live underground, and the air spirits, who wander up and down the sky. Look at the great arc of white light they are setting up in the north-east as a signal. And the wild ducks, flying overhead. And the moaning in the pine-trees. And Madelon, the old sow there; see how she runs about with her mouth full of grass, wanting to make herself a lair, because she sees the storm-wind coming. They are all telling what will happen. They are wiser than men. They know beforehand. Men only know afterwards.' Paqualin paused a moment, and sat staring at Madelon, the old black sow, with her floppety ears, as she ran to and fro, and grouted about in the heaps of charcoal refuse and in the tumble-down garden fence--half smothered in tall withered grass and weeds--grunting and barking the while like one distracted. 'Everything in the world talks to me,' he continued, speaking slowly. 'All day long, all night long, the air is full of voices.' Peter wriggled himself a little further back on the bench, for, in the excitement of conversation, he had slipped very near the edge of it and was in great danger of falling head first on to the ground. 'I don't hear them,' he said presently. Paqualin laughed. His laugh was cracked and shrill, like his voice; and Peter was always a trifle startled by it somehow. 'Never hear them, little Peter,' he cried, 'never hear them. A few men will call you a poet, but most men will only call you mad, if you do.' 'What is mad?' asked Peter. He felt very much interested. 'Is it a good or a bad thing?' The charcoal-burner looked round at the boy sharply, with his mouth a little open. His strange eyes were glowing dull red. He waited a minute before replying. 'Eh,' he said, 'what an innocent! Why, it is a good thing, of course. An excellent, splendid, glorious thing. Look at me, little Peter. I'll tell you a secret. Can you keep it? Here--quite close--I'll whisper--I am mad--yes, that's the secret. A grand one. See all the blessings it brings me. I live alone in the wood and burn charcoal.' 'Yes,' said Peter, 'I should like that.' 'I have no wife or child to bother me. On feast-days, when I was a lad, the pretty girls never plagued me to dance with them, or asked me to steal kisses.' The charcoal-burner laughed again--'I am saved from all sins of pride and vanity. Think what a gain!--for as I go down the street, the very children tell me my faults, crying, "Look at the grasshopper legs, look at the crook-back;" and the women shut their eyes and turn their heads away, saying, "Heaven avert the bad omen! What a frightful fellow!" Such observations, little Peter, are sharp discipline; and teach humility more thoroughly than any penance the priest can lay on you. Oh, yes! no doubt it is a capital thing to be mad. It saves you a deal of trouble--nobody cares for you, nurses you when you're sick, feeds you when you're hungry, mourns for you when you die.' Paqualin laughed again, and getting up stretched his long, ungainly limbs, and shook himself till his hair hung like a red cloud about his stooping shoulders. 'Ah! ha, it's splendid,' he cried, 'all alone with the spirits and voices, with the beasts, and the trees, and the rain, and the starlight. No one to love you but the fire when you feed it with branches, or the swine when you drive them back to their stye in the twilight.' Now, to tell the truth, poor little Peter was becoming rather confused and nervous, with all this wild, incomprehensible talk of the charcoal-burner's. He had never seen his friend in this strange humour before. And he felt as much alarmed and embarrassed as he would have done if that well-conducted animal Cincinnatus had suddenly turned upon him, with bristling hair and a great tail, spitting and swearing, in the middle of their innocent games of play. He sat very still, staring anxiously at his companion. But when Paqualin threw himself down on the bench again, and putting his lean, brown face very close to little Peter's, said to him with a sort of cry:-- 'Think of it, think of it, child, nobody, day nor night, all through the long years of life, nobody ever to love you!'--the boy's embarrassment changed into absolute fear, and he scrambled down off the bench in a great hurry, hardly able to keep from sobbing. 'If you please, John Paqualin, I should like to go home to my mother,' he said; and then he trotted away as fast as he could along the black cinder-path across the little garden. 'Mother, mother,' echoed the charcoal-burner. 'Sweet, fair wife, and sweet mother! Have pity, dear Lord, on those who may have neither.' Then he got up, and walked after the child, in his awkward way, calling gently to him:-- 'Here, little mouse, come here. Don't run away so fast. There is nothing to hurt you.' Peter had nearly reached the garden gate; but there in the opening stood Madelon, the sow, grunting and snorting, her great jaws working, and her wicked, little eyes twinkling. 'Come, come,' called Paqualin again, coaxingly. 'There are no more disquieting secrets to tell you. Never fear. See now, I have a box of nuts indoors, under my bed--beauties--beauties; will you try them? Cr-r-rack go the shells, out pop the nice kernels--crunch, crunch, crunch, between sharp, white, little teeth eating them all up. Eh! nuts are appetising, are they? You will not run away just yet, then, will you, dear little mouse.' Now Peter would have felt a great deal safer at home it is true; but in the first place, there stood the hideous Madelon blocking the way, and he was very much afraid of her. And then in the second place, he did not wish to be uncivil to his old friend the charcoal-burner. So, finally, he went back, and climbed up the high bench again. 'I will not have any of those nuts, though, please,' he said decidedly. For he wished Paqualin to understand that it was not greediness but friendship that made him return. 'No nuts!' cried the charcoal-burner, smiling kindly at him. 'Eh, what a proud, little soul.' And then John Paqualin really became delightful. And as he and the little boy sat together in the shelter of the high pine-trees, and of the brown, wooden wall of the tumble-down dwelling-house behind them, he told many most interesting stories. For, you see, the charcoal-burner, perhaps from living so much alone, perhaps from being what some persons call 'mad,' knew a number of things which you could not find in the pages of the very largest Encyclopædia of Universal Information--though they really are every bit as true as half the information you would find there. He knew all about the elves who live in the fox-glove bells; and the water-nixies who haunt the stream side; and about the gnomes who work with tiny spades and pickaxes, searching for the precious metals underground. And he could tell where the will-of-the-wisp gets the light for his lantern, with which he dances over bogs and marshy places, trying to lead weak-minded and unscientific travellers astray; and he knew all about the pot of fairy gold that stands just where the base of the rainbow touches the earth, and which moves away and away as you run to find it, shifting its ground forever, so that those who will seek it in the end come home hot, and breathless, and angry, and empty handed, for all their pains. And he could also tell of the old black dwarf who lives in a cave in the heart of the forest, which no one can ever find, though they may search for it for a year and a day; and who, being a mischievous and ill-conditioned dwarf, bewitches the cows so that they go dry; and the hens so that they steal their nests and lay their eggs in all manner of holes and corners, instead of in the hen-roosts like right-minded, well-conducted fowls; and who rides the horses all night long in the stable, so that when the carter goes in, in the dewy morning, to give them their fodder, he finds them trembling and starting and bathed in sweat; and who turns the cream sour in summer, or sits on the handle of the churn--though you can't see him--so that though the good housewife turns and turns, till her arms and back ache, and the heat stands in drops on her forehead, the butter will not come and the day's work is well-nigh wasted. And Paqualin could tell the story, moreover, of the dirty little boy, Eli, who insisted on eating raw turnips and cabbages, and distressing his friends and relatives by picking bits out of the pig pail, instead of sitting up to table like a little gentleman, and who utterly refused to have his hair combed or his face washed:-- 'And, at last, one night,' said the charcoal-burner, 'as a punishment for all his nasty ways, the fairies came and turned him into a great black crow, which flew out of the bedroom window in the chilly dawn. You may often hear him now, little Peter, croaking in the tree-tops, or see him skulking about the farmyard and gardens looking out for scraps and refuse.' 'How long ago was he turned into a crow?' asked Peter. 'Eh, many and many a year ago,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'I saw him only yesterday, and he has grown quite old and grey. But the time of his probation will not be over yet awhile, for bad habits are slow to die, though quick enough to breed in us, little Peter. I throw him a crust of bread now and again, the poor old villain. I've a sort of fellow feeling for him, you see, for I am an ugly, old vagabond too.' 'Bless the child, there he is at last! Ah, my poor heart, how it beats with all this running.' The speaker was Eliza. She stood on the other side of the tumble-down garden fence, with her hand pressed to her side, and a shawl over her head. She was breathing very hard. Eliza was one of those persons who like to make the most of an injury. 'Come home, Peter, come at once,' she went on. 'Don't you know it's half an hour past dinner-time? Here have I been trapesing half over the country to find you--a pretty occupation for a respectable, young, servant woman like me, too. All the men were out, and nothing would do but that I must go racing about like a wild creature, wasting good shoe leather in looking for you. Ah! my poor heart.' Eliza leant up against the fence and panted a little. As Peter got down off the bench, Paqualin bent forward and patted the boy's curly head. 'Run away, little mouse,' he said, 'but come again some day and see me.' 'Am I to wait here all night,' cried Eliza, 'for you, Peter? Have you not had enough yet of the society of his highness the charcoal-burner? No, no, don't speak to me,' she added, addressing Paqualin. 'I have no desire to hold any communication with you. Why, merely seeing you as you pass makes me squint for an hour afterwards. Come along, child.' [Illustration] And seizing Peter's fat, pudgy hand in her large, red one, Eliza marched him off at a sharp pace down the forest path. 'Hey ho, hey ho, life is a bit long for some of us,' said the charcoal-burner. CHAPTER IV. WHICH LEAVES SOME AT HOME AND TAKES SOME TO CHURCH. Little Peter woke up very early on Sunday morning, feeling excited and glad. He sat up on end in bed, but he had to rub his eyes very hard and get the sleep out of them before he could remember exactly what there was to be so very glad about. When he did remember, he was so much delighted that he was compelled to express his feelings in some rather violent manner. He went on all fours and burrowed very quick, like a rabbit, head first, down under the clothes to the bottom of the bed, and then rushed up again, with very red cheeks, puffing, and pushing his curly hair out of his eyes. But it really was not light yet--only the rushlight his mother burnt at night glimmered feebly in the corner. Peter could hear Master Lepage snoring peacefully in his bed on the other side of the wooden partition which divided the big room into two unequal halves--the small half for little Peter and his little bed, and the large half for his father and mother and their large bed. It would be a long while yet before his mother got up and called him to her to help dress and wash him, for Gustavus, the cowherd, had only just gone downstairs from his attic, clumpety-clump with his big, heavy boots over the stairs, and he always got up long before anybody else. Peter wondered what he could do to amuse himself till it was time to dress. And then it struck him as just possible that when Gustavus went down into the kitchen he might have left the door open, and that in that case Cincinnatus, the cat, might have stepped upstairs and be waiting outside on the landing--it had happened so once before on a very delightful and never to be forgotten occasion. Peter waited a moment and held his breath listening, for it seemed to him extremely adventurous to be on the move so very early in the morning. He was not quite sure whether the little, hairy house-bogies and hobgoblins who undoubtedly, so Eliza said at least, wander about the empty rooms and chase each other up and down the silent passages and stairways every night, with impish frolic and laughter, when we are all safe in bed, might not still be holding their revels; and he knew, at least Eliza said so, that it was extremely unlucky for any person to see them, for they don't like to be looked at by mortal eyes, and will come and sit on your pillow, and tickle your nose with a feather out of the bedding, and squat on your chest, till you feel as though you lay under the weight of a mountain, and treat you in a number of other odious and disturbing ways. It made the cold shivers run down Peter's back as he sat up there, in his little, white night-shirt, even to think of coming face to face with the hairy goblins and bogies. But then, on the other hand, the society of Cincinnatus would be so very delightful. Peter slipped one sturdy, bare leg down over the side of the bed. Ah! how cold the smooth boards of the floor felt! However, the other leg very soon followed. Then he crept across the room very quietly, avoiding the oak chest, and the chairs, and the corner of the high cupboard, with his mother's initials and the date of her wedding-day carved on the doors of it; and, when he reached the door, paused, listening at the keyhole. Oh, dear me, there really was something outside on the landing moving about stealthily on small, soft feet. Little Peter's heart stood still. Was it dear, old Cincinnatus, or a dreadful, roundabout, hairy hobgoblin? At last he plucked up courage to put his lips close to the keyhole, and whisper in a rather trembling voice:-- 'Pussy, puss, Cincinnatus, oh, please, is that you?' 'Miau,' answered Cincinnatus, quite composedly and comfortably. In a great hurry little Peter opened a crack of the door. 'Oh! come in quick, please, Cincinnatus,' he said. [Illustration: "Oh! come in quick, please, Cincinnatus."] But cats of quality never permit themselves to be hurried. Cincinnatus came just half-way through the door, then he stopped and rubbed himself--very tall--up against the side-post and purred; and then, stretching out his fore legs as far as ever he could, sharpened his claws, crick, crack, crick, crack, on the boards of the bedroom flooring. 'Oh! do be quick, Cincinnatus,' said the little boy under his breath again; and to hasten matters, he gave the cat a poke in the ribs with his cold bare toes. 'Miau,' cried Cincinnatus quite sharply, jumping on one side, for he was taken rather by surprise. Subsequently he added in the cat language:--'Manners, my good child, manners! Let us before all things cultivate a polite address and a calm, unagitated exterior.' Meanwhile Peter had succeeded in shutting the door quietly, and that, to his great relief, without catching a single glimpse of one of the blobbety-bodied, spindle-legged house-bogies. He pattered across the room as fast as ever he could, and jumped into his warm bed again. 'He is young and inexperienced,' murmured Cincinnatus reflectively. 'I am magnanimous. I scorn to bear malice.' And he, too, jumped into the warm bed. Now, this was really charming. Little Peter pushed up the bedclothes in front, making them into a snug, little, dark cavern, inside which there was just room enough for himself and Cincinnatus. 'See,' he said, 'we will play at robbers. I will be the captain and you shall be my first lieutenant.' But unfortunately, Cincinnatus did not seem to care very much about that particular game. He had arrived at an age and temper of mind at which material comfort is far more valuable than pleasures derived from a lively exercise of the imagination. Perhaps you do not quite understand what that means? Well, so much the better. For my part, I hope you never may understand it. There are a number of things in this world that it is very much the best to be ignorant about if you can possibly manage it. Cincinnatus, anyway, understood it well enough, so he tucked his fore legs under his chest, until nothing was visible of them but just the furry elbows, and laid his tail neatly along his soft side, and settled himself down on the warm sheet, with his eyes more than half shut, purring all the while as loud as if he had got a small steam-engine inside him. 'That's not the way to play at robbers,' said little Peter. But Cincinnatus only purred a trifle louder. It was rather provoking. Still, Peter was too glad of the cat's comfortable company, and was, moreover, really too sweet-tempered a boy to get cross and angry. So he just lay down on his stomach, resting his chin in one hand, while with the other he gently rubbed Cincinnatus about the ears; and amused himself by thinking of the nice, new clothes that lay folded up on the chair at the bottom of his bed, and of the representation of the stable, and the manger in which the Infant Saviour was cradled, that he hoped to see in the great church in the town, before the day was done. And meanwhile, the pale dawn broadened over the dark stretches of the great pine forest, and the cows lowed as Gustavus drove them out to pasture, and Eliza bustled down stairs to begin dusting and sweeping, and making ready the savoury Sunday breakfast. And at last his mother, with her sweet, pale face, got up and washed and dressed him, listening as tenderly, as only mothers know how, to his happy, prattle, and his simple morning prayer. 'Ask the dear Lord to send a special blessing to us all to-day,' she said. 'May I ask Him to send a blessing to my friend John Paqualin, too?' asked Peter. 'He told me yesterday he should never have anybody to love him, and that it saved him a great deal of trouble. But he doesn't look as if it made him happy, does he, mother?' 'Alas, no, poor soul,' said Susan Lepage. 'Yes, pray for him, also, little one, pray that the long disgrace and lonely sorrow of his life here may be counted unto him for righteousness hereafter, and I will say Amen.' It must have been quite half-past eight o'clock before they were all ready to start for Nullepart. Eliza was going too, you see, and she was furiously busy up to the very last moment. Consequently she was rather late, and rushed out of the house after the rest of the party, pinning her blue shawl, and giving sundry pats to the crown of her stiff, white, muslin cap, to make sure it sat quite straight over her plaits of hair behind. 'Eh, but you are smart, Eliza,' said Gustavus, opening his eyes very wide, as he rested the two pails of water he was carrying on the ground for a moment, and rubbed his elbows, which ached a little with the weight. '_Imbécile!_ do not detain me!' cried Eliza, haughtily--though, in truth, she was prodigiously gratified by the cowherd's observation. 'Don't you see how breathless and flurried I am with all the work? Bless me, where's my prayer-book? Oh! thank you, yes, Gustavus, tied up in my pocket-handkerchief. Of course--I knew where it was--at least, I should have found out for myself directly. Good-bye, Gustavus, take care of yourself; and remember the evening's milk is to be set on the left-hand shelf, two from the bottom.' Eliza pursed up her mouth and nodded, as she walked away with a very impressive swinging of petticoats. 'Poor young man, his head is completely turned,' she said to herself. 'But then, what wonder? My appearance in my _fête_ day clothes has always been a subject of remark and respectful admiration!' 'Farewell, my wife; enjoy to the full the emotions called forth by the pious exhibition you are about to witness. They are becoming to your sex. Boys, take good care of your mother; and conduct yourselves in all things as worthy sons of our glorious Republic.' Master Lepage raised his soft felt hat from his head, as he spoke, with an elegant flourish; but whether in compliment to his wife or in honour of the democratic form of government, I really cannot say. At that moment the charcoal-burner came hurriedly from the narrow forest path, that led from his hut, on to the open space outside the farmhouse. Madelon, the sow, ran beside him, shaking her lean sides as she ran, and grunting now and then, apparently with pleasure at being taken out walking. Sometimes she bundled up against her master's long, thin legs, nearly knocking him over; sometimes she stopped and forced her ugly snout into a tuft of grass or weeds by the wayside. The charcoal-burner's red hair streamed out behind him as he came rapidly along; his strange eyes were dull and vacant as those of a sleep-walker. 'I have a message,' he cried hoarsely--'a message to you from the beasts, and the birds, from the pine-trees, and the storm-clouds and the voices. All night long they have told it me, over and over again.' Paqualin, a wild, ragged, unkempt figure, came up close to Master Lepage, who stood there erect and superior as a general officer on parade, surrounded with his family and servants--Gustavus had left his pails of water and joined the little company--in their Sunday best, and all animated with pleasant expectation of a holiday, in which amusement promised to be agreeably mingled with spiritual edification. 'Well, well, out with it quickly then, my good fellow, this wonderful message of yours,' Lepage said, in a bantering, patronising tone. 'You see my wife and my sons here are just ready to start on a long walk. I cannot have them delayed.' 'They must not go, or you must go with them,' cried the charcoal-burner. He stretched out his hands like a man in the dark groping for something he cannot find. 'My head is troubled,' he went on. 'I cannot tell you plainly; but I have an aching in all my bones which foretells misfortune. And I say, they must not go.' 'Pooh,' said Lepage. 'Your head is troubled, just so. But when people's heads are troubled they had best keep at home and not trouble their neighbours into the bargain with all their crazy fancies. Calm yourself, Paqualin. And as for you,' added Lepage, nodding encouragingly to his wife and the boys, 'forward, march. Do not let this untoward little incident affect the pleasures of the day.' But Susan Lepage looked kindly and compassionately at the charcoal-burner, and then turning to her husband, said:-- 'Have a moment's patience with him, _mon ami_; let us at least hear what he has to say.' 'Yes, give me time,' cried Paqualin imploringly. 'There are so many of you staring at me--Ah! I begin to remember. You must go with them if they go, for the snow is coming, Master Lepage. The storm hung out its streaming, white flag in the north-east yesterday, and the wild ducks flew south; there were signs in the earth and in the heavens, and in my ears the sound of many voices. Do not let your wife and children go. The snow will be here before evening, and the way will be difficult to find, and the house door will stand open long into the night before the feet of those you love cross the threshold.' The charcoal-burner spoke as though he was so certain of the truth of that which he said, and his voice sounded so sad, that poor little Peter felt quite dismayed. Even Eliza had no opprobrious observation to make, and as for Gustavus, he stood with his big mouth wide open, staring as if he saw a ghost. Master Lepage, however, remained quite unmoved; and his composure was very reassuring. 'Well, well, my good fellow,' he said, 'I for one need no further proof that your head is very much troubled, so much so indeed that if I had my way you should find a lodging for a time in the _Maison Dieu_ at Nullepart--an excellent institution, which is calculated to cure troubled heads, or at all events to restrain the possessors of them from being inconvenient to other people. But the worst of it is,' Lepage added, rather angrily, 'that this superstitious nonsense is infectious. You, for instance, my wife, begin to look quite disconcerted.' Lepage folded his arms, and nodded his head argumentatively, quite as though he had been addressing an audience in the wine shop. 'Now I put it to you,' he said, 'the day is mild and even sunshiny at present. And which, pray, is likely to be the best weather prophet? I, Francis Louis Lepage, householder, citizen, veteran, and I may add philosophic-politician and student of ancient history, or that poor half-wit--unsound, as anyone can see, both in mind and body?' 'Of course the grasshopper's afraid of the snow,' chimed in Antony, switching at Madelon, the sow, with the little stick he held in his hand. 'It puts his fiddle out of tune.' Then Antony laughed rather loud, as people do sometimes when they have made a joke they are not sure is a very good one. 'For shame, Antony,' said his mother quickly. And John Paqualin turned on the lad, his eyes glowing like live coals. 'Ah! it is noble and generous in a handsome fellow like you to taunt me and scoff at me! Heaven pay you back in your own coin.' Eliza gave a scream, and seized Gustavus by the arm as though she required protection from some most fearful danger. 'For the love of the saints, ma'am, let us go on, and get out of the way of this wild animal,' she said, in a very loud whisper. 'He looks wicked enough to commit a crime. Keep off, Gustavus! What are you thinking about, catching hold like that of a respectable, young, servant woman?' 'Why it was you who caught hold of me, Eliza,' answered the cowherd mildly. Paqualin, meanwhile, looked round the little group with a sort of despair in his poor ugly face. 'It is all useless,' he said; 'you will not listen to or believe me. I only get jeered at. You all despise me.' [Illustration: 'YOU ALL DESPISE ME.' _Page 66._] He turned away with a bitter cry, and shambled off into the forest. 'Good-bye, dear John Paqualin, good-bye.--No, I won't hush, Eliza. I love him, he is a very kind friend to me.--Good-bye, dear John Paqualin,' little Peter called after him. He felt very very sorry for the poor charcoal-burner. 'Whoof,' went Madelon, the sow, making a run at Cincinnatus--who sat washing his face on the clean flags just outside the door of the farm-house--and taking him so by surprise that he leapt up, with a prodigious tail, on to the window ledge, without even waiting to scratch. Then she cantered off, grunting and shaking her great bristly, floppety ears, after her master. 'Next time I see the charcoal-burner, it will undoubtedly be my duty to spit at him,' said Cincinnatus to himself in the cat-language. 'After that which has just occurred, I feel it is quite unnecessary to take any second opinion upon the subject.' 'Forward, march,' cried Master Lepage gaily. 'Enjoy yourselves. Let no thought of that unfortunate being's prognostications disturb you. The day will be charming.' And so, after all, they started for Nullepart. CHAPTER V. WHICH IS BOTH SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS. Now, undoubtedly, it is extremely easy to most persons not to believe a thing if they do not wish to believe it. And very soon our friends, wending their way along the soft moist forest path, in the languid December sunshine, began to forget about John Paqualin and his alarming warning. 'It was all spite,' said Eliza, tossing her head, white muslin cap and all, with a great show of dignity. 'He hates me because I won't receive his advances and always keep him at a proper distance. It was just a trick to deprive a poor, hard-working, young woman of a well-earned holiday.' 'I think he was wrong about the weather,' remarked Paul quietly. 'It's generally colder before snow.' 'He ought to be shut up in the madhouse, as my father suggested,' said Antony, who was still smarting from the reproof his mother had given him. 'I'd have all those sort of fellows kept under lock and key. There ought to be a law about it. They've no right to be about loose.' 'You are young, my son,' said Susan Lepage, 'and the young, too often, are thoughtless and cruel. Perhaps life will teach you, among other lessons, to be merciful if you would obtain mercy.' Antony's handsome face grew very sulky. 'You're always scolding me for something or other,' he said crossly. [Illustration] Meanwhile our little Peter was very happy. He had been sorry for the charcoal-burner, it is true; but he would have been very much more sorry not to go to Nullepart. A light breeze ruffled the dark branches of the pine-trees; here and there a scarlet or yellow leaf still hung on the brambles that grew on the skirts of the wood; the little birds looked at him merrily with their round, bright eyes, as they flew chirping to and fro among the trees and bushes. As to the snow, Peter did not give it a thought, as he ran, just like a little dog, first a long way on in front of the rest of the party, and then dawdled ever so far behind them--looking at the quaint little huts, and houses, and castles that the pine needles make where they fall and gather on the small twigs and branches at the base of the younger trees; and then, seeing that his mother and brothers had got on a long way ahead of him, scuttled up to them again in a great fuss and hurry, with very red cheeks, and a curious bumping at his heart, what with excitement and exercise, and just a trifle of fright, too, lest the old dwarf whom John Paqualin had told him about should suddenly nod and grin at him from under the pine boughs, saying:-- 'Hey, my fine fellow, so we've met at last!' But I suppose the black dwarf was plotting mischief at home within the recesses of his mysterious cavern on that particular Sunday morning; for though he kept a very sharp look-out, little Peter saw no trace of his naughty, mocking face, even where the path was narrowest and the pine-trees thickest. Now the town of Nullepart is an exceedingly ancient place, as you will gather from its name if you are anything of a scholar. It lies down in a remote valley along the banks of a river, with hills on either hand clothed below with oak, and beech, chestnut, and walnut, and, at their summits, crowned with pine-trees, that make a dark, ragged, saw-like edge against the sky. Some of the houses in the main street are built of stone, and roofed with fine, red, fluted tiles; but the major part of them are of wood, like the farm-house in the forest, with deep eaves, and quaint gables and stairways, and galleries. And I am sorry to say that the good people of Nullepart are somewhat old-fashioned in their habits, and do not pay quite as strict a regard to cleanliness as might be desired; and permit their ducks, and chickens, and pigs to walk about the crooked streets along with the foot-passengers, in rather too friendly and confidential a manner. [Illustration: GOING TO CHURCH. _Page 72_] But little Peter, never having seen any other town, thought Nullepart a very fine place indeed; and quite believed that nowhere else in the world were there such grand houses, or such inviting shops, or so many people, or half so much chatter and bustle. You see the justice of our opinions is very much dependent upon the extent of our experience--a fact which few persons always manage to bear in mind, at least where their own opinions are concerned--with the opinions of their neighbours it is, of course, different. Little Peter clung rather tight to his mother's hand on one side, and to his brother Paul's on the other, for he was somewhat afraid of being lost in the crowd and never found again. Antony did not offer to hold the little boy's hand. He walked on the other side of his mother, with his cap set jauntily over one ear and his handsome face all smiles again. He nodded and said good-day to all his acquaintances, and stared hard at all the pretty girls when he passed them, as a young man should who has a good opinion of himself and who intends some day to be a soldier. But if little Peter thought Nullepart street dangerously full of people, what did he think when passing under the carved porch, and pushing aside the heavy, leathern curtain that hung across the doorway, he entered the church itself, still clinging tightly to his mother's hand? He could see nothing but trousers and petticoats, the broad backs of men, and the comfortable backs of women--it would be uncivil to call them broad, too, you know; you should select your adjectives carefully in speaking of ladies--and the straight backs of lads, and the slim, neat backs of young girls all around him; while the close, heavy air of the church was full of the hum of many voices, and the shuffling of many feet over the stone pavement. 'Ouf, how hot!' said Eliza, in a loud whisper, unpinning her blue shawl. 'Heaven forgive me, but it's like being in a saucepan with the lid on. Why, there's my cousin Ursula Jacqueline Lambert. Ah, my dear cousin! how have you been this long while? Yes, it is seldom we meet. And time passes and leaves its mark behind it. Not that I change much--no, the saints be praised, I keep my looks. But I see you have altered. Well, it cannot be helped. Your husband is a good, faithful soul, and I daresay he doesn't observe it. There's the advantage of having married an old man. His eyes grow dim just in time--now with me....' But Peter did not hear any more of Eliza's conversation, for his mother moved forward into the middle of the nave of the church, from whence it was possible to see the high altar, with its lights and flowers, and the great picture behind it, of which the people of Nullepart are very proud, for it was painted by a famous artist and is worth a great deal of money, and is, moreover, so dark with age, and, perhaps, with a proportion of dirt as well, that it affords an immense amount of interesting conversation, as nobody has ever yet discovered what subject it represents. Priests in rich vestments stood before the altar, their backs looking like those of great gold and silver beetles; and there were boys with tall candles, and boys chanting; and the plaintive sound of the organ; and many persons kneeling on low chairs or on the rough pavement saying their prayers. Susan Lepage knelt down too; and little Peter stood bare-headed close beside her. The church, somehow, seemed very different to what he had expected. It was very large and high, and the painted windows up in the roof let in but scanty light. It seemed to Peter a very mysterious place; and he felt a wee bit frightened. At last Susan rose again from her knees. 'Now for thy pleasure, little one,' she said, looking lovingly at the child. 'Where is the stable, Antony?' 'It is there,' he answered, pointing to the southern aisle of the church. 'I've just been to see; but the crowd is so thick about it we must wait awhile--we can't get through yet.' Susan Lepage sat down on one of the low, rush-bottomed chairs, and took Peter on her lap. 'All in good time,' she said. 'Antony will let us know when to be moving. Meanwhile, we will rest. Your poor, little legs must be tired.' Presently a stout, genial-looking, old gentleman, in a black cassock and funny, little, black cape, came up to them. He wore a black skull-cap, too, for the church was draughty, and his head was bald, save just at the back, where his short, bristly, white hair stood out like a neat trimming round the edge of his cap. 'Well, well, Susan Lepage, it isn't often that we see you here, now,' he said. 'Don't move, don't move, my good woman. Ah, yes! I know the walk is long and fatiguing; you would come oftener if you could. The spirit is willing, as it is written, but the flesh is weak. Yet you do well to come to-day, and bring these fine lads, your sons, with you. The good God remembers those who remember Him. But where is the husband?' [Illustration] Peter looked at his mother as the priest asked this question, and it seemed to him that for some reason she seemed troubled and sad. 'Ah, my father, he has remained at home to keep house. We live, as you know, in a lonely place.' The priest smiled and shook his head. 'Exactly,' he said, 'I understand. Politics have a word to say in the matter, though, haven't they?' But Susan Lepage did not smile in return. 'Alas, my father!' she said. Peter stared at both speakers wonderingly. He did not understand what they meant. But then it must be admitted there are a good many things we do not quite understand at five years old. 'Do not vex yourself,' answered the priest kindly. 'It is written that the faithful wife may save her husband. All times are in the hands of God. That which He has ordained cannot fail to be accomplished.' Then he laid his hand gently on little Peter's round, black head, saying:-- 'And this is your youngest, the autumn child, who brings the blessing to the house?' 'Yes,' she said. 'He has come for the first time to burn a candle before the Infant Jesus. But the worshippers are so many that as yet we have been unable to get a sight of the stable.' Just then Eliza bustled up. 'Ah,' she exclaimed, 'one thing is certain, my poor cousin's temper is sadly soured with age. I made myself agreeable to her, in the assurance that she would at least ask me in to dinner.--Forgive me, your reverence, I did not observe that you were conversing with my mistress'--Eliza curtsied to the priest.--'But not a bit of it. She has treated me with marked coldness, and not so much as hinted at an invitation. It seems to me--' 'My daughter,' said the priest, 'lower your voice. We do not discuss these things so shrilly in this sacred place. Turn your thoughts to religion. Think here of your own sins, not of the shortcomings of others.' Eliza got very red in the face. 'Believe me, I was not thinking of myself, your reverence,' she answered, quickly, 'but of my mistress. I wished to save her the expense of my dinner at the inn, by dining with my relations.--We ought to be going to the Red Horse soon, ma'am,' she added, 'or there will be no room for us.' 'Oh! but I haven't seen the stable yet,' cried little Peter, quite out loud, forgetting that he was in church. 'I don't want any dinner. But I can't go home till I have seen the stable, please.' The little boy had jumped down off his mother's lap and stood there with the big tears in his eyes, and with the corners of his mouth quivering. It seemed to him a terrible thing to have come this long way full of expectation and hope, and then to be disappointed after all. But the priest took his hand kindly, and led him towards the southern aisle of the church, where the crowd was, while Susan Lepage and Paul and Antony followed behind them. 'Room, my friends; have the amiability to make room,' said the priest, 'for a little lad who comes from a considerable distance to see this pious and instructive representation for the first time.' Then little Peter felt quite proud and distinguished, for the people, at the request of the priest, moved aside to the right hand and the left, making a narrow lane for him to pass along to the gilded railings in front of the chapel, where the stable was dressed. Once there, he stood quite still, staring with very round eyes, for the sight seemed to him very beautiful and strange, and his heart was filled with wonder and awe. In a rough, rocky cave, on the straw in a wooden manger, lay the image of the Infant Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes, with a golden circle above his baby head. On one side knelt the Virgin Mother, in a white robe and blue mantle, with her hands clasped meekly on her heart; and, as she bent towards her Babe, she seemed to little Peter to look at him with mild and loving eyes. On the other side stood St. Joseph, in a brown habit, leaning upon his staff. And in the dusky background the boy could just make out the form of an ass and some cows. While above the entrance of the cave shone a bright star. 'Ah, how beautiful!' said Susan Lepage softly. 'It should have been finer had we had more money,' answered the priest with a sigh. 'Not that I complain. The parish has been generous, and the good sisters have done their best. Still, I myself greatly desired to have the Three Kings offering treasures. It would have been an effective incident--but our means are limited. They would have been too expensive for us.' And little Peter was puzzled and could not quite comprehend what the priest meant; for he had often heard his father say that kings were old-fashioned rubbish, worth nothing at all, and that a republic was worth ten thousand of them any day in the week. 'Kneel down, my son,' said the priest to Peter presently:--'and pray to be kept pure, and innocent, and devout, so that, when your earthly warfare is accomplished--be it late or soon--you may behold the face of the Saviour in Heaven as you now behold this poor, unworthy image of Him on earth.' Then he turned and left them. Each of the boys bought a candle from the old woman who sat on the chapel steps, and stuck them in the round iron frame standing just by the gilded rails, and lighted them with the long taper she gave them. And Eliza bought one, too, though she was a little disposed to haggle with the old woman and accuse her of overcharging. But Susan Lepage bought three candles, and set them in the frame and lighted them. 'For,' she said, 'we must remember those who are absent--whether by choice or by misfortune--when we are in the house of God.' [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. WHICH ATTEMPTS TO SHOW WHY THE SKIES FALL. Do you know what the snow is and where it comes from? The Dictionary says it is 'a frozen moisture, which falls from the atmosphere in white flakes.' But that description doesn't seem to make us know very much more about it somehow. Some people say the snow is caused by the angels shaking the feather beds up in Heaven; but that, both scientifically and spiritually too, appears to me an improbable solution. Other people, again, say it is all the Time Spirit plucking his geese. And who are the Time Spirit's geese?--Well, if you really want to know, they are all the little poets, and little painters, and little musicians, and little players and all the little inventors of little theories, and little writers of little books, who spend their time in diligently trying to persuade themselves and others that they are great writers of great books, and discoverers of a universal panacea for the healing of the nations; and that, in short, they are not any of them geese at all, but as fine swans as you can see on any river or pond in the three kingdoms. And they come cackling, and hissing, and sidling, and waddling up to the Time Spirit every year--specially in the spring and about Christmastide--in great flocks, and all cry out together:-- 'Is it possible to deny, O Time Spirit, that we are every one of us swans?' And then, I am sorry to say--for though it is perfectly right and just, it isn't the least bit agreeable, as some of us know to our cost--the Time Spirit turns up his sleeves and sets to work with a will, and catches them, though they mostly make a terrible noise and fluster, and plucks them one by one--big feathers first and then small--and sends them away looking sadly bare and foolish, and thereby leaving the world in no doubt whatsoever that they are only geese after all. And some wise persons, who have a perfect right to speak on the matter, think that why we have had so much more snow than usual the last few winters, is because--what with higher education and women's colleges, and one thing and another--the flocks of geese grow larger and larger, so that the poor Time Spirit is getting worn to fiddle strings with everlasting plucking, and it seems not unlikely we may soon have snowstorms nine months in the year. But what if a real swan does come among the geese, once in a way?--Ah! that is quite another matter. For the Time Spirit discovers it in a very few minutes, and jumps up and pulls down his sleeves, and slips off his hat--he has to wear one, you know, to keep the goose down from lodging in his hair--and draws his heels together with a snap and makes a bow from the waist, like an accomplished courtier, and says:-- 'All hail to you, my master or my mistress!'--as the case may be.--'For you the stars shine by night, and the sun rises at morning. All the world is yours, or shall soon be, if you have patience, and faith, and daring, and are true to the voice of the dæmon within.' But there is yet another explanation of the snowfall besides this, and it is, perhaps, after all, the most reasonable one to believe in. For when the nights are long and the days are short, and the sunlight is feeble as a sick man's smile, the North Wind wakes from his summer sleep and calls to his brother the East Wind, and they go forth over the earth driving the heavy-laden snow-clouds before them, and the pale snow-fairies who do their will. Down from the ice floes, and the dim, silent, polar wastes, over land and sea, with a shout like the roar of a battle, and a laugh like the crackle of thunder, while the hills grow white with fear under his tread, and the forests bow themselves and shriek in his fierce breath as the planks and rigging of a ship shriek in a storm at sea, the North Wind comes. He was born hundreds of thousands of years ago, in the Ice Age, when the glaciers crawled out from the heart of the mountains, mile-long, grey-green monsters, over what are now fertile meadows and sunny plains--before man or beast, so vigorous was the keen-toothed frost, roamed over the surface of the earth. His eyes are blue and clear; and they dance as you may see the sky dance on a sharp winter's night; and his white beard hangs low on his chest, which is broad and firm as a hill-side; and he is in the full vigour of a lusty manhood still, and it promises to be a very long while yet before his eye grows dim or his limbs grow weak with age. Some think, indeed, that as he saw man first born into the world, he may live to see him die off it again--to see this great ball, which so long has been our human dwelling-place and home, rolling silent out into immeasurable space, a dead planet, locked in the arms of everlasting frost. But be that as it may, on the fair Sunday morning, when our friend little Peter, his mother, and brothers, and Eliza, were going through the pine forest to the church at Nullepart, the North Wind was up and walking southward, southward over Europe, with the great, grey snow-clouds hurrying on before, for he had hard work to do. And, as the day wore on, he gathered the clouds from east and west, and packed them together in a vast, dusky mass over the town, and the forest and the limestone crags and gorges, and the wide, flat meadows where the cows pasture in summer, and over little Peter's home. And then he bade the snow-fairies bestir themselves, and prick the clouds as full of holes as the top of a flour-dredge, and wrap all the country in a robe of spotless white. Now, it happened that among the snow-fairies there was one who was very young and tender-hearted. Indeed she was not really a snow-fairy at all, but a child of the soft South Wind, who, when all her sisters flew away--as the swallows fly in autumn--to the tropics, overslept herself and got left behind by mistake. And she had joined the snowfairies because she was dull and lonely, and could find no other playfellows, and nothing to do. But, for all that, she did not care to help them in their work, for she had not been brought up to it, you see, and it seemed to her a sad, chilly business. So instead of laughing and playing and flitting about, and easing the great lumbering clouds of their burden, she sat down by herself in a hollow of one of them and cried, and cried. For she could not help thinking of all the sheep on lonely hillsides; and of the small birds seeking food and finding none in the snow-buried fields, and lanes, and hedges; and of little neglected children, of whom, alas! there are always so many, in bare cottage or dreary, city cellar, with no warm clothes, or food, or firing; and of wayfarers on barren heaths and bleak moors; and of the beggars, and vagabonds, and outcasts, the sorry throng of refuse humanity, that tramps the high roads of every country of the civilised world, with neither home, nor hope, nor money, and as she thought of their frost-nipped hands, and bleeding feet, and scanty rags, she cried as if her little heart would break. But the snow-fairies were vexed with her, and scolded and flouted her, for it is, as you all know, a great nuisance to have somebody crying and sobbing and making a fuss, when you yourselves feel quite happy and comfortable. And at last, in their irritation against her, they made such a noise and clamour, and so pushed and plagued and hustled the poor little creature, that the squabbling and commotion reached the ears of the North Wind himself, and he asked what in the name of common-sense was the matter. Then the snow-fairies all pointed at her, and all began chattering at once, as you may hear a flock of starlings chattering in the tops of the beeches at sunset, on a mild March day. But the North Wind told them to go about their business; and he took up the little fairy and stood her in the hollow of his great hand, and asked her quite gently--for the stronger a man is the gentler he can be, as you will very likely find out some fine day--why she was so sad. Then, though she was horribly frightened and blushed up to the tips of her pretty ears, as a modest young maiden should, she looked the great North Wind bravely in the face and told him her little story--how she had been left behind, how she loved the sunshine and the summer, and how she grieved for the misery and famine that winter brings, too often, on man and bird and beast. 'And I don't see _why_ it should all happen,' she said; 'or why there cannot be summer all the year.' Still, though she spoke up so courageously, the poor, little fairy trembled, for she thought that the North Wind would be angry, as the snow-fairies had been, and that he might crush her tiny life into nothingness in the grasp of his great hand. But the North Wind did nothing of the kind. He looked at her till his clear, dancing eyes grew dim and misty; and when, at last, he spoke his voice was low and sweet and sad as church bells that the sailor hears far out at sea, as he sails at evening in sight of some fair, foreign coast. 'Ah, my child!' he said, 'all those who have once been happy, young and old, wise and foolish, mortal and immortal, mighty princes, prophets, psalmists, all living creatures, nay, the very earth herself, all that my eyes have looked on through unnumbered centuries, have asked and still ask that question in some form or other; but the answer is not granted yet. And so, knowing that till the end it may not be told us, we grow humble and grow wise; and learn that it is best to do the work that is appointed us without doubt or hesitation, careless whether it be known or unknown, pleasant or unpleasant, hard or soft, kind or cruel even, so that we get it well and honestly done. As for you, you have lost your way and have wandered from the business set for you to do, and therefore you are filled with sadness, and fears, and questionings. But have patience for a while, and have faith, too, that the mysterious purposes of the Almighty, your Master and mine, will certainly be made plain at last.--Meanwhile, go and help your cousins the snow-fairies. And then, because, though you are honest and brave, you still are frail and tender, when the night of my winter reign is over, I will give you back into the keeping of my kinsman the South Wind, who will find less sharp and cutting work for you to do.' And all this, though you may not at first see exactly how, has a great deal to do with the story of our friend, little Peter; and therefore, even at the risk of your thinking it somewhat dry and puzzling, it has seemed to me well to set it down for you to read here. CHAPTER VII. WHICH DESCRIBES A PLEASANT DINNER-PARTY, AND AN UNPLEASANT WALK. For when little Peter and his mother and brothers came out of the church at Nullepart, the sun had been hidden some time behind thick clouds. Fierce gusts of wind rushed down the street, blowing off hats, and blowing about petticoats, and making window-shutters rattle, and doors slam. 'Make haste, children, make haste,' cried Susan Lepage. 'We must get our dinner at the Red Horse and start homewards as quickly as we can.' 'Oh! I have been hearing something so terrible,' said Eliza, to her mistress, as she came down the church steps. 'Not that I am surprised at it--no, no, no. I have always suspected it. I am sure his appearance this morning was enough to confirm one's worst suspicions.' Eliza pursed up her lips and shook her head with an air of extreme wisdom. 'They do say that Paqualin is a wizard,' she went on. 'Take care, Peter; if you look one way and walk another, you will unquestionably tumble down. And you needn't stare at me so. I wasn't talking to you.--Joseph Berri, the watchmaker's brother, has just been telling me all about it. There is no doubt he overlooked one of Miller Georgeon's draught oxen three years ago, so that it would not eat, and grew daily thinner and thinner, and had, at last, to be killed.--Go on, Peter; your ears will grow as long as a donkey's if you are always listening like that.--And they do say he can call up evil spirits, and storms, and thunder and lightning, and whirlwinds, when he wants them for his own vicious purposes.' 'Nonsense, Eliza, nonsense,' said Susan Lepage. 'You are far too willing to listen to idle, ill-natured tales.' Eliza sighed profoundly and turned up her eyes. 'Ah!' she murmured, 'some day, ma'am, you will see who was in the right, and give credit where it is due. For my part, if it does snow to-day, I shall know what to think.' 'Make haste, children,' said Susan Lepage again. 'The time draws on, and we have no time to waste.' But it was not so easy to make haste. The large dining-room of the Red Horse, with its tall, white-curtained windows, was crowded. From up the valley and down the valley in their long, narrow, country carts--for all the world like tea-trays set on four wheels--with cracking whips and jangling bells, or on foot, from lonely hamlets in the forest, or solitary herdsmen's huts on the steep grass slopes beneath the grey limestone cliffs and crags, all the inhabitants of the district had gathered to attend the church, and see the show, and spend a merry Sunday. And among all these good people were many friends of Susan Lepage, who detained her with greetings and questions. Then, too, the places at the tables were already taken, and it was some time before the boys and their mother could get seats. Even so little Peter had to squeeze himself into a very small space between Madame Georgeon,--the stout, comely wife of Monsieur Georgeon, the miller at Oùdonc--and his mother. But little Peter thought it all delightful, though he was rather pinched as to elbow-room. He liked the rattle of the knives and forks, and the many voices, and the talk and laughter; and watched with great curiosity the active serving-maids, balancing in their hands--and indeed all up their arms, too, so it seemed--an incredible number of plates and dishes. Even the floor sprinkled with sawdust, and the not altogether spotless table-cloth, were interesting. For it was all new, you see, to little Peter; and even things not very nice in themselves are charming when they are new. Then, too, Peter was very hungry; and though Madame Georgeon's full skirts overflowed his small legs, and her handsome shawl, thrown gracefully back from her shoulders--the room was warm, what with the great, china stove in the corner and all the company--and though her shawl, I say, enveloped him entirely now and then in a cloud of many coloured cashmere, the miller's wife was very kind, and coaxed and petted him, and piled up his plate with all manner of dainty things. 'Eh, _par exemple_,' she said, smiling and nodding at him as she sipped her glass of red wine--'it is not every day we go into society, is it, to meet old friends and make new ones? You, Susan Lepage, from a child were of a serious turn of mind. That is an excellent thing, too, no doubt. It secures the future. But the present should not be despised either. The members of my family--the saints be praised--have ever possessed a little grain of gaiety in their composition. For my part I think it is only economical to make the most of this world while you are permitted to be in it. And I regard it as an actual impiety to neglect any opportunity of innocent entertainment. Eat, my child, eat then--a spoonful or so more of this admirable pastry. See, on my plate here. I was provident when the dish came round, and secured a double portion.' Then, turning, she smiled at Susan Lepage again:-- 'Do not alarm yourself. It will not injure him. He will walk it off. Exercise is a fine thing to prevent food lying heavy on the stomach.' 'Perhaps moderation is a finer one still,' answered the other gently. 'But are you not ready, my sons? We must not linger, though you in your kindness would tempt us to do so, good Madame Georgeon. We do not drive home by the high road as you do, but go on foot through the forest, and the days are short.--Antony, we should surely be moving.' But Antony was in no haste to be going, for he, too, was making the most of this opportunity of innocent enjoyment. He sat beside Marie Georgeon, the miller's pretty daughter, who certainly took after her mother's family in respect of gaiety. And, clean glasses being somewhat scarce at the Red Horse from the unusual number of guests, it happened that she and Antony shared one; and her brown eyes were as full of mischief as a May morning is full of sunshine as she glanced up at him over the rim of it, and laughed and talked, and fingered the gold and garnet necklace that fitted so neatly about her throat. And what with her pretty looks and merry words, the young fellow's head was completely turned--and if you do not quite understand what that means, you need only wait a little, for you are bound to find out clearly enough some day. And, as the inevitable consequence of his head being turned, he hardly heard his mother when she spoke to him, and made no haste in the world to finish his dinner, and loitered and dawdled about upon one excuse and another as long as possible; and, I am sorry to say, spoke quite snappishly to his brother Paul, when the latter pointed out to him that the clock had struck three already, and that it was high time to be going. You see, it is just as well not to understand--by experience, anyhow--what it is to have your head turned, since it leads to these deplorable errors both of manners and conduct. So it fell out that when at last our friends left the jovial company at the Red Horse, and came out from the steaming dining-room into the street, the snow-fairies had already been some half-hour at work, and the roadway and house-roofs were all lightly powdered with snow. To little Peter, warm with his dinner, this seemed the crowning piece of fun of a glorious day. He could hardly get along for turning to look at the marks his nailed boots made in the snow. But Susan Lepage thought very differently. She glanced up at the dull, clouded sky, and remembered the sad words of John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner, that everyone had treated so lightly some few hours ago. 'Will it last, do you think?' she asked of Antony. Antony, however, was still thinking of pretty Marie Georgeon, with whom he had shared the kernel of a double almond at parting, both wishing as they eat it. He was wishing his wish still, and it was such an agreeable one that he felt quite superior to all inconvenient incidents in the way of snowstorms and such like.--He cocked his cap more on one side than ever, and assumed quite a patronising air, even towards his mother, which, to say the least, was very silly of him. 'It may last or it may not,' he answered. 'But really, it doesn't very much matter.' 'I wish that your father was with us,' added Susan. 'Why?' cried Antony. 'He couldn't stop it snowing any more than I can. And pray remember, mother, that this isn't by any means the first time I have walked home from Nullepart in bad weather. I believe I could find my way back blindfold or at midnight for that matter.' 'I am not at all troubled about you, my son,' replied his mother quietly, 'but about our poor little Peter here, with his little short legs.' 'Oh, Peter will do well enough,' said the lad impatiently. Some find it difficult to make room in their hearts for more than one person at a time, you know; and Antony's heart was still pretty well occupied by Marie Georgeon. He walked along briskly humming the tune of _Partant pour la Syrie_, which is a song about a young soldier who was pious as well as brave; and a lucky fellow into the bargain, for when he came back from the war he married his master the count's daughter, and lived happily ever after. 'Never mind, mother,' said Paul; 'if the snow is deep, or Peter is tired, I can carry him pick-a-back. He's not very heavy, you know.' 'I shan't be tired. I like the snow,' cried little Peter, and he clapped his hands and pranced about, till Eliza--who was still rather cross because her cousin had neglected to invite her to dinner--caught hold of him and made him walk soberly. 'If you laugh so now there will be tears before night,' she said. 'Laugh at breakfast, cry at dinner, laugh at dinner, cry at supper-time. Ah, dear me! this cold wind; I wish I had thought to put some wool in my ears--I shall be martyred with the toothache.' So they passed down the main street. It was almost deserted now, for the storm had driven people to take shelter in the wine shops, or, which was far wiser, in their own houses. Even the pigs had gone to their styes, and the fowls to their roosts; and the goats, with their little tinkling bells, were safe housed, too, in their sheds, munching the dry, brown hay that in the summer-time had waved as green grass full of a rainbow of flowers. They passed by the smaller houses and out-buildings, and the great saw-mills where the pine logs from the mountains are cut up, that stand along the bank of the swift river; and crossed the bridge with the dark water rushing underneath; and began climbing the road that zig-zags up the long hill between the great, bare walnut-trees and stubble fields, and wild rocky pastures, to the edge of the pine forest--four tall straight figures, and one short roundabout one, showing black against the ever-deepening snow. [Illustration] For, alas! the snow was falling thicker and thicker--here in the open it was already up to the second lace-hole of little Peter's boots--scurrying and racing in wild confusion before the icy breath of the North Wind; twisting, and twirling, and dancing; clinging to grass blade, and bush, and branch, and tree stem; hiding the road so that you could no longer see the margin of it; covering the wheel tracks and marks of the horse hoofs; filling up hollows under the grey rocks and boulders, and blurring the jagged outline of the pine-trees where they rise against the sky. Hundreds of thousands of white, hurrying flakes, soft, silent multitudes, filling the air as far as eye could see. There was no fun now in turning round to look at the marks of his nailed boots, for Peter found the snow hid them again almost as soon as they were made; and it was hard work, too, struggling up the steep hill and battling with the wind. Still the little fellow trudged along without making any complaint. For, you see, he had often heard his father praise the virtues of the Ancient Romans, their courage and endurance; and so Peter had got the notion into his head that it is rather a grand thing not to mind what is uncomfortable and disagreeable, and that it is rather a shameful and unworthy thing to grumble and make a fuss, and cry when your chilblains itch, or you happen to bump your head against the table, or when your legs ache, as his legs began to ache now, with the length and steepness of the hill. More than once his mother stopped and called him to her, and told him he was a good, brave, little man, and pulled the collar of his overcoat up about his red, little ears. And Peter, though he would not have said so for three dozen baking apples, or half a washing-basket full of sugar pigs, did find it very comfortable to stand still in the shelter of her petticoats for a minute or two and get his breath. The town below was hidden in the driving snow, and the dark wall of the pine-trees loomed nearer and nearer. At last the forest path was reached, and here it was better walking. The snow was lighter, and there was shelter from the force of the wind. But they had taken so much time in climbing the hill that the dusk was coming on, and there was still a long way to go. Antony no longer whistled. He walked on steadily ahead of the others, turning round now and then with a fine air of superiority and command. Antony, indeed, was as yet not at all displeased with the adventure. He believed that this was an occasion on which he showed to great advantage. His mother followed him in silence. Little Peter came next. He had taken his brother Paul's hand now, and trotted along as fast as his sturdy little legs would carry him, for to tell the honest truth he was getting a trifle frightened. The birds had all hidden themselves away in the thick brushwood, and no longer welcomed him with their merry round eyes. The well-known path looked mysterious, almost awful, in the half-light, with the tall ranks of the pine-trees on either side of it swaying in the blast. Sometimes the snow would slip in great masses from the high branches and fall close to little Peter's feet, as if the black dwarf was throwing snowballs at him. Poor Peter began to feel very shivery and creepy, and did not the least care to look round lest _something_, he did not exactly know what--and that made it all the worse, perhaps--should be coming tripping, tripping, tripping over the white ground behind him. But the only person who really came behind little Peter was Eliza; and though I do not want to be rude to Eliza, who was a very worthy young woman in her way, I cannot pretend to say that she was doing anything so graceful as tripping over the snow. Not a bit of it. Eliza was extremely disgruntled by the events of the day, and was as full of complaints and lamentations as a hedgehog's back is full of spines. The wet snow had made her fine, white cap limp and drabbled; so that instead of standing up like the vizor of an ancient helmet, the big, lace frill of it tumbled in the most melancholy manner about her face. She had turned the skirt of her dress up over her head; and what with holding it, and her books tied up in her handkerchief, and what with the tightness of her boots, which were a pair of brand new ones and half a size too small for her into the bargain, Eliza came very much nearer floundering than tripping over the snow. The forest opens out in places into wide spaces of waste moorland. Across these by daylight or in fine weather it is easy enough to find the right road; but on such an evening as I am telling you about it is by no means easy. On the edge of the moorland, Susan Lepage called to Antony to stop. 'Go slowly,' she said, 'and pray be careful. If we once mistake the path we may find ourselves in a sad plight. I wish your father was with us! Go on in front,' she added, turning to Paul, 'and I will follow you.' Now his mother's words rather nettled Antony. [Illustration: LOST. _Page 110._] 'You haven't any real confidence in me,' he said sulkily; 'or you wouldn't be repeating all the while that you wish my father was here.' You see, Antony had been a good deal flattered and excited by his pretty companion at the Red Horse at Nullepart. And it often happens, unfortunately, that pleasure when it is past makes us quarrelsome. He kicked the snow about with his foot, and his handsome, young face looked quite rebellious and naughty. 'No, no, my son,' Susan Lepage answered gently. 'I have every confidence in your good intentions. But the way must needs be difficult to find. I merely caution you to be careful.' 'Of course I shall be careful,' said the lad angrily, as he stepped from the shelter of the pine trees into the dim, white waste beyond. For a time all went well; but, all of a sudden, the ground began to grow rough and uneven under foot. Peter stumbled and fell, and scrambled up again half smothered in snow, his poor, little mouth and eyes full of it, and his hands scratched with the harsh heath roots and stones beneath. 'Antony, Antony, we are wandering!' cried his mother, as she wiped the snow out of Peter's eyes and off his clothes, and kissed him. The little boy clung to her, for he felt very desolate and cheerless. He did not think it in the least amusing now to be out in the storm. He longed for the warm, cosy kitchen and for the society of Cincinnatus; but he choked down his tears as his mother kissed him, and tried to be very brave and not to mind his tumble. Antony turned back, he was a few steps ahead. 'We can only have missed the path by a yard or two,' he said hurriedly. 'You just stand still and I'll find it.' And he did find it. But, alas! he could not keep to it, for the light faded and darkness came on quicker and quicker, and still the snow fell in hundreds of thousands of soft white flakes. Eliza groaned and lamented, and our poor, little Peter's snow-clogged boots began to chill his feet through, and his hands grew as cold as frogs' paws, and he got more and more hungry and tired. But he did not grumble about it, for he knew his mother and brothers were cold and weary too; so he struggled on manfully through the ankle-deep snow. And, at last, he got too tired even to feel hungry, and began to cry quite gently to himself. [Illustration] 'Please, mother,' he said, 'I can't go any further.' Susan Lepage took him up in her arms and held him close against her bosom. She did not speak; but, if it had been light enough to see, I think Peter would have found that she was crying too. For the ground was all rough and uneven under foot again; and though Antony went first to the right hand and then to the left he could not make out the road at all. 'I've come all wrong, mother,' he said, and his voice trembled. 'I don't know where we are or which way we are walking. We are lost.' There was a silence before his mother answered him. 'You have done your best,' she said. 'The event is in the hands of God.' CHAPTER VIII. WHICH PROVES THAT EVEN PHILOSOPHIC POLITICIANS MAY HAVE TO ADMIT THEMSELVES IN THE WRONG. But now it is quite time for us to go back to the old, wooden farm-house on the edge of the forest, and see what Master Lepage, and Gustavus, and that intelligent and experienced person, Cincinnatus, are doing, while the rest of the household are wandering, alas! not without growing alarm, and even suffering, in the darkness and cold and snow. In point of fact, then, though Master Lepage had been so very determined to please himself by sitting at home, he had found the day uncommonly long and dull. For he was one of those sociable persons who are never quite happy without an audience to hold forth to and instruct, and convince of their own remarkable wisdom and the hearers' equally remarkable folly. And then, too, for all that he appeared somewhat dictatorial and high-handed, Lepage was at bottom an affectionate and warm-hearted man, who loved his wife and children tenderly. And so, as the afternoon drew on, and the wind rose and the clouds gathered, he began to get into a fine fume and fret. He walked up and down the warm, cosy kitchen as restless as a bear in a pit; and knocked double postman's knocks on the weather glass, and declared out loud that the mercury was going up, when he saw perfectly well that it was going down; and did a number of other useless things to try to persuade himself that he was not one bit anxious or uneasy. 'How inferior is the education of men to that of cats!' thought Cincinnatus. 'Before I was old enough to lap milk out of a saucer, my mother had taught me the vulgarity of giving way to purposeless agitation. "Calm," she would say, "is even a greater sign of good-breeding than a curl of hair inside the ears." In my poor master, there, calm and ear-curls alike are wanting. What a situation! Thank heaven, I at least was born a cat!' But, you see, Master Lepage had really some cause for his restlessness, for all this while he was struggling with an unseen enemy. Deep down in that innermost chamber of the heart--the door of which we most of us keep so tight shut because we know Truth sits within weighing and judging all our thoughts and actions, and letting us know from time to time just what she thinks about them in the very plainest language--in that innermost heart-chamber, I say, Lepage was aware that there was a busy, active feeling of shame and remorse. And while Truth pushed hard at the door inside to let the Feeling out, he pushed equally hard on the outside to keep the Feeling in. But when finally the snow began to fall, and the daylight lessen, and the storm grow fierce and fiercer, Truth pushed and bumped and banged upon the poor door so unmercifully that Master Lepage, sturdy veteran though he was, grew quite weary of opposing her. And so the busy Feeling popped out first its head, and then its two arms, and then squeezed itself out all together, and began racing up and down the whole length and breadth of the old soldier's heart in the most audacious manner. 'You were obstinate and conceited this morning,' said the Feeling; 'you wouldn't listen to John Paqualin, the charcoal-burner. Look at the snow!' 'The glass was rising,' answered Lepage. 'I am perfectly certain it was. And John Paqualin is a madman.' 'Madman yourself,' said the Feeling--for feelings are very free-spoken, you know, and don't mince matters--'madman yourself for letting your wife, who is a delicate woman, and that poor child, little Peter, run such a risk of cold, and fatigue, and perhaps worse.' 'Antony knows the way,' answered Lepage again. 'And he's an able fellow.' 'He is a boy, and like most boys is thoughtless and self-opinionated. He takes after you in that last, by the same token,' said the Feeling. 'I am a philosophic politician,' cried Lepage, somewhat hotly. 'I worship the goddess of Reason.' 'Do you?' said the Feeling. 'And these newspapers you were so anxious to sit at home and read to-day, full--as you perfectly well know--of garbled news, and one-sided statements, and of cheap party cries--they are the voice of Reason, are they?' 'Hang you!' answered Lepage--which was not at all a pretty way of answering. But then, you see, poor Master Lepage was getting very angry because he was very uncomfortable; and when persons are both uncomfortable and angry they are liable to make use of expressions which, very properly, are not printed in the French and English conversation books that you study in the schoolroom.--'I won't listen to you. So away with you. I have no doubt--' 'No doubt, haven't you?' said the Feeling. 'Well, I am glad to hear that.' 'No doubt at all--ten thousand plagues on you--no doubt at all, I say, that my wife and children will be home in ten minutes at the latest. Meanwhile I will read a little. I will improve my mind with the history of those grand, old Romans.' So Lepage got down the history book, and it fell open at one of his favourite passages--the account of the Consul, Marcus Attilius Regulus, who, rather than break his word, left his home and kindred and gave himself up to his pitiless enemies, and bore in silence all the cruel tortures to which they subjected him. 'There was a man!' cried Lepage, as he wiped his spectacles with his red pocket-handkerchief. 'Yes, indeed, a very different man to you, Francis Louis Lepage,' said the Feeling. 'Why, why what do you mean? Twenty thousand cut-throat Prussians!--at least I am no coward. No one has ever accused me of that before. What was I ever afraid of?' [Illustration: WAITING. _Page 120._] 'Of a little trouble,' answered the Feeling. 'Of a walk, for instance, when you felt inclined to sit at home smoking--of what one or two silly, feather-headed fellows, who fancy themselves mighty sharp and clever, might perhaps say about you, if you were seen kneeling down beside your wife and sons, in the church there, with your head uncovered, praying God to forgive you your sins.--Pooh, don't talk about your courage to me!' said the Feeling. Master Lepage sat very still for some time after that in the window-seat, with the Roman History wide open before him; but he did not care to go on reading about the Consul Regulus. He remembered how little Peter had climbed on his knee on Friday evening, and coaxed him to go to Nullepart to see the Infant Jesus and the stable; and had said--poor, little lad, what a nice, little face he had--Lepage rubbed the end of his hooked nose, and sniffed--that if only his father came with them they would all be so happy. 'Well, I hope they have been happy,' he said to himself. 'It is more than I have been, in any case.' He turned and looked out of window. Ah! how it snowed, and how dark it was growing. 'And with this wind, on the moorland the snow will drift. If they have the intelligence of a blue owl between them they will have started early!' he cried quite fiercely. 'Ten thousand plagues--poor dear souls,' he added, for Master Lepage was getting a little confused somehow. [Illustration] He hurried across the kitchen to the house-door and flung it wide open, and standing on the threshold, gazed long and earnestly down the dim forest path, drawing his shaggy eyebrows together till they stood out like _chevaux de frise_ above his keen, grey eyes. 'Ho-la, ho-la, hey!' he shouted. But there was no answer save the roaring of the wind among the pines and the soft 'hush, hush,' of the falling snow. Now for some time past Cincinnatus had been sitting very composedly staring with his great, yellow eyes into the glowing log fire, and meditating pleasantly on the inferiority of men to cats. But when Master Lepage, a prey to that remorseful Feeling which Truth had let loose to tramp where it would up and down his heart, threw the house-door wide open, the icy breath of the North Wind rushed wildly into the kitchen, and made our friend Cincinnatus feel uncommonly cool about the back. 'Neither calm nor ear-curls, dear me!' he murmured to himself as he rose slowly, stretching one fore leg and then the other, and then each hind leg in turn--shaking the last leg rapidly for a moment, too, because it was slightly cramped--and yawning the while so wide, that his pink tongue was curled up quite tight, like a rolling-pin, at the back of his mouth. Then he moved away with dignity, intending to take up his station upon the cushion of the big arm-chair that stood in the corner nicely out of the draught. But all of a sudden Cincinnatus heard something that made him jump all on one side with an arched back and a bristling tail, and say 'Pffzsh!' twice over, as loud as ever he had said it in his life. It was an unfamiliar sound that so startled Cincinnatus, for Master Lepage was pulling strongly at the rope of the big bell that hung under the centre gable of the old house, and the urgent clang of its iron voice rang through the thick, snow-laden air far over the forest. The bell had been placed there long years before to summon neighbours--the house standing in a solitary place--in case of fire or accident. And now Lepage rang it with a double purpose, trusting that even if its friendly tones failed to reach the ears of the poor wanderers, it might at least bring Gustavus, the cowherd, from his father's cottage on the edge of the pastures, where he was spending the Sunday, and that he might help him search for the wife and children whom he loved so well. 'By my great-grandmother's whiskers!' exclaimed Cincinnatus, as he settled himself down on the chair cushion, 'what with draughts, and bell-ringing, and one thing and another, this house will soon be impossible for a cat of any pretensions to gentility. Compare it with the Sacristan's establishment, now, where you can't tell one day from another except by the smell of the different soups for dinner.--Delightful!--With an occasional vocal evening, too, in the back garden, when the moon is full. Lots are strangely unequal in this world!--Pffzsh! and to add to everything else, if there actually is not that intolerable charcoal-burner.' John Paqualin stood on the threshold, a flaming torch of pine boughs in his hand; his long, unkempt hair was white with snow, and so was the tattered cloth cloak that hung in so many folds from his stooping shoulders. His eyes were bright and glowing. 'Ah! the wind,' he said, 'the glorious wind, the roar and the shout of it; the cry of the trees that strain, and the passionate snap of the branches--like heart-strings that snap under the blast of incurable sorrow. And the snow, soft and pure, and light as the coverlet a young mother lays on her first-born's cradle--getting a little too thick just now, though, that coverlet.--Eh! what's this? have you smothered the infant--laid it over the face as well? Be careful, then, with your--But the bell,' he added suddenly, interrupting himself, and catching hold of Master Lepage with his hard, thin fingers--'it called to me, while I was listening to the roll of the drums, and the blare of the trumpets, and the scream of the fifes in the forest there, and made me come hither whether I would or no. What do you want spoiling all my splendid wind-music with your infernal bell-clatter?' 'Want!' cried Lepage hoarsely; 'I want help.' Paqualin laughed aloud. 'Hey-ho,' he said. 'Times are changed, are they? I never heard you sing that song before.' Lepage let go the bell-rope, and raised his clenched fist. But he did not strike the blow. Something stopped him. Perhaps it was that same remorseful Feeling which Truth had let loose in his heart. 'Come inside, Paqualin,' he said quite quietly, after a moment or two. 'Now try to remember.--My wife and sons and our maid-servant went to church at Nullepart this morning. You did your best to prevent them going. You said the snow was coming, and it has come. They should have been back a good two hours ago, and they are not here yet.' 'Not here yet,' repeated the charcoal-burner slowly. 'No, not yet.' Lepage drew his hand across his eyes. 'Would to God,' he said, 'I had gone along with them.--But see now, I will light the lamp and leave the house-door open; and then will go out to search for them. You can find your way like a hound, they say, by night or day, through the forest. Will you come with me and help me?' Paqualin stood in front of the fire; the snow on his hair and cloak melted and ran down, forming a little pool of water about his ill-shod feet. 'I am not over and above fond of you, Francis Lepage,' he said presently, 'as you most likely know already. Love and hatred alike can tell their own story without much need of spoken words. I think you a vain man and a hard one; but your wife is as pitiful as the saints in heaven. You want me to help you to find her? You have not got a dog to do the work for you, and so you'll take me. Ah, well! I've known the dog's place pretty well all my life long;--the kicks and the cuffs, and the grudging crust from the master's table; and then the "Here! my good fellow, good cur, here! nose down, tail up, the scent's cold, but still you're sharp enough to find it; and sweat and faint to catch the hare that will make your owner a savoury supper, while you slink home to the dirty straw and the mouldy crust again." Yes, yes--to be sure, I'll go with you and find them and bring them home; your fair wife and your children, and leave you happy and go back to my hut and the voices--not for your sake though, mind you, but for hers--the only woman whose eyes have ever looked kindly upon me.' 'Come on your own terms,' said Lepage. Just then Gustavus, in his heavy boots, came clumping into the kitchen. 'The bell, master--has the red cow calved of a sudden?' he asked. For once in his life Gustavus appeared to be quite excited. He forgot to take off his hat or put down his big cotton umbrella, from off which the wet snow slipped in little avalanches, _sthlop_, on to the floor. 'Calf thyself, with thy great, stupid, cheese face!' cried the charcoal-burner. Then while Lepage gave the cowherd his orders, and got some things together to take with them, Paqualin stood murmuring to himself, with his head bent low, and his lean, grimy hands stretched out towards the comfortable blaze of the fire:-- [Illustration] 'You, the man, welcome, and brave, and beloved. I, the dog, to show the man the way. Gustavus, there, the ass, to trot behind loaded up with the blankets, and the food, and the brandy. And in the end, what? A bone for the dog, a thistle for the ass, and for the man kisses. Which has the best of it? Hardly fair, is it, eh?' 'Umph,' said Gustavus, as he got the big bundle on to his back. 'Perhaps she'll be a bit soft-hearted when she sees me. Maybe the snow will have taken some of the starch out of our Eliza.' CHAPTER IX. WHICH IS VERY SHORT, BECAUSE, IN SOME WAYS, IT IS RATHER SAD. Have you ever looked for something you cared for very much and failed to find it? A dolly, for instance, forgotten at play in the garden, swept up with the dead leaves, and never seen after. Or, still worse, a dear little kitten of an adventurous turn of mind, that went out in the woods for a walk by himself and never came home again, though you ran down the church-lane and up to the top of the pasture, crying, 'Puss, puss, puss!' till you were quite hoarse, and cross, and tired, and nurse said you must come in because it was past bed-time and the dew was rising, and a number of other things which were perfectly true, but which didn't throw any light on the whereabouts of the kitten. How did you feel? Why, just the most miserable little boy or girl in all the world, to be sure. Or supposing, on the other hand, that you found dolly at last, after all; but with all the red washed off her lips and cheeks, and the mould mixed up with her yellow hair, and her smart frock wet and torn, and one of her waxen legs squashed flat where the wheel of the gardener's barrow had gone over it. Or that the keeper brought back poor kitty some three or four days later, stiff and cold, and said:--'Bin poaching, bin caught in a gin; thought little missy 'ud like to know the end of 'er.' Well, did that make matters much better? I don't think so myself, and at one time of my life I had a good deal of experience in these things, so I have the right to speak. For it is a poor pleasure at best to play that dolly is sick of a fever, when you see that she does not get a bit better, even though you dose her ten times a day with an elaborate preparation of slate-pencil scrapings. And as to begging a candle-box of the housemaid for a coffin, and having a grand funeral in the shrubbery for the kitten, that is terrible work indeed, and makes your eyes so red with crying that you are quite ashamed to go down to dessert in the evening. Now, if you and I have felt so very unhappy over our dolls and kittens when we lost them--and found them again, maybe, but always a good deal the worse for the losing--how do you think Master Lepage felt as he went out that dark, stormy, snowy night, with the charcoal-burner and Gustavus, into the forest? He was very silent as he tramped through the snow, while the wind roared in the pines above him, and blew about the flame of his torch, making it twist and twirl, and flicker and glimmer, sometimes casting a red glare far over the white ground and the great, grey tree-stems and John Paqualin's crooked, uncouth form flitting on just ahead of him; and sometimes dying down till all the scene was wrapped in darkness. He was very silent, I say, and not a bit like vivacious, loquacious Master Lepage who used to sit and hold forth in the wine-shop, and thump the table and make the glasses ring; but more like Sergeant Lepage, who, with his teeth set and his face fierce and white, had marched up under fire of the enemies' guns in battle long ago in Italy or Africa. Lepage marched under fire now, and the battlefield was his own heart. And oh! dear me, how many of his most cherished ideas and beliefs the shot from those guns knocked over--his pride, his self-importance, his trust in his own intellect and insight and acuteness, his politics, his philosophy; nothing, in short, nothing was left standing, except a sense of remorse for his past folly and his love for his wife and his children. 'If they have been merely delayed by the storm, we shall meet them on the road here. If they are lost, they will have begun wandering on the first stretch of moorland,' said John Paqualin. 'See, the snow is ceasing, the stars begin to show in heaven. Eh! the frost, how it bites!' And so it did. As the snow stopped, the night grew colder and colder, for all the ice-fairies came tripping out far and wide over hill and valley, and built transparent piers and bridges across the streams and pools, and hung icicles from the rocks and from the overhanging eaves of the houses, and froze the breath on Lepage's long moustache, and made the earth like iron beneath his feet. Yet he and his two companions still marched on through the forest. They could go but slowly, for in the open spaces the snow had drifted deep, and where the forest paths crossed each other it required all the charcoal-burner's knowledge and skill to tell which was the right one. Now and again they would halt for a minute or two and call aloud, and then listen hoping for an answer; but it was close upon midnight, and they had walked more than half the way to Nullepart before they came upon any trace of those they so earnestly searched for. Here, as I have already told you, the path crosses a wide stretch of rolling moorland, covered with heather and stunted bushes, thorns and brambles and whortle-berry and juniper; while in places crop out large limestone blocks and boulders, some standing together and looking like the ruins of a giant's castle, others but just peeping above the rough soil and encrusted with stone-crop, and ferns and many kinds of mosses--a lovely play-place on a summer day, when the butterflies sport over the heath, and the dragon-flies over the pools in the marshes, but bleak and desolate enough on a December night, with the harsh north wind and the snowstorm. On the edge of this moorland, before leaving the shelter of the pines, Paqualin stopped. 'Shout,' he said, turning to the others, 'shout your loudest. The frost has caught me by the throat, and squeezed my crooked windpipe till I am as hoarse as a raven. But you are strong men. Shout, Lepage, for love of your wife. And you, good ass, there, for love of Eliza your sweetheart; she'll pay you in thistles, prickles and all, if you find her.' So they shouted, and this time there was an answer--a boy's voice half choked with crying. And with a pale, haggard face, and in his eyes a look of terror, from among the snow-laden pine-trees, came Antony. 'You alone!' cried Lepage. 'I trusted her to you; where are your mother and brothers?' 'She sent us on to try to get help. Paul is here just behind me. We lost ourselves, and wandered. She could get no further, and little Peter is dead asleep, under the big rocks, there to the right, out on the moor. Eliza does nothing but cry, and won't move.' The boy was utterly faint and disheartened. He threw himself down on the snow, and covered his face with his hands. 'I did my best, father,' he said, 'indeed, indeed I did; but I couldn't find the way. It was dark, and there was nothing to guide us, and I got bewildered with the cold. We were too late in starting, I know--that was my fault. But I did my best afterwards. Oh! father, I did try to take care of them. I couldn't help it. Say you forgive me.' Paqualin did not wait to hear more. 'The big rocks out to the right,' he repeated. [Illustration: FOUND. _Page 138._] His limbs were stiff with the sharp cold, which had penetrated his threadbare clothes, and his feet were numb with the snow that had worked its way in through the worn, cracked leather of his wretched boots. Oh, yes! I am afraid he was a very funny figure indeed; and that all the little boys in Nullepart would have hooted louder than ever if they could have seen him, as with his long grasshopper legs, wild red hair, and tattered cloak streaming out behind him, he shambled along, slipping and staggering, in the half darkness over that long half-mile of heath, and stone, and prickly bushes, and sly, deceitful snow-drifts that stretched between the edge of the forest and the rocks. 'Here is help,' he shrieked in his shrill voice. 'It is I--I, John Paqualin. Here is help.' As he passed round in front into the shelter of the tall, grey rocks, Susan Lepage rose up from the foot of them with a great cry. She flung her arms about him, and rested her fair head on his shoulder. 'Ah! God has sent you,' she sobbed. 'I called upon Him in the bitterness of my anguish, and He has heard me. Save us, John Paqualin; in mercy save me and my children.' The charcoal-burner's torch slipped from his grasp, and fell hissing upon the ground. 'The dog gets something more than his bone for once,' he said between his teeth. For a minute or so, in that mysterious, ghostly radiance of dancing star-light and white snow, he stood holding the weeping woman in his arms. 'God sent me, though, did He?' he murmured at last. 'Then I must do His good pleasure, not my own.' Paqualin spoke low, and quite softly, notwithstanding that queer crack in his voice. 'Look up, and take courage; there is better comfort than mine at hand. Your two boys are safely cared for already, and your husband is coming. The trouble is over. For you, at least, the morning begins to break.' Then, as he heard the crunch of hurried footsteps coming over the snow behind him, he turned and cried:-- 'Here, take your wife, Lepage!' Paqualin moved aside. 'For the man,' he said, half aloud--'well--what he's a right to. Get back to your kennel, you hound.' Now Eliza was sitting with her back against one of the rocks in the burrow, where the snow was lightest, and little Peter, closely wrapped in his mother's shawl, lay stupefied with sleep, with his head in her lap. As Paqualin turned round, she moaned out:-- 'No, no, don't come near me. I am dreadfully ill--probably I shall never recover. I think I shall die. But I won't give way, I won't listen to you. To the last I am true to Gustavus. Ah! my poor heart, how it beats. Yes, I should like to have bidden a last farewell to Gustavus.' 'Don't fret,' answered the charcoal-burner. 'Thy mooncalf is on the road. He'll be here in plenty of time to say a good deal besides good-bye to you, unless I am very much mistaken.' Eliza gave a prodigious sigh. 'He will be too late, I know it, I know it. Ah! how will he live without me, poor, faithful, broken-hearted Gustavus?' Whether it was his mother's cry that roused him, or the sudden lights and the voices, I do not know; but little Peter half awoke from the heavy torpor of sleep into which the cold and fatigue had plunged him. 'I will not hush, Eliza. I love John Paqualin. Yes, I love him,' he murmured. CHAPTER X. WHICH ENDS THE STORY. 'Something has gone very wrong,' said Cincinnatus to himself in the cat language. 'I don't pretend to understand it. This, is one of those many matters that I should be glad to take my cousin the Sacristan's cat's opinion upon. Dear me! what a misfortune it is to live here in the country, away from the centre of social intercourse and civilisation.' Then Cincinnatus fell to washing his face with his paws, for he had lately had his five o'clock saucer of milk, you see; and it is etiquette in cat-land always to wash after meals, not before them as we do. The yellow earthenware stove was lighted in the bedroom, and Cincinnatus sat opposite to the open door of it, and blinked at the heart of crimson wood embers, set in a fringe of flaky, grey ashes. It was very warm there, but Cincinnatus blinked and washed his face slowly. As to the heat, it soothed him, and inclined him to make a number of reflections. 'At the risk of repeating myself, I must observe that men are poor, improvident, thoughtless creatures,' he went on presently; 'subject to illness and accidents of all kinds. However, a thoughtful cat will not be hard upon them. _Noblesse oblige._ Those who have the advantage can afford to be generous. Fancy coming into this world, now, where the weather is so extremely uncertain, all pink and bare as they do, poor things, without any comfortable fur to cover them; and having to make up for it by enclosing themselves in all sorts of shapeless, foreign substances, prepared from sheep's wool or vegetables. And no tail either! Imagine being deprived of that most dignified and expressive member. Yet, you must give them their due. Necessity has certainly made them very ingenious.' Cincinnatus stretched himself lazily in the hot glow of the stove fire. 'But with all their ingenuity only one life,' he said yawning. 'And that one, as I observed just now, subject to all manner of illness and accident. We have nine lives! Who would be one of them if he could help it? Poor things, no wonder if they envy us.' Then Cincinnatus went across the boarded floor with his noiseless tread, and jumped up on to little Peter's bed, and began purring in the most amiable and engaging manner, sticking out all his claws and then drawing them in again and making a nice tight little fist, as he trampled on the bed-clothes, first with one fore-foot and then with the other. He even went so far as to rub his head along against the little boy's shoulder, which, considering his opinion of the relative position of cats and mankind in the universal scale of being, was really very condescending of him, to my thinking. But little Peter did not speak or pay any attention to Cincinnatus. He only sighed in his sleep, and turned his round, black head on the pillow. Poor little Peter had lain just like that, quite still and quiet, in bed ever since his father and the charcoal-burner had placed him there when they had got home from that terrible walk in the snow, about four o'clock in the morning. The ice-fairies, who really are very elegant people and not at all disagreeable when you know them, had come at sunrise and spread the most beautiful patterns--crowns and crosses, and stars and diamonds, and ice flowers of a hundred exquisite shapes--all over the window panes; but little Peter had been too tired and sleepy to get up and look at them. And when, in the afternoon, not without struggle and difficulty, for the road was dangerous with snow-drifts, the kind, old doctor, with his red nose and his snuffbox, had ridden over from Nullepart, and sat by the little boy's bed and felt his pulse, and examined him carefully, with a face as wise as an owl's, from behind his large spectacles, Peter had been too fired and sleepy to look at him either. The old doctor had taken an extra pinch of snuff, and shaken his head quite seriously, I am sorry to say, at leaving. Now it was past five o'clock, and Peter still lay in his little bed dozing and sleeping--dreaming too, but not of the snow and the pain of the winter. He dreamed of sunshine and of pleasant places, of the singing of birds and the sound of the cow-bells in the flowery fields in the spring-time. The elder boys and their father had gone to see the doctor safe part of his way home again. And Susan Lepage had sunk down in the big chair in the kitchen, and had fallen asleep, worn out with fatigue and anxiety. And Eliza, hearing Gustavus come into the back kitchen with the milk-pans, had slipped downstairs from watching beside the child, just to have a word with him. 'Poor fellow,' she said, 'he really is so over-joyed at my being restored to him, that there is no saying if he won't mix this evening's milk with this morning's, or ruin the cream by shaking it, or commit some other folly. He is not clever, and my family will certainly reproach me with having married beneath me; but he has a good heart, and I think he really appreciates me as he ought to, does Gustavus.' So it happened that little Peter was left quite alone, but for the society of the cat, up in the bedroom. John Paqualin came along the flagged path to the front of the house; and pressing his face close against the glass, for it was difficult to see through them, the panes being frosty, looked in at the kitchen window. Then he went to the house door, lifted the latch carefully, entered, and stood still, listening. There was no sound save the singing of the kettle, and Eliza's chatter in the distant dairy, with the clump of the cowherd's boots on the flags and the clink of the milk-pans. From the rows of copper kettles and saucepans, and the china high on the dresser, to the red tiled floor under the charcoal-burner's feet, the large kitchen actually shone with exquisite cleanliness. The light of the lamp on the table fell upon Susan Lepage's high, white cap, showing it and her pure, grave profile, as she leaned her head back in the arm-chair, clear cut against the ruddy dusk of the chimney corner behind her. [Illustration] Paqualin, as he stood there silent and watchful, with his sunken eyes, ungainly figure, and dilapidated garments, seemed strangely out of place. He shaded his eyes with his hand, for the light dazzled him, as he looked for a minute or two at the sleeping mother. Then he went quietly across the kitchen and up the wide, wooden staircase. 'The house is asleep,' he murmured in his high, cracked tones:--'or would be but for the voice of Eliza. Pah! the woman's tongue cuts like a whip. But her sweetheart, the ass, has a good thick hide of his own; he finds the lash only pleasantly tickling.' Paqualin went into the warm, dimly-lighted bedroom above. 'The house is asleep,' he repeated. 'Hey-ho, Sleep's a kindly fellow, with his turban of nodding poppies. He cures the heart-ache. But he's forgetful, sadly forgetful. He hasn't been near me these five nights; and God knows, I have had the heart-ache as badly as any of the others.' He knelt down by little Peter's bed, and looked closely at the child. [Illustration: THE CHARCOAL-BURNER VISITS LITTLE PETER. _Page 150._] 'Eh! Sleep is hardly a kind friend to you, I'm afraid, though,' he said under his breath. 'A little too much of the smell of the drowsy poppies here to be quite healthful.' As he spoke, Cincinnatus, who had been curled up comfortably in a nice, warm depression in the bed-clothes, jumped down on to the floor with glaring eyes and a great tail. 'I won't spit though,' he said. 'It really isn't worth the trouble. No, an air of absolute indifference will be even more impressive and chilling.' So he walked away very stiffly, and sat down opposite the open stove door again. The charcoal-burner placed one of his lean hands on the little boy's soft, pudgy one, that lay palm upward on the pillow, and with the other patted him tenderly on the cheek. 'Little Peter,' he said, 'wake up. Come back to us, dear, little mouse. You said you loved me--nobody ever said that to me before. Don't go away from me, do not desert me.' He paused a minute, and then went on pleadingly:-- 'Think of all the stories I have told you, remember the nuts and the apples.--Eh! wake up, little lad, and come back to poor, ugly John Paqualin, to whom his fellow men have shown such scant mercy.' But the child lay quite still; his long, black eyelashes resting on his pale cheeks, and his pretty, round mouth a wee bit open as he sighed softly in that strange stupor of sleep. Tears dimmed the charcoal-burner's eyes. He bent his wild shock head and rested it down on the white coverlet. 'Ah, great God!' he murmured, 'Thou who art all powerful, listen to me. See here, can't we make an exchange?--Take my poor, battered, weary, old soul instead of his fresh, innocent, white one. Let me give him my life for his mother's sake, the sweetest and most compassionate of women. She will grieve if she loses him, her darling, her baby; and kind as she is, she won't miss me very much. Why should she?--an outcast of nature, a shameful, misshapen mistake; one sorry sight the less in the world when I'm gone, that's all.--Death's dreadful, they say--yes, I know I am afraid of it. But, after all, it can't be so very much worse than life--at least for some of us.' He threw back his head, and clasped his hard hands together. 'Here, take me,' he cried. 'I will come. A trifle of suffering, more or less, what does it matter? Spare the little lamb, O Lord, and take me, John Paqualin, as ransom.' Now the charcoal-burner was not quite right in his head, you see, and that accounts for his eccentric prayer and very original behaviour. You had better bear this in mind. I won't tell you why; you will probably find out for yourselves when you have seen more of the world and grown rather older. Paqualin knelt on there for some time, looking up as though he expected a direct and visible answer to his singular petition. But nothing happened save that Eliza came upstairs on the tips of her toes--a way of stepping which she intended to be particularly quiet, but which was, in fact, particularly noisy--and peeped into the room. Seeing the charcoal-burner kneeling by the bed-side, she gave a fearful gasp, and sank down into the nearest chair. 'The saints help and preserve us!' she exclaimed in a loud whisper, holding her side, 'what next? Ah! how it startled me. The helpless, sick child in the arms of that ogre! Go away, John Paqualin, go away. How on earth did you get here? I've only been downstairs three minutes giving some necessary instructions to Gustavus.--He really is beside himself with joy, poor fellow.--Go away, I say; if Peter woke up suddenly he would have a fit at seeing you. Look at yourself in the looking-glass, and you'll understand why, fast enough. A rush of blood to the head from fright and the child would be dead. And if half the stories one hears of you are true, there is enough down on the wrong side of your account already without adding wilful murder. Go along with you.--Ah! I am so weak--my poor heart, how it beats.' Eliza advanced, creaking across the boarded floor, towards the charcoal-burner. He had risen to his feet. 'There is no answer,' he said, in a low voice. 'You fool, learn your lesson. God doesn't want your wretched, worthless soul, John Paqualin. Who are you, indeed, that you should try to strike a bargain with the Almighty, and offer such miserable refuse and offscourings as your life in place of that of the pure and sinless child there?' He looked back towards the bed. 'Good-bye,' he said, 'dear, little Peter. When you are gone there will be nothing left on earth to love me; and in heaven it's clear they can do very well without me yet awhile.' Then, as Eliza came close to him, whispering, pointing towards the door, and signing to him, he turned upon her with a terrible face. 'Woman, leave me alone,' he said. 'Have not I enough to bear already, without the maddening gnat-bites of your spiteful ignorance and cruel folly?' And the grasshopper man went out of the room, and down the stairs, and into the dark frosty night. [Illustration] Eliza leant up against the bottom of the bed, with her eyes half shut. 'Are you gone yet,' she murmured, 'you savage, wild animal?--If the child had woke up and screamed there would have been a fine fuss, and all the blame would have been laid on me, of course. It isn't fair that crazy men like that should be allowed to persecute respectable, young servant-women. I'll get Gustavus to lay an information against him at the police station at Nullepart for using threatening language to me. Of course it is all jealousy; but I can't help my good looks.' Eliza opened her eyes again, arranged the mauve silk handkerchief about her neck, and smiled complacently. 'It is a comfort to know that you have no cause to be ashamed of your face--or of your disposition, for that matter, either,' she added. Now this all happened on Monday evening, as no doubt you have made out already. Very early, before it was light on Wednesday morning, little Peter, who all that long time had lain sleeping unconscious of what went on around him, suddenly seemed to find himself very wide awake indeed. There was a strange light in the room, bright and yet soft like an early summer dawn. And as the little boy opened his eyes, he saw that at his bedside there stood a young man, with a calm, beautiful face and shining hair. He was clothed down to the feet in a long, white, linen garment. As Peter looked up wonderingly, the young man bent over him. There was something very still and gentle in his glance, and the little boy smiled, for it seemed to him that the young man's face was that of an old friend, though he could not remember ever to have seen him before. Then the young man spoke to him, and said:-- 'Little Peter, you have been sick and tired. Will you come away with me to a far-off country where there is no more sickness and trouble, and where the children play all the year round among blooming flowers in green, sunny pastures by the river-side?' Peter did not feel a bit afraid; but he thought of his parents and his brothers, and asked:-- 'But, please, will my mother, and father, and Paul, and Antony, and my cat Cincinnatus, come too? Paul is very kind, and he makes such nice mill-wheels to turn in the brook, and weathercocks to stick up in the pear-tree and show which way the wind blows. And Cincinnatus would be dull and lonely if I left him behind. He likes to come to bed with me in the morning, and the old grey wolf might come out of the wood and catch him, and make him into soup for little wolves when I was gone.' The young man smiled as he answered:--'Never fear. Your mother and father and Paul and Antony will certainly join you some day if they are good. Time seems very short while we wait in that happy country. And as to Cincinnatus, who knows but that he may come also? In any case, he will be quite safe, for our Heavenly Father loves all his living creatures--not only angels and men, but fish, and birds, and beasts as well. Will you come, little Peter?' 'Ah! but there's John Paqualin,' said the boy. 'You know whom I mean--the charcoal-burner. I can't leave him very well, you see, because he is often very unhappy; and he says nobody will ever care for him because he is rather odd and ugly-looking. And I do care for him very much indeed.' Then the young man bent lower and looked into little Peter's eyes. 'Why, why you are John Paqualin!' cried the child. 'Yes,' said the other, and his face was radiant with the peace that passes understanding. 'I am John Paqualin. God be praised.' 'But how you have changed!' little Peter said; for he was a good deal surprised, you know, and no wonder. 'With the Lord one day is as a thousand years,' answered the young man. 'Will you come with me now, little Peter?' Then Peter stretched out his hands and laughed out loud with joy; he was so very glad about quite a number of things--the thought of his playfellows in that fair and happy country, and of the coming of his parents and brothers, and of Cincinnatus the cat, and most of all at the delightful change for the better that had taken place in the personal appearance of his friend the charcoal-burner. 'Yes,' he said, 'I'll come.' So then the young man took him up very tenderly in his strong arms, and laid the little, tired head upon his breast and carried little Peter away. Now it happened, strangely enough, that though both Susan Lepage and her husband sat watching by their child's bedside, they neither of them saw the young man with the calm face and shining hair, or heard a word he said. They only saw that the little boy opened his eyes suddenly and seemed to gaze at something with a kind of glad wonder, and that he smiled, and that his dear, little lips moved, and then that he stretched out his hands and laughed joyfully. After that he lay very still. Susan Lepage waited a moment or two, then she rose and took a candle that stood on the oak chest near the bed's head. Shading it with her hand, she stooped down and looked closely at the child. 'Ah, my little one!' she cried. She put the candle back again, and coming round the foot of the bed, stood by Master Lepage, with her hand resting on his shoulder. 'My husband,' she said, 'our child will suffer no more. The dear Lord loved him and has called for him. A child has died on earth. A child is born in Paradise.' There was a long silence. Master Lepage sat bolt upright with his arms hanging down at his sides--more as though he was standing before the general officer on parade, than sitting in the rush-bottomed chair in his own bedroom. The big tears ran down over his cheeks and fell from his moustache on to his blue blouse as thick as a summer shower. 'My wife,' he said slowly, 'our paths have joined at last--joined beside an open grave, but better there than nowhere. There shall be no more silence between us. The God whom you have served so faithfully in time will surely heal the smart of your sorrow. And perhaps He will condescend to listen to the prayers of a foolish, vain-glorious, wrong-headed, old soldier, whom grief and repentance have humbled. Pardon me, my wife. I have been wrong and you right all along.' Lepage stood up, took her two hands in his, and kissed her. 'Ah, my dear, let us talk only of love and hope, not of pardon,' Susan Lepage answered gently. She turned and looked at little Peter, still and smiling, with his round, black head resting so cosily on the white pillow. 'The autumn child has brought a blessing to the house,' she murmured. 'Ten thousand plagues!' broke out Master Lepage hoarsely. 'Twenty thousand cut-throat Prussians!--but I loved the little one.' * * * * * And is that the end of the story? Well, yes, as far as a story can be said to have an end--most stories go on for ever, only we get tired or stupid and leave off reading them--if the story has an end, I say, I suppose this is it. Still there are just one or two little things I can mention which you might like to know. For instance, when next day Gustavus happened to pass the charcoal-burner's hut, he heard such a horrible barking, and yelling, that, though he was not of a very active or curious order of mind, he really had to go and see what was the matter. And on getting to the back of the hut he found Madelon, the sow, standing up on her hind legs in her sty, with her fore-feet resting on the rough, wooden door of it, her long, black snout high in the air, her floppety ears shaking, her great mouth wide open as she squealed aloud, and not a single scrap of food in her trough. This seemed to Gustavus such a singular thing, that though he had no great fancy for the society of the charcoal-burner, he thought he would just look inside the hut door, which stood half open. The snow had drifted in at it and lay thick on the mud floor within, there was no fire on the hearth, and the place was deathly chill. Yet Paqualin sat there sure enough, on a wooden bench, with his elbows on the table in front of him, and his head resting on his hands. His back was towards Gustavus. The cowherd did not quite like to go inside the hut somehow. He stood in the snow on the door-sill and called. At last he plucked up his courage, and going forward pulled at Paqualin's ragged sleeve. [Illustration] 'Umph,' said Gustavus, as he stumbled out again in a desperate hurry. He took off his hat and wiped his face round, for notwithstanding the frosty day, he felt quite uncomfortably warm. 'Here, I'll give you something, granny,' he called out to the sow. 'If you wait till your master brings it you'll wait a long time for your breakfast to-day. Bless me! but I shall have something to tell our Eliza this evening at supper that'll make her open her eyes!' Antony has gone to serve his time in the army; and when his time is up and he comes back again to the old, wooden farm-house in the forest, I think it is very likely that the wish he wished in the dining-room of the Red Horse at Nullepart, when he shared the double filbert kernel with pretty Marie Georgeon, may really come true. Paul is apprenticed to an engineer in Paris, and lives among whirling machines in the great, crowded workshops; and his employers are much impressed with his ability and talent, and prophesy that he will make a name for himself some day. Cincinnatus is quite an old cat now, and his whiskers are almost white; but he still sits opposite the glowing wood fire in the kitchen, and blinks his big, yellow eyes and reflects on the superiority of cats to men. And Master Lepage still reads the history of the famous Roman Republic in the winter evenings, and takes off his spectacles and wipes them with his red pocket-handkerchief; but he rarely talks politics now, and never sits in the wine-shop, though on fine Sundays he often walks with his gentle, sweet-faced wife through the forest, and kneels humbly beside her in the church, and prays God to guide and teach him, and forgive him all his sins. [Illustration] And is this a true story? Yes, as true as I can make it, and I have taken a good deal of pains. But did it all really happen? Ah! that is quite another question. For you will find as you grow older, that some of the very truest stories are those which, as most people in this world count happening, have never happened at all. And if you can't understand how that can be, I advise you, the first fine day, to ask your way to Nullepart and take the opinion of the Sacristan's cat upon the matter. He is a scholar, you know, so he is sure to be able to explain it. THE END. PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON Transcriber's Note: Variations in hyphenation have been retain as in the original publication. Punctuation has been standardised. 
19115	----	[Illustration: FIG. 1. POTTERY STAMPS AND STAMPED POTTERY FROM HOLT. (A) Head of Silenus (1/1). Probably an artist's die, for casting stamps for stamped ware (p. 20) (B) Fragment of stamped ware (1/1), with ornament imitated from Samian (p. 19) (C) STAMP FOR MORTARIUM (1/1)] THE BRITISH ACADEMY SUPPLEMENTAL PAPERS. III Roman Britain in 1914 By Professor F. Haverfield Fellow of the Academy London: 1915 Published for the British Academy By Humphrey Milford, Oxford University Press Amen Corner, E.C. [Transcribers Note: Professor Francis Haverfield] TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 4 PREFACE 5 A. RETROSPECT OF FINDS MADE IN 1914 7 (_a_) Raedykes, near Stonehaven; Wall of Pius; Traprain Law; Northumberland (Featherwood, Chesterholm, Corbridge); Weardale (co. Durham); Appleby; Ambleside (fort at Borrans); Lancaster; Ribchester; Slack (near Huddersfield); Holt; Cardiff; Richborough. (_b_) Wroxeter; Lincoln; Gloucester; London; country houses and farms; Lowbury (Berkshire); Beachy Head, Eastbourne; Parc-y-Meirch (North Wales) 21 B. ROMAN INSCRIPTIONS FOUND IN 1914 29 Balmuildy (Wall of Pius); Traprain Law; Featherwood (altar); Chesterholm (two altars); Corbridge (inscribed tile); Weardale (bronze _paterae_); Holt (centurial stone and tile); Lincoln; London; rediscovered milestone near Appleby. C. PUBLICATIONS RELATING TO ROMAN BRITAIN IN 1914. 1. General 38 2. Special sites or districts 41 APPENDIX: LIST OF PERIODICALS HAVING REFERENCE TO ROMAN BRITAIN 64 INDEX OF PLACES 67 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE 1. Pottery-stamps and stamped pottery from Holt (see p. 19) _Frontispiece_ 2. Plan of Roman Fort at Borrans, Ambleside. From a plan by Mr. R. G. Collingwood 10 3. Sketch plan of Principia (Praetorium) of Roman Fort at Ribchester. After a plan by Mr. D. Atkinson and Prof. W. B. Anderson 13 4. Sketch plan of part of the Roman Fort at Slack. From a plan by Messrs. A. Woodward and P. Ross 14 5. Holt, plan of site 16 6. Holt, plan of barracks 17 7. Holt, plan of dwelling-house and bath-house 17 8. Holt, plan of kilns 18 9. Holt, reconstruction of the kilns shown in fig. 8 18 10, 11. Holt, stamped 'imitation Samian' ware 20 (Figs. 1 and 5-11 are from photographs or drawings lent by Mr. A. Acton, of Wrexham) 12. Sketch plan of Roman bath-house at East Grimstead, after a plan by Mr. Heywood Sumner 24 13. Sketch plan of Romano-British house at North Ash, after a plan prepared by the Dartford Antiquarian Society 25 14. Plan of Romano-British house at Clanville. After a plan by the Rev. G. Engleheart, in _Archaeologia_ 26 15. Fragment of inscription found at Balmuildy 29 16. Altar found at Chesterholm, drawn from a photograph 31 17-19. Graves and grave-nails, Infirmary Field, Chester. From drawings and photographs by Prof. Newstead 41-2 20-22. The Mersea grave-mound. From the Report of the Morant Club and Essex Archaeological Society 43 23, 24. Margidunum, plan and seal-box. From the _Antiquary_ 51 25-28. Plan, section and views of the podium of the temple at Wroxeter. From the Report by Mr. Bushe-Fox 53 29. General plan of the Roman fort and precincts at Gellygaer. After plans by Mr. J. Ward 59 30. Postholes at Gellygaer 63 For the loan of blocks 14, 17-20, 21-2, and 23-4, I am indebted respectively to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press, Prof. Newstead, and the Liverpool University Press, the Morant Club and the Essex Archaeological Society, and the publisher of the _Antiquary_. PREFACE The contents of the present volume are of much the same character as those of its predecessor, 'Roman Britain in 1913'. The first section gives a retrospect of the chief finds made in 1914, so far as they are known to me. The second section is a more detailed and technical survey of the inscriptions found in Britain during that year. The third and longest section is a summary, with some attempt at estimate and criticism, of books and articles dealing with Roman Britain which appeared in 1914 or at least bear that date on cover or title-page. At the end I have added, for convenience, a list of the English archaeological and other publications which at least sometimes contain noteworthy articles relating to Roman Britain. The total, both of finds and of publications, is smaller than in 1913. In part the outbreak of war in August called off various supervisors and not a few workmen from excavations then in progress; in one case it prevented a proposed excavation from being begun. It also seems to have retarded the issue of some archaeological periodicals. But the scarcity of finds is much more due to natural causes. The most extensive excavations of the year, those of Wroxeter and Corbridge, yielded little; they were both concerned with remains which had to be explored in the course of a complete uncovering of those sites but which were not in themselves very interesting. The lesser sites, too, were somewhat unproductive, though at least one, Traprain Law, is full of promise for the future, and good work has been done in the systematic examination of the fort at Ambleside and of certain rubbish-pits in London. In one case, that of Holt (pp. 15-21), where excavations have for the present come to an end, I have thought it well to include a brief retrospect of the whole of a very interesting series of finds and, aided by the kindness of the excavator, Mr. Arthur Acton of Wrexham, to add some illustrations of notable objects which have not yet appeared elsewhere in print. A. RETROSPECT OF FINDS MADE IN 1914 i-xiv. FINDS RELATING TO THE ROMAN MILITARY OCCUPATION. (i) The exploration of the Roman-seeming earthworks in northern Scotland which Dr. Macdonald and I began in 1913 at Ythan Wells, in Aberdeenshire (Report for 1913, p. 7), was continued in 1914 by Dr. Macdonald at Raedykes, otherwise called Garrison Hill, three miles inland from Stonehaven. Here Roy saw and planned a large camp of very irregular outline, which he took to be Roman.[1] Since his time the ramparts have been somewhat ploughed down, but Dr. Macdonald could trace them round, identify the six gateways, and generally confirm Roy's plan, apart from its hill-shading. The ramparts proved to be of two kinds: part was built solidly of earth, with a deep ditch of Roman shape strengthened in places with clay, in front of it, while part was roughly piled with stones and defended only by a shallow rounded ditch. This difference seemed due to the differing nature of the ground; ditch and rampart were slighter where attack was less easy. The gateways were wide and provided with traverses (_tituli_ or _tutuli_), as at Ythan Wells. No small finds were secured. The general character of the gateways and ramparts seemed to show Roman workmanship, but the exact date within the Roman period remained doubtful. It has been suggested that the traverses indicate Flavian rather than Antonine fortifying. But these devices are met with in Britain at Bar Hill, which presumably dates from about A.D. 140, and on Hadrian's Wall in third-century work. [Footnote 1: _Antiquities_, plate 50. Roy does not notice it in his text, any more than he notices plate 51 (Ythan Wells camp). They are the two last plates in his volume; as this was issued posthumously in 1793 (he died in 1790), perhaps the omission is intelligible.] (ii) _Wall of Pius and its forts._ At Balmuildy, north of Glasgow (see Report for 1913, p. 10), Mr. Miller has further cleared the baths outside the south-east corner of the fort and the adjacent ditches. The plan which I gave last year has now to be corrected so as to show a triple ditch between the south gate and the south-east corner and a double ditch from the south-east corner to the east gate. This latter section of ditch was, however, filled up at some time with clay, and the bath planted on top of it. At presumably the same time a ditch was run out from the south-east corner so as to enclose the bath and form an annexe; in this annexe was found a broken altar-top with a few letters on it (below, p. 29). Search was also made for rubbish-pits on the north side of the fort, but without any result. On other parts of the Wall Dr. Macdonald has gained further successes. Evidence seems to be coming out as to the hitherto missing forts of Kirkintilloch and Inveravon. More details have been secured of the fort at Mumrills--fully 4-1/2 acres in area and walled with earth, not with the turf or stone employed in the ramparts of the other forts of the Wall. The line of the Wall from Falkirk to Inveravon, a distance of four miles, has also been traced; it proved to be built of earth and clay, not of the turf used in the Wall westwards. Dr. Macdonald suggests that the eastern section of the Wall lay through heavily wooded country, where turf was naturally awanting. (iii) _Traprain Law._ Very interesting, too, are the preliminary results secured by Mr. A. O. Curie on Traprain Law. This is an isolated hill in Haddingtonshire, some twenty miles east of Edinburgh, on the Whittingehame estate of Mr. Arthur Balfour. Legends cluster round it--of varying antiquity. It itself shows two distinct lines of fortification, one probably much older than the other, enclosing some 60 acres. The area excavated in 1914 was a tiny piece, about 30 yards square; the results were most promising. Five levels of stratification could be distinguished. The lowest and earliest yielded small objects of native work and Roman potsherds of the late first century: higher up, Roman coins and pottery of the second century appeared, and in the top level, Roman potsherds assigned to the fourth century. One Roman potsherd, from a second-century level, bore three Roman letters IRI, the meaning of which is likely to remain obscure. As the inscribed surface came from the inside of an urn, the writing must have been done after the pot was broken, and presumably on the hill itself. Among the native finds were stone and clay moulds for casting metal objects. The site, on a whole, seems to be native rather than Roman; it may be our first clue to the character of native _oppida_ in northern Britain under Roman rule; its excavation is eminently worth pursuing. (iv) _Northumberland, Hadrian's Wall._ On Hadrian's Wall no excavations have been carried out. But at Chesterholm two inscribed altars were found in the summer. One was dedicated to Juppiter Optimus Maximus; the rest of the lettering was illegible. The other, dedicated to Vulcan on behalf of the Divinity of the Imperial House by the people of the locality, possesses much interest. The dedicators describe themselves as _vicani Vindolandenses_, and thus give proof that the civilians living outside the fort at Chesterholm formed a _vicus_ or something that could plausibly be described as such; further, they teach the proper name of the place, which we have been wont to call Vindolana. See further below, p. 31. North of the Wall, at Featherwood near High Rochester (the fort Bremenium) an altar has been found, dedicated to Victory (see p. 30). (v) _Corbridge._ The exploration of Corbridge was carried through its ninth season by Mr. R. H. Forster. As in 1913, the results were somewhat scanty. The area examined, which lay on the north-east of the site, adjacent to the areas examined in 1910 and 1913, seems, like them, to have been thinly occupied in Roman times; at any rate the structures actually unearthed consisted only of a roughly built foundation (25 feet diam.) of uncertain use, which there is no reason to call a temple, some other even more indeterminate foundations, and two bits of road. More interest may attach to three ditches (one for sewage) and the clay base of a rampart, which belong in some way to the northern defences of the place in various times. The full meaning of these will, however, not be discernible till complete plans are available and probably not till further excavations have been made; Mr. Forster inclines to explain parts of them as ditches of a fort held in the age of Trajan, about A.D. 90-110. Several small finds merit note. An inscribed tile seems to have served as a writing lesson or rather, perhaps, as a reading lesson: see below, p. 32. The Samian pottery included a very few pieces of '29', a good deal of early '37', which most archaeologists would ascribe to the late first or the opening second century, and some other pieces which perhaps belong to a rather later part of the same century. The coins cover much the same period; few are later than Hadrian. Among them was a hoard of 32 denarii and 12 copper of which Mr. Craster has made the following list:-- _Silver_: 2 Republican, 1 Julius Caesar, 1 Mark Antony, 1 Nero, 1 Galba, 3 Vitellius, 13 Vespasian, 3 Titus, 6 Domitian, 1 unidentified. _Copper_: 3 Vespasian, 1 Titus, 2 Domitian, 3 Nerva, 1 Trajan, 2 unidentified. The latest coin was the copper of Trajan--a _dupondius_ or Second Brass of A.D. 98. All the coins had been corroded into a single mass, apparently by the burning of a wooden box in which they have been kept; this burning must have occurred about A.D. 98-100. Among the bronze objects found during the year was a dragonesque enamelled brooch. (vi) In Upper _Weardale_ (co. Durham) a peat-bog has given up two bronze _paterae_ or skillets, bearing the stamp of the Italian bronze-worker Cipius Polybius, and an uninscribed bronze ladle. See below, p. 33. (vii) Near Appleby, at Hangingshaw farm, Mr. P. Ross has come upon a Roman inscription which proves to be a milestone of the Emperor Philip (A.D. 244-6) first found in 1694 and since lost sight of (p. 35). (viii) _Ambleside Fort._ The excavation of the Roman fort in Borrans Field near Ambleside, noted in my Report for 1913 (p. 13), was continued by Mr. R. G. Collingwood, Fellow of Pembroke College, Oxford, and others with much success. The examination of the ramparts, gates, and turrets was completed; that of the main interior buildings was brought near completion, and a beginning was made on the barracks, sufficient to show that they were, at least in part, made of wood. [Illustration: FIG. 2. BORRANS FORT, AMBLESIDE (I. Granaries; II. Head-quarters; III. Commandant's House; A. Cellar; B. Hearth or Kiln; C. Deposit of corn; D. Ditch perhaps belonging to earliest fort; E. Outer Court of Head-quarters; F. Inner Court)] The fort, as is now clear (fig. 2), was an oblong enclosure of about 300 × 420 feet, nearly 3 acres. Round it ran a wall of roughly coursed stone 4 feet thick, with a clay ramp behind and a ditch in front. Turrets stood at its corners. Four gates gave access to it; three of them were single and narrow, while the fourth, the east gate, was double and was flanked by two guard-chambers. As usual, the chief buildings stood in a row across the interior. Building I--see plan, fig. 2--was a pair of granaries, each 66 feet long, with a space between. They were of normal plan, with external buttresses, basement walls, and ventilating windows (not shown on plan). The space between them, 15 feet wide, contained marks of an oven or ovens (plan, B) and also some corn (plan, C) and may have been at one time used for drying grain stored in the granaries; how far it was roofed is doubtful. Building II, the Principia or Praetorium, a structure of 68 × 76 feet, much resembled the Principia at Hardknot, ten miles west of Ambleside, but possessed distinct features. As the plan shows, it had an entrance from the east, the two usual courts (EF), and the offices which usually face on to the inner court F. These offices, however, were only three in number instead of five, unless wooden partitions were used. Under the central office, the _sacellum_ of the fort, where the standards and the altars for the official worship of the garrison are thought to have been kept, our fort had, at A, a sunk room or cellar, 6 feet square, entered by a stone stair. Such cellars occur at Chesters, Aesica, and elsewhere and probably served as strong-rooms for the regimental funds. At Chesters, the cellar had stone vaulting; at Ambleside there is no sign of this, and timber may have been used. In the northernmost room of the Principia some corn and woodwork as of a bin were noted (plan, C). The inner court F seemed to Mr. Collingwood to have been roofed; in its north end was a detached room, such as occurs at Chesters, of unknown use, which accords rather ill with a roof. In the colonnade round the outer court E were vestiges of a hearth or oven (plan, B). Building III (70 × 80 feet) is that usually called the commandant's house; it seems to show the normal plan of rooms arranged round a cloister enclosing a tiny open space. In buildings II and III, at D, traces were detected as of ditches and walling belonging to a fort older and probably smaller than that revealed by the excavation generally. Small finds include coins of Faustina Iunior, Iulia Domna, and Valens, Samian of about A.D. 80 and later, including one or two bits of German Samian, a silver spoon, some glass, iron, and bronze objects, a leaden basin (?), and seven more leaden sling-bullets. It now seems clear that the fort was established about the time of Agricola (A.D. 80-5), though perhaps in smaller dimensions than those now visible, and was held till at least A.D. 365. Mr. Collingwood inclines to the view that it was abandoned after A.D. 85 and reoccupied under or about the time of Hadrian. The stratification of the turrets seems to show that it was destroyed once or twice in the second or third centuries, but the evidence is not wholly clear in details. The granaries seem to have been rebuilt once and the rooms of the commandant's house mostly have two floors. (ix) _Lancaster._ In October and November 1914, structural remains thought to be Roman, including 'an old Roman fireplace, circular in shape, with stone flues branching out', were noted in the garden of St. Mary's vicarage. The real meaning of the find seems doubtful. (x) _Ribchester._ In the spring of 1913 a small school-building was pulled down at Ribchester, and the Manchester Classical Association was able to resume its examination of the Principia (praetorium) of the Roman fort, above a part of which this building had stood. The work was carried out by Prof. W. B. Anderson, of Manchester University, and Mr. D. Atkinson, Research Fellow of Reading College, and, though limited in extent, was very successful. The first discovery of the Principia is due to Miss Greenall, who about 1905 was building a house close to the school and took care that certain remains found by her builders should be duly noted: excavations in 1906-7, however, left the size and extent of these remains somewhat uncertain and resulted in what we now know to be an incorrect plan. The work done last spring makes it plain (fig. 3) that the Principia fronted--in normal fashion--the main street of the fort (gravel laid on cobbles) running from the north to the south gate. But, abnormally, the frontage was formed by a verandah or colonnade: the only parallel which I can quote is from Caersws, where excavations in 1909 revealed a similar verandah in front of the Principia[2]. Next to the verandah stood the usual Outer Court with a colonnade round it and two wells in it (one is the usual provision): the colonnade seemed to have been twice rebuilt. Beyond that are fainter traces of the Inner Court which, however, lies mostly underneath a churchyard: the only fairly clear feature is a room (A on plan) which seems to have stood on the right side of the Inner Court, as at Chesters and Ambleside (fig. 2, above). Behind this, probably, stood the usual five office rooms. If we carry the Principia about 20 feet further back, which would be a full allowance for these rooms with their walling, the end of the whole structure will line with the ends of the granaries found some years ago. This, or something very like it, is what we should naturally expect. We then obtain a structure measuring 81 × 112 feet, the latter dimension including a verandah 8 feet wide. This again seems a reasonable result. Ribchester was a large fort, about 6 acres, garrisoned by cavalry; in a similar fort at Chesters, on Hadrian's Wall, the Principia measured 85 × 125 feet: in the 'North Camp' at Camelon, another fort of much the same size (nearly 6 acres), they measured 92 × 120 feet. [Footnote 2: I saw this verandah while open. The whole excavations at Caersws yielded important results and it is more than regrettable that no report of them has ever been issued.] [Illustration: FIG. 3. RIBCHESTER FORT, HEAD-QUARTERS] (xi) _Slack._ The excavation of the Roman fort at Slack, near Huddersfield, noted in my report for 1913 (p. 14), was continued in 1914 by Mr. P. W. Dodd and Mr. A. M. Woodward, lecturers in Leeds University, which is doing good work in the exploration of southern Yorkshire. The defences of the fort, part of its central buildings (fig. 4, I-III), and part of its other buildings (B-K) have now been attacked. The defences consist of (1) a ditch 15 feet wide, possibly double on the north (more exactly north-west) side and certainly absent on the southern two-thirds of the east (north-east) side; (2) a berme, 8 feet wide; and (3) a rampart 20-5 feet thick, built of turf and strengthened by a rough stone base which is, however, only 8-10 feet wide. Of the four gates, three (west, north, and east) have been examined; all are small and have wooden gate-posts instead of masonry. On each side of the east gate, which is the widest (15 ft.), the rampart is thought to thicken as if for greater defence. The absence of a ditch on the southern two-thirds of the east side may be connected with some paving outside the east gate and also with a bath-house, partly explored in 1824 and 1865, outside the south-east (east) corner; we may think that here was an annexe. The central buildings, so far as uncovered, are of stone; the Principia (III) perhaps had some wooden partitions. They are all ill-preserved and call for no further comment. West of them, in the rear of the fort, the excavators traced two long narrow wooden buildings (B, C), north of the road from the west (south-west) gate to the back of the Principia; on the other side of the road they found the ends of two similar buildings (D, E). This looks as if this portion of the fort was filled with four barracks. On the other side of the row of buildings I-III remains were traced of stone structures; one of these (F) had the L-shape characteristic of barracks, and indications point to two others (G, H) of the same shape. This implies six barrack buildings in this portion of the fort and ten barrack buildings in all, that is, a cohort 1,000 strong. But the whole fort is only just 3 acres, and one would expect a smaller garrison; when excavations have advanced, we may perhaps find that the garrison was really a _cohors quingenaria_ with six barracks, as at Gellygaer. Close against the east rampart, and indeed cutting somewhat into it, was a long thin building (K), 12-16 feet wide, which yielded much charcoal and potsherds and seemed an addition to the original plan of the fort. [Illustration: FIG. 4. PART OF SLACK FORT (I. Granaries; II. Doubtful; III. Head-quarters; A. Shrine in III; B, C, D, E. Wooden buildings in western part of fort; F, G, H, K. Stone buildings in eastern part)] The few small finds included Samian of the late first and early second centuries (but no '29'), and a denarius of Trajan. In respect of date, they agree with the finds of last year and of 1865, and suggest that the fort was established under Domitian or Trajan, and abandoned under Hadrian or Pius; as an inscription of the Sixth Legion was found here in 1744, apparently in the baths, the evacuation cannot have been earlier than about A.D. 130. The occupation of Slack must therefore have resembled that of Castleshaw, which stands at the western end of the pass through the Pennine Hills, which Slack guards on the east. If this be so, an explanation must be discovered for two altars generally assigned to Slack. One of these, found three miles north of Slack at Greetland in 1597 among traces of buildings, is dated to A.D. 205 (CIL. vii. 200). The other, found two miles eastwards, at Longwood, in 1880 (Eph. Epigr. vii. 920), bears no date; but it was erected by an Aurelius Quintus to the Numina Augustorum, and neither item quite suits so early a date as the reign of Trajan. The dedication of the first is to the goddess Victoria--_Vic_(_toria_) _Brig_(_antia_)--that of the second _deo Berganti_ (as well as the _Numina Aug._); so that in each case a local shrine to a native deity may be concerned. It is also possible that a fort was built near Greetland, after the abandonment of Slack, to guard another pass over the Pennine, that by way of Blackstone Edge. It is to be hoped that these interesting excavations may be continued and completed. (xii) _Holt._ At Holt, eight miles south of Chester on the Denbighshire bank of the Dee, Mr. Arthur Acton has further explored the very interesting tile and pottery works of the Twentieth Legion, of which I spoke in my Report for 1913 (p. 15). The site is not even yet exhausted. But enough has been discovered to give a definite picture of it, and as it may perhaps not be possible to continue the excavations at present, and as the detailed report which Mr. Acton projects may take time to issue, I shall try here, with his permission, to summarize very briefly his most noteworthy results. I have to thank him for supplying me with much information and material for illustrations. Holt combines the advantages of excellent clay for pottery and tile making,[3] good building stone (the Bunter red sandstone), and an easy waterway to Chester. Here the legion garrisoning Chester established, in the latter part of the first century, tile and pottery works for its own use and presumably also for the use of other neighbouring garrisons. Traces of these works were noted early in the seventeenth century, though they were not then properly understood.[4] In 1905 the late Mr. A. N. Palmer, of Wrexham, identified the site in two fields called Wall Lock and Hilly Field, just outside the village of Holt, and here, since 1906, Mr. Acton has, at his own cost, carefully and systematically carried out excavations. [Footnote 3: A Bronze Age burial (fig. 6, D) suggests that the clay may have been worked long before the Romans.] [Footnote 4: References are given by Watkin, _Cheshire_, p. 305, and Palmer, _Archaeologia Cambrensis_, 1906, pp. 225 foll.] [Illustration: FIG. 5. ROMAN SITE NEAR HOLT (1. Barracks?; 2. Dwelling and Bath-house; 3. Kiln; 4. Drying-room, &c. 5. Kilns; 6. Work-rooms?; 7. Clay-pits)] The discoveries show a group of structures scattered along a bank about a quarter of a mile in length which stands slightly above the Dee and the often flooded meadows beside it (fig. 5). At the west end of this area (fig. 5, no. 1, and fig. 6) was a large rectangular enclosure of about 62 × 123 yards (rather over 1-1/2 acres), girt with a strong wall 7 feet thick. Within it were five various rows of rooms mostly 15 feet square, with drains; some complicated masonry (? latrines) filled the east end. This enclosure was not wholly explored; it may have served for workmen's barracks; the contents of two rubbish-pits (fig. 6, AA)--bones of edible animals, cherry-stones, shells of snails, and Dee mussels, potsherds, &c.--had a domestic look; mill-stones for grinding corn, including one bearing what seems to be a centurial mark, and fragments of buff imported amphorae were also found here. Between this enclosure and the river were two small buildings close together (fig. 5, no. 2 and fig. 7). The easternmost of these seems to have been a dwelling-house 92 feet long, with a corridor and two hypocausts; it may have housed the officer in charge of the potteries. The western building was a bath-house, with hot-rooms at the east end, and the dressing-room, latrine, and cold-bath at the west end; one side of this building was hewn into the solid rock to a height of 3 feet. Several fibulae were found in the drains of the bath-house. [Illustration: FIG. 6. BARRACKS (?), HOLT (A. Rubbish pits; B. Latrines?; C. Water-pipe; D. Bronze Age burial)] [Illustration: FIG. 7. DWELLING-HOUSE AND BATH-HOUSE, HOLT] The other structures (3, 4, 6, 7) served industrial purposes. No. 4 (fig. 5) contained a hypocaust and was perhaps a workroom and drying shed. At 6 were ill-built and ill-preserved rooms, containing puddled clay, potsherds, &c., which declared them to be work-sheds of some sort. Finally, at 3 and 5 we have the kilns. No. 3 was a kiln 17 feet square, with a double flue, used (as its contents showed) for potting, and indeed for fine potting. No. 5 (figs. 8, 9) was an elaborate 'plant' of eight kilns in an enclosure of about 55 × 140 feet. Kilns A, B, F, H were used for pottery, C, D, E for tiles, F for both large vessels and tiles; the circular kiln G seems to be a later addition to the original plan. The kilns were thus grouped together for economy in handling the raw and fired material and in stacking the fuel, and also for economy of heat; the three tile-kilns in the centre would be charged, fired, and drawn in turn, and the heat from them would keep warm the smaller pottery-kilns round them. The interiors of the kilns contained many broken and a few perfect pots and tiles; round them lay an enormous mass of wood-ashes, broken tiles and pots, 'wasters' and the like. The wood-ashes seem to be mainly oak, which abounds in the neighbourhood of Holt. The kilns themselves are exceptionally well-preserved. They must have been in actual working order, when abandoned, and so they illustrate--perhaps better than any kilns as yet uncovered and recorded in any Roman province--the actual mechanism of a Roman tile- or pottery-kiln. The construction of a kiln floor, which shall work effectively and accurately, is less simple than it looks; the adjustment of the heat to the class of wares to be fired, the distribution of the heat by proper flues and by vent-holes of the right size, and other such details require knowledge and care. The remains at Holt show these features admirably, and Mr. Acton has been able to examine them with the aid of two of our best experts on pottery-making, Mr. Wm. and Mr. Joseph Burton, of Manchester. [Illustration: FIG. 8. PLAN OF KILN-PLANT AT HOLT (SEE p. 34, and FIG. 9) (Except at kilns F, G, the letters on the plan are placed at the fire-holes. In kilns A, B a small piece of the kiln floor (on which the vessels were placed for baking) is shown diagrammatically, to illustrate the relation between the hot-air holes in the floors and the passages in the underlying heating-chambers)] [Illustration: FIG. 9. RESTORATION OF THE HOLT KILN-PLANT, SHOWING THE FLOORS ON WHICH THE TILES OR VESSELS WERE PILED FOR BAKING (p. 18) The letters ABCDE are placed at the mouths of the stoke-holes of the respective kilns. Kilns ABDFH were used for pottery, CDE for tiles, F for large vessels and for tiles; G seems an addition to the original plan.] Smaller finds include two centurial stones (one found in 1914 is described below, p. 34); a mill-stone with letters suggesting that it belonged to a century of soldiers; several _graffiti_, mostly of a military character, so far as one can decipher them (for one see my Report for 1913, p. 30); a profusion of stamped tiles of the Twentieth Legion, mostly 'wasters'; some two dozen antefixes of the same legion; several tile and pottery stamps; about 45 coins of various dates; much window glass, and an immense quantity of potsherds of the most various kinds. Among these latter were Samian pieces of the late first century (no '29', but early '37' and '78' and a stamp of CRESTO) and of the second century (including the German stamp IANVF), and imitation Samian made on the spot. A quantity of lead and of iron perhaps worked into nails, &c., at Holt, and a few crucibles for casting small bronze objects, may also be mentioned. The Twentieth Legion tiles at Holt bear stamps identical with those on its tiles at Chester; we may think that the legion made for itself at Holt most of the tiles which it used in its fortress. Equal interest and more novelty attaches to the pottery made at Holt. This comprises many varieties; most prominent is a reddish or buff ware of excellent character, coated with a fine slip, which occurs in many different forms of vessels, cooking pots, jars, saucers, and even large flat dishes up to 30 inches in diameter. Specimens of these occur also in Chester, and it is clear that the legionary workmen made not only tiles--as in legionary tile-works in other lands--but also pots, mortaria (fig. 1), &c., for legionary use. Perhaps the most remarkable pieces among the pottery are some stamped pieces copied from decorated Samian, which I am able to figure here by Mr. Acton's kindness (figs. 1, 10, 11). They are pale reddish-brown in colour and nearly as firm in texture as good Samian; they are made (he tells me) by throwing on a wheel a clay (or 'body') prepared from local materials, then impressing the stamps, and finally laying on an iron oxide slip, perhaps with a brush. Sir Arthur Evans has pointed out to me that the stamp used for the heads on fig. 1 was a gem set in a ring; the setting is clearly visible under each head. The shape and ornament have plainly been suggested by specimens of Samian '37' bowls, probably of the second century. How far the author tried to copy definite pieces of Samian and how far he aimed at giving the general effect, is not quite clear to me. The large circles on fig. 11 suggest the medallions of Lezoux potters like Cinnamus; the palmettes might have been taken from German originals. Very few of these interesting pieces were found--all of them close to the kiln numbered 3 on fig. 5. [Illustration: FIG. 10. HOLT, STAMPED WARE IN IMITATION OF SAMIAN, SHAPE 37 (1/1)] An even more striking piece (fig. 1) is a 'poinçon' bearing the head of Silenus in relief. It is believed to be the artist's die, from which the potters' sunk dies would be cast; from such sunk dies little casts would be made and 'applied' in relief to the outsides of the bowls, to the handles of jugs, &c. It does not seem to have been intended for any sort of ware made from a mould; indeed, moulded ware rarely occurs among the products of Holt. It is far finer work than most Samian ornamentation; probably, however, it has never been damaged by use. It was found, with one or two less remarkable dies, in the waste round kiln 3. [Illustration: FIG. 11. STAMPED WARE, IN IMITATION OF SAMIAN, SHAPE 37 (1/1). (See pp. 19, 20)] Interest attaches also to various vessels, two or three nearly perfect and many broken, which have been glazed with green, brown or yellow glaze; some of these pieces seem to be imitated from cut glass ware. Along with them Mr. Acton has found the containing bowls (saggars) and kiln-props used to protect and support the glazed vessels during the process of firing, and as the drip of the glaze is visible on the sides of the props and the bottoms of the saggars, he infers that the Holt potters manufactured glazed ware with success. It is obvious that Mr. Acton's detailed report on Holt will be full of important matter, and that further excavation of the site, whenever it may be possible, will also yield important results. (xiii) _Cardiff._ The widening of Duke Street, which fronts the eastern half of the south side of Cardiff Castle, has revealed the south-east angle of the Roman fort, on the top of which the castle stands, and has revealed it in good preservation. Nothing, however, has come to light which seems to increase or alter our previous knowledge of the fort. Many small Roman objects are stated to have been found, Samian ware, coins, brooches, beads, in the course of the work; these may belong to the 'civil settlement' which, as I have said elsewhere, may have lain to the south of the fort (_Military Aspects of Roman Wales_, p. 105). When they have been sorted and dated, they should throw light on the history of Roman Cardiff. (xiv) _Richborough._ This important site has been taken over by H.M. Office of Works, and some digging has been done round the central platform, but (Mr. Peers tells me) without any notable result. The theory that this platform was the base of a lighthouse is still the most probable. xv-xxv. FINDS RELATING TO CIVIL LIFE (xv) _Wroxeter (Viroconium)._ The systematic excavation of Wroxeter begun in 1912 by Mr. J. P. Bushe-Fox on behalf of the London Society of Antiquaries and the Shropshire Archaeological Society, was carried by him through its third season in 1914. The area examined lay immediately north of the temple uncovered in 1913. The main structure in it was a large dwelling-house 115 feet long, with extensions up to 200 feet, which possessed at least two courtyards, a small detached bath-house, various mosaic and cement floors, hypocausts, and so forth. It had been often altered, and its excavation and explanation were excessively difficult. Mr. Bushe-Fox thinks that it may have begun as three shops giving on to the north and south Street which bounds its eastern end. Certainly it became, in course of time, a large corridor-house with a south aspect and an eastern wing fronting the street, and as such it underwent several changes in detail. Beyond its western end lay a still more puzzling structure. An enceinte formed by two parallel walls, about 13 feet apart, enclosed a rectangular space of about 150 feet wide; the western end of it, and therefore its length, could not be ascertained; the two corners uncovered at the east end were rounded; an entrance seems to have passed through the north-east corner. It has been called a small fort, an amphitheatre, a stadium, and several other things. But a fort should be larger and would indeed be somewhat hard to account for at this spot; while a stadium should have a rounded end and, if it was of orthodox length, would have extended outside the town into or almost into the Severn. Interest attaches to a water-channel along the main (north and south) street. This was found to have at intervals slits in each side which were plainly meant for sluice-gates to be let down; Mr. Bushe-Fox thinks that the channel was a water-supply, and not an outfall, and that by the sluice-gates the water was dammed up so as, when needed, to flow along certain smaller channels into the private houses which stood beside the road. If so, the discovery has much interest; the arrangement is peculiar, but no other explanation seems forthcoming. Small finds were many and good. Mr. Bushe-Fox gathered 571 coins ranging from three British and one or two Roman Republican issues, to three early coins of the Emperor Arcadius, over 200 Samian potters' stamps, and much Samian datable to the period about A.D. 75-130, with a few rare pieces of the pre-Flavian age. There was a noticeable scarcity of both Samian and coins of the post-Hadrianic, Antonine period; it was also observed that recognizable 'stratified deposits' did not occur after the age of Hadrian. Among individual objects attention is due to a small seal-box, with wax for the seal actually remaining in it. It appears that it will probably not be possible to continue this excavation, even on a limited scale, next summer. Mr. Bushe-Fox's report for 1913 is noticed below, p. 52. (xvi) _Lincoln._ At Lincoln an inscribed fragment found in 1906 has now come to light. It bears only three letters, IND, being the last letters of the inscription; these plainly preserve a part of the name of the town, Lindum. See below, p. 34. (xvii) _Gloucester._ Here, in March 1914, a mosaic floor, 16 feet square, with a complex geometrical pattern in red, white, and blue, has been found 9 feet below the present surface, at 22 Northgate Street. Some painted wall-plaster from the walls of the room to which it belonged were found with it. (xviii) Discoveries in _London_ have been limited to two groups of rubbish-pits in the City, (_a_) At the General Post Office the pits opened in 1913 (see my Report, p. 22) were further carefully explored in 1914 by Mr. F. Lambert, Mr. Thos. Wilson, and Dr. Norman; the Post Office gave full facilities. Over 100 'potholes' were detected, of which about forty yielded more or less datable rubbish, mainly potsherds. Four contained objects of about A.D. 50-80, though not in great quantity--four bits of decorated Samian and eight Samian stamps--and fourteen contained objects of about A.D. 70-100; the rest seemed to belong to the second century, with some few later items intermixed. One would infer that a little rubbish was deposited here before the Flavian period, but that after about A.D. 70 or 80 the site was freely used as a rubbish-ground for three generations or more. Two objects may be noted, a gold ring bearing the owner's initials Q. D. D. and a bit of inscribed wood from the lining of a well or pit (p. 35). (_b_) At the top of King William Street, between Sherborne Lane and Abchurch Lane, not so far from the Mansion House, five large pits were opened in the summer of 1914, in the course of ordinary contractors' building work. They could not be so minutely examined as the Post Office pits, but it was possible to observe that their datable potsherds fell roughly within the period A.D. 50-100, and that a good many potsherds were earlier than the Flavian age; there must have been considerable deposit of rubbish here before A.D. 70 or thereabouts, and it must have ceased about the end of the century. A full account of both groups of pits was given to the Society of Antiquaries by Mr. F. Lambert on February 11, 1915; illustrated notices of the Post Office finds were contributed by Mr. Thos. Wilson to the Post Office Magazine, _St. Martin-le-Grand_ (January and July, 1914); Mr. D. Atkinson helped with the dating of the pottery. Much gratitude is due to those who have so skilfully collaborated to achieve these results. So far as it is permissible to argue from two sites only, they seem to throw real light on the growth of the earliest Roman London. The Post Office pits lie in the extreme north-west of the later Londinium, just inside the walls; the King William Street pits are in its eastern half, not far from the east bank of the now vanished stream of Wallbrook, which roughly bisected the whole later extent of the town. It may be assumed that, at the time when the two groups of pits were in use, the inhabited area had not yet spread over their sites, though it had come more or less close. That would imply that the earliest city lay mainly, though perhaps not wholly, on the east bank of Wallbrook; then, as the houses spread and the town west of Wallbrook developed, the King William Street pits were closed, while the Post Office pits came more into use, during and after the Flavian age. This conclusion is tentative. It must be remembered that the stratification of rubbish-pits, ancient as well as modern, is often very peculiar. It is liable to be confused by all sorts of cross-currents. In particular, objects are constantly thrown into rubbish-pits many years, perhaps even centuries, after those objects have passed out of use. Whenever, even in a village, an old cottage is pulled down or a new one built, old rubbish gets shifted to new places and mixed with rubbish of a quite different age. At Caerwent, as Dr. T. Ashby once told me, a deep rubbish-pit yielded a coin of about A.D. 85 at a third of the way down, and at the very bottom a coin of about 315. That is, the pit was in use about or after 315; some one then shovelled into it debris of much earlier date. The London pits now in question are, however, fairly uniform in their contents, and their evidence may be utilized at least as a base for further inquiries. (xix-xxii) _Rural dwellings._ Three Roman 'villas'--that is, country-houses or farms--have been explored in 1914. All are small. [Illustration: FIG. 12. BATH-HOUSE, EAST GRIMSTEAD] (xix) At _East Grimstead_, five miles south-east from Salisbury, on Maypole Farm near Churchway Copse[5], a bath-house has been dug out and planned by Mr. Heywood Sumner, to whom I owe the following details. The building (fig. 12) measures only 14 × 28 feet and contains only four rooms, (1) a tile-paved apartment which probably served as entrance and dressing-room, (2) a room over a pillared hypocaust, which may be called the tepidarium, (3) a similar smaller room, nearer the furnace and therefore perhaps hotter, which may be the caldarium--though really it is hardly worth while to distinguish between these two rooms--and (4) a semicircular bath, lined with pink mortar and fine cement, warmed with flues from rooms 3 and with box-tiles, and provided with an outfall drain; east of rooms 3 and 4 was the furnace. Small finds included window glass, potsherds, two to three hundred oyster-shells, and five Third Brass coins (two Constantinian, three illegible). Large stone foundations have been detected close by; presumably this was the detached bath-house for a substantial residence which awaits excavation. Such detached bath-houses are common; I may instance one found in 1845 at Wheatley (Oxon.), which had very similar internal arrangements and stood near a substantial dwelling-house not yet explored (_Archaeol. Journal_, ii. 350). A full description of the Grimstead bath, by Mr. Sumner, is in the press. [Footnote 5: The words Church, Chapel, and Chantry often form parts of the names of Roman sites, where the ruined masonry has been popularly mistaken for that of deserted ecclesiastical buildings.] (xx) Three miles south-west of Guildford, at Limnerslease in the parish of _Compton_, Mr. Mill Stephenson has helped to uncover a house measuring 53 × 76 feet, with front and back corridors, and seven rooms, including baths. Coins suggested that it was inhabited in the early fourth century--a period when our evidence shows that many Romano-British farms and country-houses were occupied.[6] [Footnote 6: I may refer to my _Romanization of Britain_ (third edition, p. 77). This does not, of course, mean that they were not also occupied earlier.] [Illustration: FIG. 13. HOUSE AT NORTH ASH, KENT] (xxi) A third house is supplied by Kent. This was found in June about six miles south of Gravesend, near the track from _North Ash_ to Ash Church, on the farm of Mr. Geo. Day. Woodland was being cleared for an orchard, flint foundations were encountered, and the site was then explored by Mr. Jas. Kirk, Mr. S. Priest, and others of the Dartford Antiquarian Society, to whom I am indebted for information: the Society will in due course issue a full Report. The spade (fig. 13) revealed a rectangular walled enclosure of 53 × 104 feet. The entrance was at the east end; the dwelling-rooms (including a sunk bath, 7 feet square, lined with plaster) were, so far as traced, in the west and south-west portion; much of the walled space may have been farmyard or wooden sheds. Many bits of Samian and other pottery were found (among them a mortarium stamped MARTINVSF), and many oyster-shells. Other Romano-British foundations have been suspected close by. The structure somewhat resembles the type of farm-house which might fairly be called, from its best-known example--the only one now uncovered to view--the Carisbrooke type.[7] That, however, usually has rooms at both ends, as in the Clanville example which I figure here as more perfect than the Carisbrooke one (fig. 14). One might compare the buildings at Castlefield, Finkley, and Holbury, which I have discussed in the _Victoria History of Hants_ (i. 302-3, 312), and which were perhaps rudimentary forms of the Carisbrooke type. [Footnote 7: It has been styled the 'basilical' type, but few names could be less suitable.] [Illustration: FIG. 14. FARM-HOUSE AT CLANVILLE, KENT (To illustrate Fig. 13)] (xxii) A few kindred items may be grouped here. Digging has been attempted in a Roman 'villa' at Litlington (Cambs.) but, as Prof. McKenny Hughes tells me, with little success. The 'beautifully tiled and marbled floors' are newspaper exaggeration. A 'Roman bath' which was stated to have been found early in 1914 at Kingston-on-Thames, in the work of widening the bridge, is declared by Mr. Mill Stephenson not to be Roman at all. Lastly, an excavation of an undoubted Roman house at Broom Farm, between Hambledon and Soberton in south-east Hants, projected by Mr. A. Moray Williams, was prevented by the war, which called Mr. Williams to serve his country. (xxiii) _Lowbury._ During the early summer of 1914 Mr. D. Atkinson completed his examination of the interesting site of Lowbury, high amid the east Berkshire Downs. Of the results which he won in 1913 I gave some account last year (Report for 1913, p. 22); those of 1914 confirm and develop them. We may, then, accept the site as, at first and during the Middle Empire, a summer farm or herdsmen's shelter, and in the latest Roman days a refuge from invading English. Whether the wall which he traced round the little place was reared to keep in cattle or to keep out foes, is not clear; possibly enough, it served both uses. In all, Mr. Atkinson gathered about 850 coins belonging to all periods of the Empire but especially to the latest fourth century and including Theodosius, Arcadius, and Honorius. He also found over fifty brooches and a great amount of pottery--3 cwt., he tells me--which was mostly rough ware: there was little Samian (some of shape '37'), less Castor, and hardly any traces of mortaria. A notable find was the skeleton of a woman of 50 (ht. about 5 feet 9 inches), which he discovered in the trench dug to receive the foundations of the enclosing wall; it lay in the line of the foundations amidst the perished cement of the wall, and its associations and position forbid us to think either that it was buried before the wall was thought of or was inserted after the wall was ruined. Mr. Atkinson formed the theory--with natural hesitation--that it might be a foundation burial, and I understand that Sir Jas. Frazer accepts this suggestion. A full report of the whole work will shortly be issued in the Reading College Research Series. (xxiv) _Eastbourne, Beachy Head._ The Rev. W. Budgen, of Eastbourne, tells me of a hoard of 540 coins found in 1914 in a coombe near Bullock Down, just behind Beachy Head. The coins range from Valerian (1 coin) to Quintillus (4 coins) and Probus (1 coin); 69 are attributed to Gallienus, 88 to Victorinus, 197 to the Tetrici, and 40 to Claudius Gothicus ; the hoard may have been buried about A.D. 280, but it has to be added that 130 coins have not been yet identified. Hoards of somewhat this date are exceedingly common; in 1901 I published accounts of two such hoards detected, shortly before that, at points quite close to the findspot of the present hoard (see _Sussex Archaeological Collections_, xliv, pp. 1-8). Mr. Budgen has also sent me photographs of some early cinerary urns and a 'Gaulish' fibula, found together in Eastbourne in 1914. The things may belong to the middle of the first century A.D. The 'Gaulish' type of fibula has been discussed and figured by Sir Arthur Evans (_Archaeologia_, lv. 188-9, fig. 10; see also Dressel's note in _Bonner Jahrbücher_, lxiv. 82). Its home appears to be Gaul. In Britain it occurs rather infrequently; east of the Rhine it is still rarer; it shows only one vestige of itself at Haltern and is wholly absent from Hofheim and the Saalburg. Its date appears to be the first century A.D., and perhaps rather the earlier two-thirds than the end of that period. (xxv) _Parc-y-Meirch_ (_North Wales_). Here Mr. Willoughby Gardner has further continued his valuable excavations (Report for 1913, p. 25). The new coin-finds seem to hint that the later fourth-century stratum may have been occupied earlier in that century than the date which I gave last year, A.D. 340. But the siege of this hill-fort is bound to be long and its full results will not be clear till the end. Then we may expect it to throw real light on an obscure corner of the history of Roman and also post-Roman Wales. B. ROMAN INSCRIPTIONS FOUND IN BRITAIN IN 1914 This section includes the Roman inscriptions which have been found, or (perhaps I should say) first recognized to exist, in Britain in 1914 or which have become more accurately known in that year. As in 1913, the list is short and its items are not of great importance; but the Chesterholm altar (No. 5) deserves note, and the Corbridge tile also possesses considerable interest. I have edited them in the usual manner, first stating the origin, character, &c., of the inscription, then giving its text with a rendering in English, thirdly adding any needful notes and acknowledging obligations to those who may have communicated the items to me. In the expansions of the text, square brackets denote letters which, owing to breakage or other cause, are not now on the stone, though one may presume that they were originally there; round brackets denote expansions of Roman abbreviations. The inscriptions are printed in the same order as the finds in section A, that is, from north to south--though with so few items the order hardly matters. (1) Found at Balmuildy (above, p. 7) in the annexe to the south-east of the fort proper, some sandstone fragments from the top of a small altar, originally perhaps about 14 inches wide. At the top, in a semicircular panel is a rude head; below are letters from the first two lines of the dedication; probably the first line had originally four letters:-- [Illustration: FIG. 15.] Possibly DIO may be for _deo_. It is by no means a common orthography, but if it be accepted, we can read _dio [s(ancto) Ma]rti_.... The reading DIIO, _deo_, is I fear impossible. I have to thank Mr. S. N. Miller, the excavator, for photographs. (2) At Traprain Law (above, p. 8) a small potsherd from a second-century level bore the letters scratched on it I R I / These letters were on the side of the potsherd which had formed the inner surface when the pot was whole; they must therefore have been inscribed after the pot had been smashed, and the size and shape of the bit give cause to think that it may have been broken intentionally for inscription--possibly for use in some game. In any case, it must have been inscribed at Traprain Law, and not brought there already written, and the occurrence of writing of any sort on such a site is noteworthy. I am indebted to Dr. G. Macdonald for a sight of the piece. (3) Found about three and a half miles north of the Roman fort Bremenium, High Rochester, near Horsley in north Northumberland, beside the Roman road over the Cheviots (Dere Street), close to the steading of Featherwood, in the autumn of 1914, now in the porch of Horsley Parish Church, a plain altar 51 inches high by 22 inches wide, with six lines of letters 2 inches tall. The inscription is unusually illegible. Only the first and last lines are readable with certainty; elsewhere some letters can be read or guessed, but not so as to yield coherent sense. VICTORIAE (only bottom of final E visible) ET....IVL (ET probable, IVL fairly certain) MEIANIC (only M quite certain) II........C (erased on purpose) PVBLICO V . S . L _m_ The altar was dedicated to Victory; nothing else is certain. It is tempting to conjecture in line 2 ET N AVG, _et numinibus Augustorum_, as on some other altars to Victory, but ET is not certain, though probable, and N AVG is definitely improbable. The fourth line seems to have been intentionally erased. I find no sign of any mention of the Cohors I Vardullorum, which garrisoned Bremenium, though it or its commander might naturally be concerned in putting up such an altar. We may assume that the altar belongs to Bremenium; possibly it was brought thence when Featherwood was built. I have to thank the Rev. Thos. Stephens, vicar of Horsley, for photographs and an excellent squeeze and readings, and Mr. R. Blair for a photograph. (4-5) Found on July 17, 1914, at Chesterholm, just south of Hadrian's Wall, lying immediately underneath the surface in a grass field 120 yards west of the fort, two altars: (4) 32 inches tall, 15 inches broad, illegible save for the first line IOM _I(ovi) o(ptimo) m(aximo)_.... (5) 34 inches tall, 22 inches broad, with 8 lines of rather irregular letters, not quite legible at the end (fig. 16). [Illustration: FIG. 16. ALTAR FROM CHESTERHOLM] _Pro domu divina et numinibus Augustorum, Volcano sacrum, vicani Vindolandesses, cu[r(am)] agente ... v(otum) s(olvit) l(ibens) m(erito)_. 'For the Divine (i.e. Imperial) House and the Divinity of the Emperors, dedicated to Vulcan by the members of the _vicus_ of Vindolanda, under the care of ... (name illegible).' The statement of the reason for the dedication given in the first three lines is strictly tautologous, the Divine House and the Divinity of the Emperors being practically the same thing. The formula _numinibus Aug._ is very common in Britain, though somewhat rare elsewhere; in other provinces its place is supplied by the formula _in honorem domus divinae_; it belongs mostly to the late second and third centuries. The plural _Augustorum_ does not appear to refer to a plurality of reigning Emperors, but to the whole body of Emperors dead and living who were worshipped in the Cult of the Emperors. The _vicani Vindolandesses_ are the members of the settlement--women and children, traders, old soldiers, and others--which grew up outside the fort at Chesterholm, as outside nearly all Roman forts and fortresses. In this case they formed a small self-governing community, presumably with its own 'parish council', which could be called by the Roman term _vicus_, even if it was not all that a proper _vicus_ should be. This altar was put up at the vote of their 'parish meeting' and paid for, one imagines, out of their common funds. The term _vicus_ is applied to similar settlements outside forts on the German Limes; thus we have the _vicani Murrenses_ at the fort of Benningen on the Murr (CIL. xiii. 6454) and the _vicus Aurelius_ or _Aurelianus_ at Oehringen (_ibid._ 6541). _Vindolandesses_, which is merely a phonetic spelling or misspelling of _Vindolandenses_, gives the correct name of the fort. In the Notitia it is spelt Vindolana, in the Ravennas (431. 11) Vindolanda; and as in general the Ravennas teems with errors and the Notitia is fairly correct, the spelling Vindolana has always been preferred, although (as Prof. Sir John Rhys tells me) its second part _-lana_ is an etymological puzzle. It now appears that in this, as in some few other cases, the Ravennas has kept the true tradition. The termination _-landa_ is a Celtic word denoting a small defined space, akin to the Welsh 'llan', and also to the English 'land'; I cannot, however, find any other example in which it forms part of a place-name of Roman date. _Vindo-_ is connected either with the adjective _vindos_, 'white', or with the personal name Vindos derived from that adjective. I have to thank Mrs. Clayton, the owner of Chesterholm, and her foreman, Mr. T. Hepple, for excellent photographs and squeezes. The altars are now in the Chesters Museum. (6) Found at Corbridge, in August 1914, fragment of a tile, 7 × 8 inches in size, on which, before it was baked hard, some one had scratched three lines of lettering about 1-1-1/2 inches tall; the surviving letters form the beginnings of the lines of which the ends are broken off. There were never more than three lines, apparently. O M Q L LIIND/ LEGEFEL The inscription seems to have been a reading lesson. First the teacher scratched two lines of letters, in no particular order and making no particular sense; then he added the exhortation _lege feliciter_, 'read and good luck to you'. A modern teacher, even though he taught by the aid of a slate in lieu of a soft tile, might have expressed himself less gracefully. The tile may be compared with the well-known tile from Silchester, on which Maunde Thompson detected a writing lesson (Eph. Epigr. ix. 1293). A knowledge of reading and writing does not seem to have been at all uncommon in Roman Britain or in the Roman world generally, even among the working classes; I may refer to my _Romanization of Roman Britain_ (ed. 3, pp. 29-34). The imperfectly preserved letter after Q in line 1 was perhaps an angular L or E; that after D, in line 2, may have been M or N or even A. I am indebted to Mr. R. H. Forster for a photograph and squeeze of the tile. (7) Found in a peat-bog in Upper Weardale, in August 1913, two bronze skillets or 'paterae', of the usual saucepan shape, the larger weighing 15-1/2 oz., the smaller 8-1/2 oz. Each bore a stamp on the handle; the smaller had also a graffito on the rim of the bottom made by a succession of little dots. An uninscribed bronze ladle was found with the 'paterae': (_a_) on the larger patera: P CIPE POLI (_b_) on the smaller: _p_OLYBI·I (_c_) punctate: LICINIANI The stamps of the Campanian bronze-worker Cipius Polybius are well known. Upwards of forty have been found, rather curiously distributed (in the main) between Pompeii and places on or near the Rhenish and Danubian frontiers, in northern Britain, and in German and Danish lands outside the Roman Empire. The stamped 'paterae' of other Cipii and other bronze-workers have a somewhat similar distribution; it seems that the objects were made in the first century A.D., in or near Pompeii, and were chiefly exported to or beyond the borders of the Empire. Their exact use is still uncertain, I have discussed them in the _Archaeological Journal_, xlix, 1892, pp. 228-31; they have since been treated more fully by H. Willers (_Bronzeeimer von Hemmoor_, 1901, p. 213, and _Neue Untersuchungen über die römische Bronzeindustrie_, 1907, p. 69). I have to thank Mr. W. M. Egglestone, of Stanhope, for information and for rubbings of the stamps. The E in the first stamp seems clear on the rubbing; all other examples have here I· or I. In the second stamp, the conclusion might be BI·F. The _graffito_ was first read INVINDA; it is, however, certainly as given above. (8) Found at Holt, eight miles south of Chester (see above, p. 15), in the autumn of 1914, built upside down into the outer wall of a kiln, a centurial stone of the usual size and character, 10 inches long, 7-8 inches high, with letters (3/4-1 inch tall) inside a rude label [C]CESo NIANA _c(enturia) C(a)esoniana_, set up by the century under Caesonius. [Transcribers Note: The bracketed "C" above is printed reversed in the original.] Like another centurial stone found some time ago at Holt (Eph. Epigr. ix. 1035), this was not found _in situ_; the kiln or other structure into the wall of which it was originally inserted must have been pulled down and its stones used up again. The centuries mentioned would of course be units from the Twentieth Legion at Chester. (9) Found at Holt late in 1914, a fragment of tile (about 7 × 7 inches) with parts of two (or three) lines of writing scratched on it. ...LIVITILI.. ..IT TAL.. ......... I can offer no guess at the sense of this. The third line may be mere scratches. I am indebted to Mr. Arthur Acton for sending Nos. 8 and 9 to me for examination. (10) Found at Lincoln in 1906, on the site of the Technical Schools extensions (outside the east wall of the lower Roman town), a fragment from the lower right-hand corner of an inscribed slab flanked with foliation, 13 inches tall, 19 inches wide, with 2-inch lettering. G | _fol_- | _iat_- IND | _ion_. ____|__________ No doubt one should prefix L to IND. That is, the inscription ended with some part of the Romano-British name of Lincoln, Lindum, or of its adjective Lindensis. From the findspot it seems probable that the inscription may have been sepulchral. I am indebted to Mr. Arthur Smith, Curator of the City and County Museum at Lincoln, for a squeeze. The stone is now in the Museum. (11) Found in London near the General Post Office in a rubbish-pit (see above, p. 23), two pieces of wood from the staves of a barrel which seems to have served as lining to a pit or well. They bear faint impressions of a metal stamp; (_a_) is repeated twice. (_a_) [TE]C·PAGA... _and_ ..C·PA..� (_b_) CS _or_ CB The first stamp seems to include a name in the genitive, perhaps _Pacati_, but I do not know what TEC means. [Transcribers Note: The bracketed [TE] above is a "TE" ligature.] (12) Found in another rubbish-pit of the same site as No. 11, a plain gold ring with three sunk letters on the bezel: Q·D·D Presumably the initials of an owner. The letters were at first read O·D·D, but the tail of the Q is discernible. I am indebted to the Post Office authorities and to Mr. F. Lambert for a sight of Nos. 11 and 12. The objects are preserved at the General Post Office. (13) I add here a note on a Roman milestone found in 1694 near Appleby and lately refound. Among the papers of the antiquary Richard Gough in the Bodleian Library--more exactly, in his copy of Horsley's _Britannia_, gen. top. 128 = MS. 17653, fol. 44 _v._--is recorded the text of a milestone of the Emperor Philip and his son, 'dug out of ye military way 1694, now at Hangingshaw'. The entry is written in Gough's own hand on the last page of a list of Roman and other inscriptions once belonging to Reginald Bainbridge, who was schoolmaster in Appleby in Elizabeth's reign and died there in 1606.[8] This list had been drawn up by one Hayton, under-schoolmaster at Appleby, in 1722 and had been copied out by Gough. There is, however, nothing to show whether the milestone, found eighty-eight years after the death of Bainbridge and plainly none of his collection, was added by Hayton, or was otherwise obtained by Gough and copied by him on a casually blank page; there is nothing even to connect either the stone or Hangingshaw with Appleby. [Footnote 8: As to Bainbridge see my paper in the _Cumberland and Westmorland Archaeological Transactions_, new series, vol. xi (1911), pp. 343-78.] The notice lay neglected till Hübner undertook to edit the Roman inscriptions of Britain, which he issued in the seventh volume of the _Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum_ in 1873. He included the milestone as No. 1179. But, with his too frequent carelessness--a carelessness which makes the seventh volume of the _Corpus_ far less valuable than the rest of the series--he christened the stone, in defiance of dates, No. 17 in Bainbridge's collection; he also added the statement (which we shall see to be wrong) that Hangingshaw was near Old Carlisle. Fortunately, in the autumn of 1914, Mr. Percival Ross, the Yorkshire archaeologist, sent me a photograph of an inscription which he had come upon, built into the wall of a farm called Hangingshaw, about 200 yards from the Roman road which runs along the high ground a little east of Appleby. It then became plain--despite Hübner's errors--that this stone was that recorded in Gough's papers, although his copy was in one point faulty and on the other hand some letters which were visible in 1694 have now apparently perished. A rubbing sent me by the late Rev. A. Warren of Old Appleby helped further; I now give from the three sources--Gough's copy, the photograph, and the rubbing--what I hope may be a fairly accurate text. I premise that the letters RCO in line 2, LIPPO in 3, PHILIPPO in 8, IMO in 9, and I in 10 seem to be no longer visible but depend on Gough's copy. IMPC[lambda]C SARIMARCO IV[L]IOPHILIPPO PIOFE[L]ICI INVICTO AVGVSTO _p_ERP ETMIVLPHILIPPO NOBILISSIMO CAESARI [Transcribers Note: The bracketed "L" above are printed with the horizontal line slanted downwards.] The chief fault in Gough's copy is the omission of line 6, _Augusto_. This misled Hübner into treating line 7 (ERP) as a blundered reading of that necessary word. In reality, line 7 is the most interesting item in the inscription. It shows that the Emperor Philip was, here at least, styled _perpetuus Augustus_. That is an appellation to which I find no exact parallel in Philip's other inscriptions or indeed in any other imperial inscriptions till half a century after his death. It fits, however, into a definite development of the Roman imperial titles. In the earliest Empire, phrases occur, mostly on coins, such as _Aeternitas imperii_ or _Aeternitas populi romani_. Soon the notion of the stability of the Empire was transferred to its rulers. As early as Vespasian, coins bear the legend _aeternitas Augusti_, and in the first years of the second century Pliny, writing to Trajan, speaks of petitions addressed _per salutem tuam aeternitatemque_ and of 'works worthy of the emperor's eternity,' (_opera aeternitate tua digna_). Late in the second century such phrases become commoner. With Severus Alexander (A.D. 221-35) coins begin to show the legend _Perpetuitas Aug._, and before very long the indirect and abstract language changes into direct epithets which are incorporated in the emperors' titulature. The first case which I can find of this is that before us, of Philip (A.D. 244-9); a little later, Aurelian (A.D. 270-5) is styled _semper Augustus_ and, from Diocletian onwards, _aeternus_, _perpetuus_, and _semper Augustus_ belong to the customary titulature. Constantine I, for example, is called on one stone _invictus et perpetuus ... semper Augustus_, on another _perpetuus imperator, semper Augustus_. That Philip should have been the first to have applied to him, even once, the direct epithet, is probably a mere accident. One might have wished to connect it with his Secular Games, celebrated in 248. But by that time his son was no longer Caesar but full Augustus (since 246), and our stone must fall into the years 244-6. The ideas underlying these epithets were perhaps mixed. Notions of or prayers for the long life of the Empire, the stability of the reigning house, the long reign of the current emperor, may have jostled with notions of the immortality of the emperors and their deification, and with the eastern ideas which poured into Rome as the second century ended and the third century began.[9] The hardening despotism of the imperial constitution, growing more and more autocratic every decade, also helped. As the emperor became unchecked and unqualified monarch, his appellations grew more emphatic; _perpetuus Augustus, semper Augustus_ connoted that unchecked and autocratic rule. [Footnote 9: See an excellent paper by Cumont, _Revue d'Histoire et de Littérature religieuses_, 1896, pp. 435-52.] C. PUBLICATIONS RELATING TO ROMAN BRITAIN IN 1914 The following summary of the books and articles on Roman Britain which appeared in 1914 is grouped under two heads, first, those few which deal with general aspects of the subject, and secondly, the far larger number which concern special sites or areas. In this second class, those which belong to England are placed under their counties in alphabetical order, while those which belong to Wales and Scotland are grouped under these two headings. I have in general admitted only matter which was published in 1914, or which bears that date. 1. GENERAL (1) Mr. G. L. Cheesman's _Auxilia of the Roman Imperial Army_ (Oxford University Press) does not deal especially with Roman Britain, but it deserves brief notice here. It is an excellent and up-to-date sketch of an important section of the Roman army, with which British archaeologists are much concerned. It also contains valuable lists, which can be found nowhere else, of the 'auxiliary' regiments stationed in Britain (pp. 146-9 and 170-1). It is full, cheap, compact; every historical and archaeological library should get it. (2) A learned and scholarly attempt to settle the obscure chronology of the north British frontiers in the fourth century has been made by Mr. H. Craster, Fellow of All Souls, and one of the excavators of Corbridge, in the _Archaeological Journal_ (lxxi. 25-44). His conclusions are novel and, though to some extent disputable, are well worth printing. Starting from the known fact that, during much of the third century, the north frontier of Roman Britain coincided roughly with the line of Cheviot and was then withdrawn to the line of Hadrian's Wall, he distinguishes five stages in the subsequent history. (1) At or just before the outset of the fourth century, in the reign of Diocletian, the Wall was reorganized in some ill-recorded fashion. (2) Thirty years later, towards the end of Constantine's reign, about A.D. 320-30, it was (he thinks) further reorganized; perhaps its mile-castles were then discarded. (3) Thirty or forty years later still, after disturbances which (he conjectures) included the temporary loss of Hadrian's Wall and the destruction of its garrisons, Theodosius carried out in 369 a fuller reorganization. This garrison had consisted of the regiments known to us by various evidence as posted 'per lineam valli' in the third and early fourth centuries; their places were now filled by soldiers of whom we know absolutely nothing. (4) In 383 Maximus withdrew these unknown troops for his continental wars. Now perhaps the line of the Wall had to be given up, but Tyne and Solway, South Shields, Corbridge, and Carlisle were still held. (5) Finally, about 395-9, Stilicho ordered a last reorganization; he withdrew the frontier from the Tyne to the Tees, from Carlisle to Lancaster, and garrisoned the new line with new soldiery--those, namely, which are listed in the Notitia as serving under the Dux Britanniarum, save only the regiments 'per lineam valli'; these last the compiler of the Notitia borrowed from the older order to disguise the loss of the Wall. Even this did not last. In 402 Stilicho had to summon troops to Italy for home defence--among them, Mr. Craster suggests, the Sixth Legion--and in 407 the remaining Roman soldiers, including the Second Legion, were taken to the continent by Constantine III. Every one who handles this difficult period must indulge in conjecture; Mr. Craster has, perhaps, indulged rather much. It might be simpler to connect the abandonment of the mile-castles--his stage 2--with the recorded troubles which called Constans to Britain in 343, rather than invent an unrecorded action by Constantine I. I hesitate also to assume for the period 369-83 an otherwise unknown frontier garrison, which has left no trace of itself. I feel still greater doubt respecting the years 383-99. Here Mr. Craster argues from coin-finds. No coins have been found on the line of the Wall which were minted later than 383, and none at Corbridge, Carlisle, and South Shields which were minted later than 395; therefore, he infers, the Wall was abandoned soon after 383, and the other sites soon after 395. This is too rigid an argument. It may be a mere accident that the Wall has as yet yielded no coin which was minted between 383 and 395. At Wroxeter, for example, two small hoards were found some years ago which had clearly been lost at the moment when the town was sacked. By these hoards we should be able to date the catastrophe. Now the latest coin in one hoard was minted in or before 377, and the latest in the other in or before 383. But newer finds show that Wroxeter was not destroyed at earliest till after 390. Again, as Mr. Craster himself says, the coining of Roman copper practically stopped in 395; after that year the older copper issues appear to have remained in use for many a long day. That is clear in Gaul, where coins later than 395 seem to be rare, although Roman armies and influences were present for another fifty years. When Mr. Craster states that 'archaeology gives no support to the theory that the Tyne-Solway line was held after 395', he might add that it gives equally little support to the theory that it was not held after 395. Incidentally, he offers a new theory of the two chapters in the Notitia Dignitatum which describe the forces commanded by the Comes Litoris Saxonici and the Dux Britanniarum (_Occ._ 28 and 40). It is agreed that these chapters do not exhibit the garrison of Britain at the moment when the Notitia was substantially completed, about A.D. 425, for the good reason that there was then no garrison left in the island; they exhibit some garrison which had then ceased to exist, and which is mentioned, apparently, to disguise the loss of the province. The question is, to what date do they refer? Mommsen long ago pointed out that the regiments enumerated in one part of them (the 'per lineam valli' section) are very much the same as existed in the third century. Seeck added the suggestion that these regiments remained in garrison till 383, when Maximus marched them off to the continent. According to him, the garrison of the Wall through the first eighty years of the fourth century was much the same as it had been in the third century, with certain changes and additions. Mr. Craster holds a different view. He thinks that most of the troops named in these chapters were due to Stilicho's reorganization in 395-9, but that one section, headed 'per lineam valli', records troops who had been in Britain in the third century and had been destroyed before 369. I cannot feel that he has proved his case. One would have thought that, when the compiler of the Notitia in 425 wanted to fill the gap left by the loss of the Wall, he would have gone back to the last garrison of the Wall, that is, on Mr. Craster's view, the garrison of 369-83, not to arrangements which had vanished some years earlier. But the problems of this obscure period are not to be solved without many attacks. We must be glad that Mr. Craster has delivered a serious attack; even if he has not succeeded, his scholarly discussion may make things easier for the next assailants. (3) The _Antiquary_ for 1914 contains an attempt by Mr. W. J. Kaye to catalogue all the examples of triple vases of Roman date found in Britain. It also prints a note by myself (p. 439) on the topography of the campaign of Suetonius against Boudicca, which argues that the defeat of the British warrior queen occurred somewhere on Watling Street between Chester (or Wroxeter) and London. [Illustration: FIG. 18. TILE GRAVES IN THE INFIRMARY FIELD, CHESTER] (4) In the _Sitzungsberichte der kgl. preuss. Akademie_ (1914, p. 635), prof. Kuno Meyer, late of Liverpool, argues that the Celtic name of St. Patrick, commonly spelt Sucat and explained as akin to Celtic words meaning 'brave in war' (stem _su_-, 'good'), ought to be really spelt Succet and connected with Gaulish names like Succius and Sucelus. This, he thinks, destroys the last remnant of a reason for Zimmer's idea that Patrick was the same as Palladius. 2. SPECIAL SITES OR DISTRICTS _Berks_ (5) Some notes of traces, near Kintbury west of Speen (Spinae), of the Roman road from Silchester to Bath are given by Mr. O. G. S. Crawford in the _Berks, Bucks, and Oxon Archaeological Journal_ for Oct. 1914 (xx. 96). _Cheshire_ [Illustration: FIG. 17. GRAVES IN THE INFIRMARY FIELD, CHESTER] (6) In _Annals of Archaeology and Anthropology_ (Liverpool, 1914, vol. vi, pp. 121-67) Prof. Newstead describes and illustrates fully the thirty-five graves found in 1912-3 in the Infirmary Field, Chester, of which I gave a brief account in my Report for 1913 (p. 14). Save for a few first-century remains in one corner, the graveyard seems to be an inhumation cemetery, used during the second half of the second century--rather an early date for such a cemetery. I do not myself feel much doubt that some at least of the tombstones extracted in 1890-2 from the western half of the North City Wall were taken from this area. They belong to the first and second centuries and suggest (as I pointed out when they were found) that the Wall was built about A.D. 200. That, however, is just the date when the cemetery was closed; the seizure of the tombstones for the construction of the Wall would explain why the Infirmary Field has yielded no tombstones from all its graves. By the kindness of Professors Bosanquet and Newstead I can add some illustrations of the graves themselves, from blocks used for Prof. Newstead's paper. Fig. 17 shows two of the simpler graves, fig. 18, two built with tiles. Fig. 19 illustrates some curious nails found with the bodies. _Derbyshire_ (7) A list of the place-names of Derbyshire with philological notes is commenced by Mr. B. Walker, sometime of Liverpool University, in the _Proceedings of the Derbyshire Archaeological and Natural History Society_ for 1913 (xxxvi. 123-284, Derby, 1914); it is to be completed in a future volume. I venture two suggestions. First, like, many similar treatises on place-names which are now being issued, this work has too limited a scope. It deals mainly with certain names of modern towns and villages; it takes little or no heed of ancient names of houses and fields or of lanes and roads (as Bathamgate, Doctorgate), or of rivers (as Noe), or (lastly) of the place-names of the older England which are preserved only in charters, chronicles, and the like; unless they chance to come among the select list of modern names which the writer chooses to admit, they find no notice. Yet it is the older names of all sorts, irrespective of their survival in prominent fashion to-day, with which historical students and even philologists are most really concerned. Secondly, writers on place-names take too little account of facts outside the phonetic horizon. In the present instalment of Derbyshire, the one Roman item noted is Derby. Here, in the suburb of Little Chester, was a Roman fort or village, and past it flows the river then and now called Derwent or something similar. Yet the etymology of Derby is discussed without any reference to the river name. No doubt Derby is not derived by regular phonetic process from Derwent; its earliest spellings, Deoraby and the like, connect it with either the word for 'wild beast' or the proper name Deor. Still, it is incredible that the Derwent should flow past Derby and the adjacent Darley (formerly Derley) and be unrelated. One may guess with little rashness that the invaders who renamed the site took over the Romano-British name (Deruentio or the like) and reshaped that after analogies of their own speech. Does not a form Deorwenta occur (though Mr. Walker has missed it) to show that the two names interacted? Again, Chesterfield (Cesterfelda, A.D. 955) is glossed as 'the field by the fort'. What fort? There is none, nor does 'Chester' necessarily mean that there was. Etymologizing without reference to facts is wasted work. [Illustration: FIG. 19. NAILS FROM THE CHESTER GRAVES. (p. 42)] [Illustration: FIG. 20. THE MERSEA GRAVE MOUND. (p. 43)] [Illustration: FIG. 21. LEADEN CASKET AND GLASS SEPULCHRAL VESSEL FROM THE MERSEA BURIAL-MOUND. (p. 43)] _Dorset_ (8) In the _Numismatic Chronicle_ for 1914 (pp. 92-5), Mr. H. Symonds lists 107 'third brass' from a hoard found (it seems) about 1850 near Puncknoll. They consist of 3 Gallienus, 2 Salonina, 55 Postumus, 40 Victorinus, 3 Tetricus, 1 Tetricus junior, 2 Claudius Gothicus, and 1 Garausius. The hoard was, then, of a familiar type; its original size we cannot guess. A brief reference to the same hoard occurs in the _Proceedings of the Dorset Natural History and Antiquarian Field Club_ (xxxv, p. li). (9) The latter periodical (pp. 88, 118) also contains Mr. H. Gray's Fifth Report on the gradual exploration of the Roman amphitheatre and the underlying prehistoric remains at Maumbury Rings, Dorchester--now substantially concluded--and an interesting little note on the New Forest pottery-works by Mr. Sumner (p. xxxii). _Essex_ [Illustration: FIG. 22. RESTORATION OF THE TILE-BUILT GRAVE-CHAMBER OF THE MERSEA MOUND] (10) By the kindness of the Morant Club and the Essex Archaeological Society, I am able to reproduce here three illustrations of the finds in the Mersea Mound, which I mentioned in my Report for 1913 (p. 42). Figs. 20, 22 show a view of the actual tomb; fig. 21 shows the chief contents. The interest of these half-native, half-Roman grave-mounds, which occur in eastern Britain and in the Low Countries opposite, will justify their insertion here. I may also correct an error in my account. No 'Samian stamped VITALIS' was found at Mersea, but objects which have been elsewhere found in association with that stamp. (11) Two small Essex excavations are recorded in the _Transactions of the Essex Archaeological Society_, vol. xiii. At Chadwell St. Mary, near Tilbury, Mr. Miller Christy and Mr. F. W. Reader explored an early-looking mound, only to find that it was probably mediaeval (pp. 218-33). At Hockley, also in South Essex, the same archaeologists with Mr. E. B. Francis dug into a similar mound and met with many potsherds of Roman date and a coin of Domitian; no trace of a burial was detected, such as has come to light in other Romano-British mounds at Mersea, Bartlow, and elsewhere (_ibid._, p. 224). Indeed, it does not seem quite clear that the mound was thrown up in Roman times; it may have been reared later, with earth which contained Romano-British objects. _Gloucester_ (12) The _Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society_ (vol. xxxvi) refers to excavations at Sea Mills, on the King's Weston estate, in February 1913; the finds appear not to have been extensive. They also record the transfer of the Roman 'villa' at Witcombe to the care of H.M. Office of Works by the owner, Mr. W. F. Hicks-Beach. _Hants_ (13) Mr. Heywood Sumner's pamphlet _Excavations on Rockbourne Down_ (London, 1914, p. 43) is a readable, scholarly, and well-illustrated account of a Romano-British farm-site five miles south-west of Salisbury on the edge of Cranborne Chase. Mr. Sumner excavated parts of it in 1911-13; his account appeared so early in 1914 that it found a place in my Report for 1913 (pp. 23-5). (14) Some Roman roads in Hampshire are treated in the _Papers and Proceedings of the Hampshire Field Club and Archaeological Society_ (vii, part 1). Capt. G. A. Kempthorne writes on the road east and west of Silchester and Mr. Karslake adds a word as to the line outside the west gate of that town, which he puts north of the generally assumed line (p. 25). Mr. O. G. S. Crawford and Mr. J. P. Freeman-Williams deal with very much more uncertain roads in the New Forest--one across Beaulieu Heath, another from Otterbourn to Ringwood (pp. 34-42). (15) Mr. Karslake also (_ibid._, p. 43) notes that the outer entrenchment at Silchester, which is thought to be pre-Roman, does not coincide with the south-eastern front of the Roman town-walls, as we have all supposed, but runs as much as 300 yards outside them. _Herefordshire_ See p. 62, below. _Herts_ (16) Mr. Urban A. Smith, the Herts County Surveyor, submitted in 1912 to his County Council a Report on the Roman roads of the county, which is now printed in the _Transactions of the East Herts Archaeological Society_ (v. 117-31). It deals mainly with the surviving traces of these roads and the question of preserving them in public use. The roads selected as Roman are by no means all certain or probable Roman roads. The article is furnished with a map, which however omits several names used in the text. _Kent_ (17) A few notes on the Roman Pharos at Dover and on some unexplained pits near it, by Lieut. Peck, R.E., are given in the _Journal of the British Archaeological Association_ (xx. 248 foll.). (18) In the _Transactions of the Greenwich Antiquarian Society_ (vol. i, parts 3, 4) Mr. J. M. Stone and Mr. J. E. de Montmorency write on the line which the Roman road from Dover and Canterbury to London followed near Greenwich. Its course is quite clear as far west as the outskirts of Greenwich; thence it is doubtful all the way to London. In these papers evidence is advanced that a piece of road was closed in the lower part of Greenwich Park in 1434 and it is suggested that this was a bit of the lost Roman line. If so, the road ran straight on from Shooter's Hill, across Greenwich Park and the site of the Hospital School, towards the mouth of Deptford Creek. It is, however, hard to see how it crossed that obstacle, or why it should have run so near the Thames at this point, where the shore must have been very marshy. _Lancashire_ (19) In the _Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society_ (xxxi. 69-87) Mr. W. Harrison discusses the Roman road which runs from Ribchester to Overborough for twenty-seven lonely miles through the hills of north-east Lancashire. He does not profess to add to our knowledge of the line of the road; he directs attention rather to the reasons for the course which the road pursues, its diversions from the straight line, and its gradients. He notes also, as others have noted, the absence of any intermediate fort half-way along the twenty-seven miles. Probably there was such a fort; but it must have stood in the wildest part of the road, almost in the heart of the Forest of Bowland and perhaps somewhere in Croasdale, and it has never been detected. The greater ease of the lowland route from Ribchester by Lancaster to Overborough may have led to the early abandonment of the shorter mountain track and of any post which guarded its central portion. That, at any rate, is the suggestion which I would offer to Lancashire antiquaries as a working hypothesis. (20) In the same journal Mr. J. W. Jackson lists some animal remains found among the Roman remains of Manchester (pp. 113-18). _Lincolnshire_ (21) Samian fragments, mostly of the second century but including shape '29', found in making new streets and sewers in Lincoln, are noted in _Lincolnshire Notes and Queries_, xiii. 1-4. (22) In south Lincolnshire, between Ulceby and Dexthorpe, chance excavation has revealed tiles, potsherds, iron nails, and a few late coins (Victorinus-Constantine junior, nob. caes.) on a site which has previously yielded Roman scraps (_ibid._, p. 34). The tiles point to some sort of farm or other dwelling. _London_ (23) In his new volume _London_ (London, 1914) Sir L. Gomme continues his efforts to prove that English London can trace direct and uninterrupted descent from Roman Londinium. Though, he says (p. 9), 'Roman civilization certainly ceased in Britain with the Anglo-Saxon conquest, ... amidst the wreckage London was able to continue its use of the Roman city constitution in its new position as an English city'. I can only record my conviction that not all his generous enthusiasm provides proof that Roman London survived the coming of the English. The root-error in his arguments is perhaps a failure to realize the Roman side of the argument. He says, for instance, that, though not a 'colonia', Londinium had the rank of 'municipium civium Romanorum'. There is not the least reason to think that it was a 'municipium'. So again, his references to a 'botontinus' on Hampstead Heath (p. 86), to the 'jurisdictional terminus' of Roman London at Mile End (p. 95), to its 'pomerium' (p. 98), its right of forming commercial alliances with other cities, which 'lasted into the Middle Ages and is a direct survival of the system adopted in Roman towns' (p. 101), its position as a 'city-state' and its relation to the choice of Emperors (pp. 105, 130)--all this has nothing to do with the real Londinium; these things did not exist in the Roman town. When Sir Laurence goes on to assert that 'the ritual of St. Paul's down to the seventeenth century preserved the actual rites of the worship of Diana', he again falls short of proof. What part of the ritual and what rites of Diana?[10] [Footnote 10: Sir Laurence alludes (p. 77) to a Caerwent inscription as unpublished. It has probably appeared in print a dozen times; I have had the misfortune to publish it three times over myself. Its meaning is not quite correctly stated on p. 77.] (24) In the December number of the _Journal of the British Archaeological Association_ (xx. 307) Mr. F. Lambert, of the Guildhall Museum, prints pertinent criticisms of Sir L. Gomme's volume, much in the direction of my preceding paragraphs. He also makes useful observations on Roman London. In particular, he attacks the difficult problem of the date when its town-walls were built. Here he agrees with those who ascribe them to the second century, and for two main reasons. First, he thinks that the occurrence of early Roman potsherds at certain points near the walls proves the town to have grown to its full extent by about A.D. 100. Secondly, he points to the foundations of the Roman gate at Newgate; as they are shallower than those of the adjacent town-walls, he dates the gate after the walls and thus obtains (as he hopes) an early date for the walls. Both points were worth raising, but I doubt if either proves Mr. Lambert's case. For (_a_) the potsherds come mostly from groups of rubbish-pits--such as those which Mr. Lambert himself has lately done good work in helping to explore--and rubbish-pits, especially in groups, lie rather outside the inhabited areas of towns. Those of London itself suggest to me that the place had _not_ reached its full area by A.D. 100 (see above, p. 23). (_b_) The Newgate foundations are harder to unravel. As a rule, Roman town-gates had large super-structures and needed stronger foundations than the town-walls. At Newgate, where the superstructure must have been comparatively slender, the published plans show that under a part, at least, of the gate-towers the undisturbed subsoil rises higher than beneath the adjacent town-walls. According to the elevation published by Dr. Norman and Mr. F. W. Reader in _Archaeologia_ lxiii, plate lvii, the wall-builders at this point stopped their deep foundation trenches for the full width of the gateway (98 feet), or at least dug them shallower there. No motive for such action could be conceived except the wish to leave a passage for a gate. There would seem, therefore, to have been an entrance into Roman London at Newgate as early as the building of the walls, and there may have been such an entrance even before the erection of these walls. Dr. Norman has, however, warned me that plate lvii goes much beyond the actual evidence (see plate lvi); practically, we do not know enough to form conjectures of any value on this point. (25) In the _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_ for April 11, 1914 (xxi. 333), Mr. W. R. Davidge prints a lecture on the Development of London which deals mostly with present and future London but also contains a new theory as to the Roman town. Hitherto, most writers have agreed that, while Londinium may have been laid out on a regular town-plan, no discoverable trace of such plan survived, nor could any existing street be said to run to any serious extent on Roman lines. Mr. Davidge devises a rectangular plan of oblong blocks, and finds vestiges of Roman streets in the present Cheapside, Cannon Street, Gracechurch Street, and Birchin Lane. In a later number of the same journal (Aug. 29, p. 52) I have given some reasons for not accepting this view. First, Mr. Davidge's list of four survivals would be too brief to prove much if the survivals were proved. Secondly, Roman structural remains seem to have been found under all the streets in question, and it is, therefore, plain that they do not run on the lines of Roman thoroughfares. Thirdly, his suggested plan brings none of his conjectured Roman streets (except one) to any of the various known gates of Londinium; it requires us to assume a number of other gates for which there is neither probability nor proof. (26) In the Post Office Magazine, _St. Martin's-le-Grand_ (Jan. and July 1914), Mr. Thos. Wilson, then Clerk of the Works, gives details, with illustrations, of the Roman rubbish-pits lately excavated at the General Post Office (see above, p. 23). _Norfolk_ (27) In the earlier pages (1-45) of his _Roman Camp at Burgh Castle_ (London, 1913) Mr. L. H. Dahl deals with the Roman fort at Burgh Castle (Gariannonum), near Yarmouth, which formed part of the fourth-century _Litus Saxonicum_. His account, which is not very technical, seems based on previous writers, Ives, Harrod, Fox. I note a list of thirty coins which, save for an uncertain specimen of Domitian and one of Marcus, belong entirely to the late third and the fourth centuries, and end with two silver of Honorius (_Virtus Romanorum_, Cohen 59). He detects a Roman road running east from Burgh Castle towards Gorleston, preserved (he thinks) in an old road sometimes called the Jews' Way; this, however, seems unlikely. He also maintains the view, which others have held, that the fort had no defences towards the water. This again seems unlikely. Burgh Castle, like Richborough, Stutfall, and other forts of the _Litus_, may well have had different arrangements on its water-front from the walls on its other three faces. But it cannot have lacked defences, and excavations prove, here as elsewhere, that walls did actually exist on this side. _Northumberland: Corbridge_ (28) A paper by the present writer and Prof. P. Gardner, entitled 'Roman silver in Northumberland' (_Journal of Roman Studies_, iv. 1-12), discusses the relics of what was seemingly a hoard--or perhaps a service--of Roman silver plate, lost in the Tyne or on its banks near Corbridge in the fourth century. Of five pieces, four were picked up between 1731 and 1736, about 100-150 yards below the present bridge at Corbridge; a fifth was found in 1760 floating in the stream four miles lower down. One was a silver 'basin', of which no more is recorded. Another was a small two-handled cup with figures of men and beasts round it. A third was a round flat-bottomed bowl, with a decorated rim bearing the Chi-Rho amidst its other ornament. A fourth was a small ovoid cup, 4 inches high, with the inscription _Desideri vivas_. Last, not least, is the Corbridge Lanx, the only surviving piece of the five, and probably the finest piece of Roman engraved silver found in these islands, an oblong dish measuring 15 × 19 inches, weighing 148 ounces, and ornamented with figures of deities from classical mythology. That all five pieces belonged together can hardly be doubted, though it cannot be proved outright. That they all belong to the later Roman period, and probably to the fourth century, seems highly probable. Whether they were buried in the river-bank to conceal them from raiders or were lost from a boat or otherwise, is not now discoverable. But the occurrence of such silver close to the Roman Wall is in itself notable. It is to be attributed rather to a Roman officer residing in or passing through Corbridge than to either a Romanized Briton or a Pictish looter. Apart from its findspot, the Lanx is important for its excellent art and for the place which it seems to hold in the history of later Greek art. It is, of course, not Romano-British work; it is purely Greek in all its details and no doubt of Greek workmanship. The deities figured on it have long been a puzzle. They are evidently classical deities; three of them, indeed, are Apollo, Artemis, and Athena. But the identity of the other two figures and the meaning of the whole scene have been much disputed. Roger Gale, the first to attempt its unravelment, suggested in 1735 that it was 'just an assemblage of deities', and at one time I inclined to this view--that we had here merely (let us say) a tea-party at Apollo's; Dr. Drexel, too, wrote to me lately to express the same idea. But I must confess that nearly all the best archaeologists demand a definite mythological identification, and my colleague, Prof. Gardner, suggests a new view--that the scene is the so-called Judgement of Paris. This mythological incident was often depicted in ancient art, and--strange as it may sound--in the later versions Paris was not seldom omitted, Apollo was made arbiter, and the scene was removed from Mount Ida to Delphi.[11] The two hitherto disputable figures are, Prof. Gardner thinks, Hera (seated) and Aphrodite (standing, with a long sceptre). He ascribes the work to the third or early part of the fourth century, and believes that it was made in the Eastern Empire; from the prominence granted to Artemis, he conjectures that Ephesus may have been its origin. But he adds that he would not be sure that the artist of the piece, while copying a Judgement of Paris, was consciously aware of the meaning of the original before him. His views will be published in fuller detail in the _Journal of Hellenic Studies_. [Footnote 11: Compare the Roman provincial bas-reliefs of Actaeon surprising Diana, with Actaeon omitted (R. Cagnat, _Archaeological Journal_, lxiv. 42).] I am glad, further, to have been able to illustrate this paper by what I believe to be a better illustration of the Lanx than has been published before, and also to set out in more accurate fashion the curious legal history of the object after it was found. (29) In the new _History of Northumberland_, issued by the Northumberland County History Committee in vol. x (edited by Mr. H. H. Craster, Newcastle, 1914, pp. 455-522) I have given a long account of the known Roman remains in Corbridge parish. These are the settlement of Corstopitum, a small stretch of Roman road and another of the Roman Wall, and the fort of Halton (Hunnum) on the Wall. The account is necessarily historical rather than archaeological; it tries to sum up the finds and estimate their historical bearing, and it also catalogues all the inscribed and sculptured stones found at Corbridge and Halton, with the 'literature' relating to them. Mr. Knowles contributes a plan of the Corbridge excavations to the end of 1912. (30) The Corbridge excavations of 1913 are described by Mr. R. H. Forster, who was in personal charge of the work, Mr. W. H. Knowles, and myself, in _Archaeologia Aeliana_ (third series, 1914, xi. 279-310); see also a short account by myself in the _Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of London_ (xxvi. 185-9). The discoveries were comparatively few; they comprised some ill-preserved and mostly insignificant buildings on the north side of the site, some ditches, and a stretch of the road leading to the north (Dere Street). Among small objects were an interesting but imperfect altar to 'Panthea ...', a bronze 'balsamarium' showing a puzzling variety of barbarian's head, and another piece of the Corbridge grey _appliqué_ ware. A short account of the excavations of 1914 (see above, p. 9) is contained in the _Journal of the British Archaeological Association_ (xx. 343). (31) The _Proceedings of the Berwick Naturalists' Club_ (vol. xxxii, part 2) print an agreeable paper by Mr. James Curle, describing Dere Street and some Roman posts on it between Tyne and Tweed. _Notts._ [Illustration: FIG. 23. ROMAN SITE NEAR EAST BRIDGEFORD, NOTTS. (No. 32)] [Illustration: FIG. 24. DECORATION OF ENAMELLED SEAL-BOX.] (32) About ten miles east from Nottingham, and a mile south of the village of East Bridgeford, the Fosse-way crosses a Roman site which has usually been identified with the Margidunum of the Antonine Itinerary. Lately excavation has been attempted, and the _Antiquary_ of December 1914 contains an interesting account of the results attained up to the end of 1913, with some illustrations.[12] A very broad earthwork and ditch surround an area of 7 acres, rhomboidal in shape (fig. 23). In this area the excavators, Drs. Felix Oswald and T. D. Pryce, have turned up floor-tesserae, roof-slates, flue-tiles, window-glass, painted wall-plaster, potsherds of the first and later centuries, including a black bowl with a well-modelled figure of Mercury in relief, coins ranging down to the end of the fourth century (Eugenius), and other small objects of interest, such as the small seal-box with Late-Celtic enamel, shown in fig. 24. No foundations _in situ _have yet come to light, but that is doubtless to follow; only a tiny part of the whole area has, as yet, been touched. Margidunum may have begun as a fort coeval with the Fosse-way, which (if I am right) dates from the earliest years of the Roman Conquest. Whether any of the first-century potsherds as yet found there can be assigned to these years (say A.D. 45-75) is not clear. But the excavations plainly deserve to be continued. [Footnote 12: By the courtesy of the publisher of the _Antiquary_, Mr. Elliot Stock, I am able to reproduce two of these illustrations (figs. 23, 24).] _Shropshire_ (33) Mr. Bushe-Fox's second Report on his excavations at Wroxeter (_Reports of the Research Committee of the London Society of Antiquaries_, No. II, Oxford, 1914) deserves all the praise accorded to his first Report. I can only repeat what I said of that; it is an excellent description, full and careful, minute in its account of the smaller finds, lavishly illustrated, admirably printed, and sold for half a crown. The finds which it enumerates in detail I summarized in my Report for 1913, pp. 19-20--the temple with its interesting Italian plan, the fragments of sculpture which seem to belong to it, the crowd of small objects, the masses of Samian (indefatigably recorded), the 528 coins; all combine to make up an admirable pamphlet. [Illustration: FIG. 27. THE PODIUM, AS SEEN FROM THE NORTH (The measuring staff to the right stands in the _cella_, the floor of which is slightly higher than that of the portico to the left of it)] [Illustration: FIG. 28. EAST WALL OF PODIUM, COURSED MASONRY WITH CLAY AND RUBBLE FOUNDATIONS] I will venture a suggestion on the temple. This, as I pointed out last year, is on the Italian, not on the Celto-Roman plan. But one item is not quite clear in it. All ordinary classical temples stood on _podia_ or platforms which raised them above the surrounding surface at least to some small extent. Mr. Bushe-Fox speaks of a _podium_ to the Wroxeter temple. But it appears that he does not mean a _podium_, as generally understood. The masonry which he denotes by that term was, in his opinion, buried underground and merely foundation. The floor of the portico of the temple (he says) was about level with the floor of the court which surrounded the temple; the floor of the _cella_, though higher, was but a trifle higher (see figs. 26, 27). This view needs more reflection than he has given it in his rather brief account. No doubt a temple in a Celtic land might have been built on a classical plan, though without a classical _podium_. But it is not what one would most expect. Nor do I feel sure that it was actually done at Wroxeter in this case. The walls which Mr. Bushe-Fox explains as the foundations of the temple are quite needlessly good masonry for foundations never meant to be seen; this will be plain from figs. 27, 28, which I reproduce by permission from his Report. Further, as fig. 26 (from the same source) shows, there was outside the base of this masonry a level cobbled surface, for which no structural reason is to be found. This, one may guess, was a pavement at the original ground-level when the temple was first erected; from this, steps presumably led up to the floor of the portico and _cella_. The 'podium', then, was at first a real _podium_. Later, the ground-level rose, and the walls of the _podium_ were buried. [Illustration: FIG. 25. TEMPLE AT WROXETER] [Illustration: FIG. 26. FOUNDATIONS OF WROXETER TEMPLE] _Somerset_ (34) In his handsome volume, _Wookey Hole, its caves and cave-dwellers_ (London, 1914), Mr. H. E. Balch collects for general antiquarian readers the results of his long exploration of this Mendip cave; some of these results were noted in my Report for 1913, p. 47. The cave, as a whole, contained--besides copious prehistoric remains--two well-defined Roman layers, with many potsherds, including a little Samian and one Samian stamp given as PIIR PIIT OFII (apparently a new variety of Perpetuus), broken glass, a few fibulae and other bronze and iron objects, and 106 coins. These coins are:--1 Republican (124-103 B.C., Marcia), 1 Vespasian, 1 Titus, 1 Trajan, 2 Hadrian, 2 Pius; then, 3 Gallienus, 1 Salonina, 1 Carausius, 2 Chlorus, 1 Theodora, 6 Constantinopolis, 1 Crispus, 4 Constantine II, 4 Magnentius, 4 Constantius II, with 20 Valentinian I, 14 Valens, 21 Gratian, 7 Valentinian II, and 6 illegible. Just two-thirds of the coins are later than A.D. 364; they may be set beside the late hoard found at Wookey Hole in 1852, which Mr. Balch might well have mentioned. Plainly, the later Roman layer in the cave belongs to the end of the fourth century. The date of the other layer is harder to fix, since we are not told how the coins and potsherds were distributed between the layers. Probably the cave was long inhabited casually but in the troubled time of the latest Empire became a place of refuge or otherwise attracted more numerous occupants. That, if true, is a more interesting result that Mr. Balch realizes. For in general the cave-life of Roman Britain belonged to the first two or three centuries of our era; it is only rarely, and mostly in the west country, that the caves contain among their Roman relics objects of the late fourth century (see _Victoria Hist. Derbyshire_, i. 233-42). I must add that Mr. Balch repeats on pp. 57-8 the error about the significance of the Republican coin which was noted in my Report for 1915. (35) The _Proceedings of the Somersetshire Archaeological and Natural History Society_ for 1913 (vol. lix, Taunton, 1914) record small Roman finds at Bratton and Barrington (part i, pp. 24, 65, 76, and part ii, p. 79), and describe in detail Mr. Gray's trial excavations at Cadbury Castle. Cadbury, it seems, was occupied mainly in the Celtic period, before the Roman conquest. (36) A little light is thrown on two Somerset 'villas' in _Notes and Queries for Somerset and Dorset_ (xiv. 1914). (_a_) Skinner in 1818 excavated a 'villa' near Camerton which he recorded in his manuscripts. (British Mus. Add. 33659, &c.) and which I described in print in the _Victoria History of Somerset_ (i. 315). His account did not, however, enable one to fix the precise site; he said only that it stood south of a certain Ridgeway and next to a field called Chessils. Mr. E. J. Holmroyd has now, with the aid of tithe maps, discovered a field called Chessils in the north of Midsomer Norton parish, about a mile east of Paulton village, at the point where a lane called in the Ordnance Survey 'Coldharbour Lane', which runs north and south, cuts a lane running east and west from Camerton to Paulton; this latter lane keeps to high ground and must be Skinner's Ridgeway. In Chessils and in adjoining fields called Cornwell, just 525 feet above sea-level, he has, further, actually found Roman potsherds, tiles, and rough tesserae. This, as he says (_Notes and Queries_, xiv. 5, and in a letter to me) will be the site of Skinner's 'villa.' (_b_) In the same publication (p. 122) I have pointed out that the Parish Award (1798) of Chedzoy, near Bridgwater, contains a field-name Chesters. This, as the Rector of Chedzoy attests, is still in use there, as the name of an orchard on the Manor Farm, just west of Chedzoy village. According to older statements, a hypocaust was long ago found in 'Slapeland', and Slapeland too lies west of Chedzoy village (see _Vict. Hist. Somerset_, i. 359). Two bits of slender evidence seem thus to confirm each other, although no actual Roman remains have been noted at Chedzoy lately. (37) In the _Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of London_ (xxvi. 137-44) Mr. A. Bulleid describes, with illustrations, some excavations which he lately made in the marshes north of the Polden Hills, near Cossington and Chilton. Here are curious mounds which have often been taken for some kind of potteries, and are so explained by Mr. Bulleid; many of these mounds were excavated about a hundred years ago, and Mr. Bulleid has now dug into others. His results are not very conclusive, but they seem to imply that the mounds, whatever they were, were not used for pottery making, since among many relics of various sorts no 'wasters' have been found. See further, for an account of the finds in this region, _Victoria Hist. of Somerset_, i. 351-3. _Surrey_ (38) The _Surrey Archaelogical Collections_ (vol. xxvi) note various small Roman finds--Roman bricks in the walls of Fetcham Church, possibly Roman plaster at Stoke D'Abernon Church (p. 123), some thirty coins and Roman urns and glass from Ewell (pp. 135, 148), and an urn from Camberwell (p. 149). The same journal (vol. xxvii, p. 155) notes the discovery, not hitherto recorded, of over 100 coins of A.D. 296-312 in an urn dug up in 1904 at Normandy Manor Nurseries, near Guildford. (39) A _Schedule of Antiquities in the County of Surrey_, by Mr. P. M. Johnston (Guildford, 1913), seems intended for students of mediaeval and modern antiquities, and says little about Roman remains; it has no index and cites no authorities. _Sussex_ (40) A Roman well has been examined near Ham Farm, between Hassocks railway station and Hurstpierpoint. It was 38 feet deep, the upper part round and lined with local blue clay, the lower part square and lined with stout oak planks. The only object recorded from it is a 'first century vase', taken out at half-way down, which suggests that the well collapsed at an early date. Another well, flint-lined, was noted near but not explored; Roman potsherds were picked up not far off (_Sussex Archaeological Collections_, lvi. 197). The remains probably belong to a farm detected close by in 1857 (_S. A. C._ xiv. 178). Traces of Roman civilized life are comparatively common in this neighbourhood. (41) Mr. R. G. Roberts' volume, _The Place-names of Sussex_ (Cambridge University Press, 1914), much resembles the Derbyshire monograph noted above (No. 7). Its selection of place-names is about as limited and its neglect of all but purely phonetic considerations is as marked. Names such as Cold Waltham (beside a Roman road), Adur, Lavant, Arun, Chanctonbury, Mount Caburn, do not find a place in it. From a full criticism by Dr. H. Bradley in the _English Historical Review_ (xxx. 161-6) one would infer that its philology, too, is by no means satisfactory. _Westmorland_ (42) The _Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society_ (xiv. 433-65) contain the first Report, by Mr. R. G. Collingwood, of the excavation of the Roman fort at Borrans Ring, near Ambleside, covering the period from August 1913 to April 1914. It is an excellent piece of description and well illustrated; due attention is given to the small objects; the whole is scholarly and satisfactory. It is perhaps as well to add that one or two details first found in April 1914 were further explored in the following August, and some corrections were obtained which will be published in the second Report. For the rest see above, p. 10. _Wilts._ (43) I have contributed to the _Proceedings of the Bath and District Branch of the Somersetshire Archaeological Society and Natural History_ for 1914 (p. 50) a note on the relief of Diana found at Nettleton Scrub, to much the same effect as the paragraph on this sculpture in my Report for 1913 (p. 49). (44) The _Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of London_ (xxvi. 209) contain a note by Mr. E. H. Binney on Roman remains on the known Roman site, Nythe Farm, about three miles east of Swindon. _Worcestershire_ (45) The same _Proceedings_ (xxvi. 206) contain an account by Dr. G. B. Grundy of two sections which he dug lately across the line of Rycknield Street on the high ground south-east of Broadway, thereby helping to fix the road at this point. A sketch-map is added. _Yorkshire_ (46) In the _Bradford Antiquary_ for October 1914 (iv. 117-34) Dr. F. Villy continues his inquiries into a supposed Roman road running past Harden, a little north-west of Bradford. Dr. Villy actually excavates for his roads, in very praiseworthy fashion. But I do not feel sure that he has actually proved a Roman road on the line which he has here examined; he has found interesting and indubitable traces of an old road, but not decisive evidence of its date. The same volume includes a note of eight Roman coins of the 'Thirty Tyrants', from Yew Bank, Utley. _Wales_ (47) _Archaeologia Cambrensis_ for 1914 (series vi, vol. xiv) contains useful papers on Roman remains. Mr. H. G. Evelyn White describes in detail his excavations carried out at Castell Collen in 1913--see my Report for that year, pp. 1-58. One must regret that they have not been continued in 1914. Mr. F. N. Pryce describes his work at Cae Gaer, near Llangurig (pp. 205-20), also noted in that Report. The Rev. J. Fisher quotes place-names possibly indicative of a Roman road near St. Asaph, and quotes a suggestion by Mr. Egerton Phillimore that the township name Wigfair, once Wicware, stands for Gwig-wair, and that the second half of this represents the name Varis which the Antonine Itinerary places on the Roman road from Chester to Carnarvon at a point which cannot be far from St. Asaph and the Clwydd river (see my _Military Aspects of Roman Wales_, pp. 26-8, and Owen's forthcoming _Pembrokeshire_, ii. 524). Lastly, Mr. J. Ward reports on further finds of the fort wall at Cardiff Castle (pp. 407-10): see above, p. 21. (48) The excavation of the Roman fort at Gellygaer, thirteen miles north of Cardiff, was brought in 1913 to a point at which (as I learn) it is considered to be for the present finished. I referred to it in my Report for 1913; Mr. John Ward's full description of the results obtained in 1913 is now issued in the _Transactions of the Cardiff Naturalists' Society_ (vol. xlvi). The principal finds were a supposed 'drill-ground' on the north-east of the fort, a bit of another inscription of Trajan, a kiln in the churchyard, and a largish earthwork on the north-west of the fort. This last is a regular oblong of not quite five acres internal area, fortified by an earthen mound and a ditch; trenching across the interior showed no trace of buildings or indeed of any occupation, but the search was not carried very far. Several explanations have been offered of it--that it was a temporary affair, thrown up while the actual fort was abuilding; that it was intended for troops marching past and needing to camp for a night at the spot; that it was an earlier fort, begun when the first invasion of the Silures was made, about A.D. 50-2, but never finished. This third view is Mr. Ward's own. Without more excavation, it is rash to pronounce positively, and perhaps even a minute search might be fruitless. Analogies somewhat favour the first theory, but there will always be room for difference of opinion in explaining these excrescences (so to speak) of permanent forts, which are slight in themselves and slightly explored. As the exploration of this site appears to be closed for the present, and indeed is nearly complete, it may be convenient to give a conspectus of the whole in a small plan (fig. 29). [Illustration: FIG. 29. GENERAL PLAN OF ROMAN WORKS AT GELLYGAER (GLAMORGAN) (A. Granaries; B. Commandant's House; C. Head-quarters; D. doubtful; E. Barracks; F. Stabling(?))] (49) The fourth volume issued by the Welsh Monuments Commission (_Inventory of Ancient Monuments in the County of Denbigh_, H.M. Stationery Office, 1914) enumerates the few Roman remains of Denbighshire. The one important item is the group of tile and pottery kilns lately excavated by Mr. A. Acton at Holt, eight miles south of Chester, which I have described above (p. 15); the Commissioners' plan of the site seems to have an incorrect scale. Chance finds, important if not yet fully understood, have been found in British camps at Pen-y-corddin, Moel Fenlli, Moel y Gaer, and especially at Parc-y-Meirch or Dinorben (above, p. 28). Isolated coins have been found scantily--a hoard of perhaps 6,000 Constantinian copper at Moel Fenlli, a gold coin of Nero from the same hill, another coin of Nero at Llanarmon, 200-300 Constantinian at Llanelidan. A parcel of bronze 'cooking vessels' was found near Abergele (Eph. Epigr. iii. 130) but has unfortunately disappeared. The index also mentions coins under 'No. 458', which does not appear in the volume itself. A Roman road probably ran across the county from St. Asaph to Caerhyn (Canovium); its east end is pretty certain, as far as Glascoed, though the 'Inventory' hardly makes this clear. (50) A partial plan and some views of the west gate of the Roman fort at the Gaer, near Brecon, are given in the _Transactions of the Woolhope Naturalists' Field Club_ for 1908-11. _Scotland_ (51) The fifth Report of the Royal Commission on Ancient and Historical Monuments in Scotland, _Inventory of Monuments in Galloway. II. Stewartry of Kirkcudbright_ (Edinburgh, 1914) shows that the eastern half of Galloway, like the western half described in the fourth Report in 1912, contains nothing that can be called a 'Roman site' and very few Roman remains of any sort. Indeed this eastern half, the land between Dumfries and Newton Stewart, seems even poorer in such remains than the district between Newton Stewart and the Irish Sea. Its only items are some trifles of Samian, &c., found in the Borness Cave, and some iron implements found in a bronze caldron in Carlingwark Loch. This result is, of course, contrary to the views of older Scottish writers like Skene, who talked of 'numerous Roman camps and stations' in Galloway, but it will surprise no recent student. Probably the Romans never got far west of a line roughly coinciding with that of the Caledonian Railway from Carlisle by Carstairs to Glasgow. Their failure or omission to hold the south-west weakened the left flank and rear of their position on the Wall of Pius and helped materially to shorten their dominion in Scotland in the second century. (52) In the _Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland_ for 1913-4 (vol. xlviii) Mr. J. M. Corrie describes some polishers and other small objects found casually at Newstead (p. 338), and Dr. Macdonald expands (p. 395) the account of the Balcreggan hoard which he had contributed to the _Scotsman_ (my Report for 1913, p. 11). Mr. A. O. Curle (p. 161) records the discovery and exploration of a vitrified fort at the Mote of Mark near Dalbeattie (Kirkcudbright), and the discovery in it of two clearly Roman potsherds. The main body of the finds made here seem to belong to the ninth century; whether any of them can be earlier than has been thought, I am not competent to decide. (53) The well-known and remarkable earthworks at Birrenswark, near Lockerbie in Dumfriesshire, have long been explained as a Roman circumvallation[13] or at least as siege-works round a native hill-fort. In 1913 they were visited by Prof. Schulten, of Erlangen, the excavator of a Roman circumvallation round the Spanish fortress of Numantia; they naturally interested him, and he has now described them for German readers (_Neue Jahrbücher für das klassische Altertum_, xxxiii, 1914, pp. 607-17) and added some remarks on their date. His description is clear and readable; his chronological arguments are less satisfactory. He adopts[14] the view generally adopted by English archaeologists (except Roy) for the last two centuries, that these camps date from Agricola; he supports this old conclusion by reasons which are in part novel. I may summarize his position thus: Two Roman roads led from the Tyne and the Solway to Caledonia, an eastern road by Corbridge and Newstead, and a western one by Annandale and Upper Clydesdale. On the eastern road, a little north of Newstead, is the camp of Channelkirk; on the western are the three camps of Torwood Moor (near Lockerbie), Tassie's Holm (north of Moffat), and Cleghorn in Clydesdale, near Carstairs. These four camps are--so far as preserved--of the same size, 1,250 × 1,800 feet; they all have six gates (two in each of the longer sides); they all have traverses in front of the gates; lastly, Torwood Moor is fourteen Roman miles, a day's march, from Tassie's Holm, and that is twenty-eight miles from Cleghorn. Plainly they belong to the same date. Further, Agricola is the only Roman general who used both eastern and western routes together; accordingly, these camps date from him. Finally, as Birrenswark is near Torwood Moor, it too must be Agricolan. [Footnote 13: It is proper to add a warning that the traces of the 'circumvallation' are dim, and high authorities like Dr. Macdonald are sceptical about them. The two camps are, however, certain, and there must have been communication between them of some sort, if they were occupied at the same time.] [Footnote 14: No doubt it is by oversight that Dr. Schulten omits to state that the view which he is supporting is the ordinary view and not his own.] Dr. Schulten has not advanced matters by this speculation. His first point, that the four camps are coeval, and his reasons for that idea, are mainly taken from Roy--he does not make this clear in his paper. But he has not heeded Roy's warnings that the reasons are not cogent. Actually, they are very weak. At Channelkirk, only two sides of a camp remained in Roy's time; they measured not 1,250 × 1,800 feet but 1,330 × 1,660 feet, and the longer side had one gate in the middle, not two; to-day, next to nothing is visible. At Tassie's Holm there was only a corner of a perhaps quite small earthwork--not necessarily Roman--and the distance to Torwood Moor is nearer twenty than fourteen Roman miles. At Torwood Moor only one side, 1,780 feet long with two gates, was clear in Roy's time; the width of the camp is unknown. Cleghorn seems to have been fairly complete, but modern measurers give its size as 1,000 × 1,700 feet. Dr. Schulten builds on imaginary foundations when he calls these four camps coeval. He has not even proof that there were four camps. Nor is his reason any more convincing for assigning these camps, and Birrenswark with them, to Agricola. Here he parts company from Roy and adduces an argument of his own--that Agricola was the only general who used both eastern and western routes. That is a mere assertion, unproven and improbable. Roman generals were operating in Scotland in the reigns of Pius and Marcus (A.D. 140-80) and Septimius Severus; if there were two routes, it is merely arbitrary to limit these men to the eastern route. As a matter of fact, the history of the western route is rather obscure; doubts have been thrown on its very existence north of Birrens. But if it did exist, the sites most obviously connected with it are the second-century sites of Birrens, Lyne, and Carstairs; at Birrenswark itself the only definitely datable finds, four coins, include two issues of Trajan.[15] [Footnote 15: Gordon, p. 184, _Minutes of the Soc. Antiq._ i. 183 (2 February, 1725). It has been suggested that Gordon mixed up Birrens and Birrenswark. But though the Soc. Antiq. Minutes only describe the coins as 'found in a Roman camp in Annandale, ... the first Roman camp to be seen in Scotland', Gordon obviously knew more than the Minutes contain--he gives, e.g. the name of a local antiquary who noted the find--and the distinction between the 'town' (as it was then thought) of Middelby (as it was then called) and the camp of Burnswork, was well recognized in his time.] The truth is that the question is more complex than Dr. Schulten has realized. Possibly it is not ripe for solution. I have myself ventured, in previous publications, to date Birrenswark to Agricola--for reasons quite different from those of Dr. Schulten. But I would emphasize that we need, both there and at many earth-camps, full archaeological use of the spade. The circumstances of the hour are unfavourable to that altogether. POSTSCRIPT _Herefordshire_ (54) As I go to press, I receive the _Transactions of the Woolhope Naturalists' Field Club_ for 1908-11 (Hereford, 1914), a volume which, despite the date on its title-page, does not appear to have been actually issued till April 1915. It contains on pp. 68-73 and 105-9 two illustrated papers on three Roman roads of Herefordshire--Stone Street, the puzzling road near Leominster, and Blackwardine, the itinerary route between Gloucester and Monmouth. The find made at Donnington in 1906, which is explained on p. 69 as a 'villa' and on p. 109 as an agrimensorial pit--this latter an impossibility--was, I think, really a kiln, though there may have been a dwelling-house near. The most interesting of the Roman finds made lately in Herefordshire, those of Kenchester, do not come into this volume, but belong in point of date to the volume which will succeed it. [Illustration: FIG. 30. GELLYGAER. STONE PACKING FOR A WOODEN POSTHOLE IN THE VERANDAH OF THE BARRACKS (FIG. 29 E)] APPENDIX: LIST OF PERIODICALS The following list enumerates the archaeological and other periodicals published in these islands which sometimes or often contain noteworthy articles relating to Roman Britain. Those which contained such articles in 1914 are marked by an asterisk, and references are given in square brackets to the numbered paragraphs in the preceding section (pp. 38-63). 1. PERIODICALS NOT CONNECTED WITH SPECIAL DISTRICTS _Archaeologia_ (Society of Antiquaries of London). *_Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of London_ [see 30, 37, 44, 45]. _English Historical Review_ (London). _Scottish Historical Review_ (Glasgow). *_Numismatic Chronicle_ (London) [see 8]. _British Numismatic Journal_ (London). *_Journal of Roman Studies_ (London) [see 28]. *_Archaeological Journal_ (Royal Archaeological Institute, London) [see 2]. *_Journal of the British Archaeological Association_ (London) [see 17, 24, 30]. *_Antiquary_ (London) [see 3, 32]. _Athenaeum_ (London). _Architectural Review_ (London). 2. PERIODICALS DEALING PRIMARILY WITH SPECIAL DISTRICTS BERKSHIRE. *_Berks, Bucks, and Oxon Archaeological Journal_ (Reading) [see 5]. BUCKINGHAMSHIRE. _Records of Buckinghamshire_ (Aylesbury). See also Berks. CAMBRIDGESHIRE. _Proceedings of the Cambridge Antiquarian Society_ (Cambridge). _Proceedings of the Cambridge and Huntingdonshire Archaeological Society_ (Ely). CHESHIRE. _Journal of the Architectural, Archaeological, and Historic Society of Chester and North Wales_ (Chester). See also Lancashire. CORNWALL. _Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall_ (Plymouth). See also Devon. CUMBERLAND. *_Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society_ (Kendal). Includes also Lancashire north of the Sands [see 42]. DERBYSHIRE. *_Journal of the Derbyshire Archaeological and Natural History Society_ (Derby) [see 7]. DEVON. _Report and Transactions of the Devon Association_ (Plymouth). _Devon and Cornwall Notes and Queries_ (Exeter). DORSET. *_Proceedings of the Dorset Natural History and Antiquarian Field Club_ (Dorchester) [see 8, 9]. DURHAM. _Proceedings of the University of Durham Philosophical Society_ (Newcastle-on-Tyne). See also Northumberland, _Archaeologia Aeliana_. ESSEX. *_Transactions of the Essex Archaeological Society_ (Colchester) [see 10, 11]. _Essex Review_ (Colchester). _Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society of East Anglia_ (London). GLOUCESTERSHIRE. *_Transactions of the British and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society_ (Bristol) [see 12]. HAMPSHIRE. *_Proceedings of the Hampshire Field Club and Archaeological Society_ (Southampton) [see 14, 15]. HEREFORDSHIRE. *_Transactions of the Woolhope Naturalists' Field Club_ (Hereford) [see 50, 54]. HERTFORD. *_Transactions of the East Herts Archaeological Society_ (Hertford) [see 16]. HUNTINGDONSHIRE. See under Cambridgeshire. KENT. *_Archaeologia Cantiana_, Transactions of the Kent Archaeological Society (London) [see 17]. *_Transactions of the Greenwich Antiquarian Society_ (London) [see 18]. LANCASHIRE. *_Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society_ (Manchester) [see 19, 20]. _Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Historic Society_ (Liverpool). (For Lancashire north of the Sands see also Cumberland.) LEICESTERSHIRE. _Transactions of the Leicestershire Archaeological Society_ (Leicester). _Reports and Papers of the Architectural Societies of Lincoln, York, Northampton and Oakham, Worcester and Leicester_, called Associated Architectural Societies (Lincoln). LINCOLNSHIRE. *_Lincolnshire Notes and Queries_ (Horncastle) [see 21, 22]. See also under Leicestershire. LONDON AND MIDDLESEX. _Transactions of the London and Middlesex Archaeological Society_ (London). _London Topographical Record_ (London). NORFOLK. _Norfolk Archaeology_ (Norfolk and Norwich Archaeological Society, Norwich). See also under Essex. NORTHANTS. _Northamptonshire Notes and Queries_ (London). See also under Leicestershire. NORTHUMBERLAND. *_Archaeologia Aeliana_ (Society of Antiquaries of Newcastle-on-Tyne, Newcastle) [see 30]. _Proceedings_ of the same Society. NOTTS. _Transactions of the Thornton Society_ (Nottingham). OXFORDSHIRE. _Oxford Archaeological Society_ (Banbury). See also under Berkshire. RUTLAND. See under Leicestershire. SHROPSHIRE. _Transactions of the Shropshire Archaeological and Natural History Society_ (Shrewsbury). SOMERSET. *_Proceedings of the Somersetshire Archaeological and Natural History Society_ (Taunton) [see 35]. *_Proceedings of the Bath and District Branch, of the Somersetshire Archaeological Society_ (Bath) [see 43]. *_Notes and Queries for Somerset and Dorset_ (Sherborne) [see 36]. STAFFORDSHIRE. _Annual Report and Transactions of the North Staffordshire Field Club_ (Stafford). SUFFOLK. _Proceedings of the Suffolk Institute of Archaeology and Natural History_ (Ipswich). See also under Essex. SURREY. *_Surrey Archaeological Collections_ (London) [see 38]. SUSSEX. *_Sussex Archaeological Collections_ (Brighton) [see 39]. WARWICKSHIRE. _Transactions of the Birmingham and Midland Institute_ (Birmingham). WESTMORLAND. See under Cumberland. WILTSHIRE. _Wiltshire Archaeological and Natural History Magazine_ (Devizes). _Wiltshire Notes and Queries_ (Devizes). WORCESTERSHIRE. See under Leicestershire. YORKSHIRE. _Yorkshire Archaeological Journal_ (Yorkshire Archaeological Society, Leeds). _Publications of the Thoresby Society_ (Leeds). *_The Bradford Antiquary_ (Bradford) [see 46]. _Transactions of the Hunter Archaeological Society_ (Sheffield). WALES. *_Archaeologia Cambrensis_ (Cambrian Archaeological Association, London) [see 47]. _Montgomeryshire Collections_ (Oswestry). _Transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion_ and _Y-Cymmrodor_ (London). _Carmarthenshire Antiquarian Society and Field Club Transactions_ (Carmarthen). *_Report and Transactions of the Cardiff Naturalists' Society_ (Cardiff) [see 48]. SCOTLAND. *_Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland_ (Edinburgh) [see 52]. _Transactions of the Glasgow Archaeological Society_ (Glasgow). *_Proceedings of the Berwickshire Naturalists' Field Club_ (Alnwick) [see 31]. INDEX (_Mainly of Place-names_) Ambleside, 10, 56. Appleby, 35. Balcreggan, 61. Balmuildy (Wall of Pius), 7, 29. Beachy Head, 27. Birrenswark, 61. Borrans, _see_ Ambleside. Broom Farm (Hants), 26. Burgh Castle, 48. Cae Gaer (Montgom.), 58. Camerton, 55. Cardiff, 21, 58. Castell Collen, 57. Caves in Roman Britain, 54; Borness, 60. Chedzoy, 55. Chester, 41. Chesterholm (Hadrian's Wall), 8, 31. Compton (Surrey), 25. Corbridge, 9, 32, 49. Derby, Derwent, 42. Donnington (Heref.), 63. Dorchester (Dorset), 43. Dover, 45. Eastbourne, 27. East Bridgeford, 51. East Grimstead (Wilts.), 24. Ewell, 56. Featherwood (Northumberland), 30. Fetcham (Surrey), 55. Gaer (near Brecon), 60. Gellygaer, 58. Gloucester, 22. Greenwich, Roman road, 45. Guildford, 56. Halton (Wall of Hadrian), 50. Hangingshaw, _see_ Appleby. Hants, Roman roads, 44. Harden (Yorks.), 57. Herefordshire, Roman roads, 62. Hertfordshire, Roman roads, 45. Hockley (Essex), 44. Holt, 15-21, 34, 60. Hurstpierpoint, 56. Inveravon (Wall of Pius), 8. Kingston-on-Thames, 26. Kintbury (Berks.), 41. Kirkintilloch, 8. Lancashire, Roman roads, 45. Lancaster, 12. Lincoln, 34, 46. Litlington (Camb.), 26. _Litus Saxonicum_, 49. London, 22, 35, 46. Lowbury, 27. Manchester, 46. Mersea Island (Essex), 44. Midsomer Norton, 55. Mote of Mark (Kirkcudbright), 61. Mumrills (Wall of Pius), 8. Nettleton Scrub, 57. Newstead (Melrose), 61. North Ash (Kent), 25. Nythe Farm (near Swindon), 57. Parc-y-Meirch, 28, 60 Place-names of Derbyshire, 42; of Sussex, 56. Polden Hills (Som.), 55. Puncknoll (Dorset), 43. Raedykes (near Stonehaven), 7. Ribchester, 12, 45. Richborough, 21. Rockbourne Down, 44. Rycknield Street, 57. St. Asaph (road near), 58. Sea Mills, 44. Silchester, 44. Slack, 13. Suetonius Paulinus, topography of campaign against Boudicca, 40. _Tituli_ (_tutuli_), age of, 7. Traprain Law, 8, 30. Ulceby (South Lincs.), 46. Varis (of Ant. Itin.), 58. Vindolanda, 31. Wall of Hadrian, 8, 38-40. Wall of Pius, 7, 8. Weardale (co. Durham), 9, 33. Wigfair (St. Asaph), 58. Witcombe (Glouc.), 44. Wookey Hole (Mendip), 54. Wroxeter, 21, 52. 
22304	----	NICANOR TELLER OF TALES ----------------------------------------------------------------------- [Illustration: "In a physical ecstasy he spoke out that which clamored at his lips." (Page 44)] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- NICANOR TELLER OF TALES A Story Of Roman Britain By C. BRYSON TAYLOR Author Of "In The Dwellings Of The Wilderness" Having Pictures and Designs by Troy and Margaret West Kinney Chicago A. C. Mcclurg & Co. 1906 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Copyright A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1906 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England All rights reserved Published April 28, 1906 Typography by The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A. Presswork by The Lakeside Press, Chicago, U.S.A. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- C. H. B. To you, whose love did come And oft did sing to me, When I was working in the furrows. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CONTENTS BOOK I PAGE THE MANTLE OF MELCHIOR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 BOOK II THE GARDEN OF DREAMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 BOOK III PAWNS AND PLAYERS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 BOOK IV THE LORD'S DAUGHTER AND THE ONE WHO WENT IN CHAINS . . . . . . . 207 BOOK V THE NIGHT AND THE DAWNING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 295 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ILLUSTRATIONS Page "In a physical ecstasy he spoke out that which clamored on his lips" [Page 44] Frontispiece "'Were I that woman, I should have wanted to love him'" [Page 85] 72 "'You sent for me, Lady Varia?'" [Page 152] 176 "Half a dozen young beauties had taken possession,--girls of the haughtiest blood in Britain" [Page 240] 254 "The sight burst upon him in all its hideousness--where had been the stately mansion of his lord" [Page 344] 364 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- CHARACTERS EUDEMIUS, a Roman lord living in Britain VARIA, his daughter LIVINIUS, a Roman citizen, a boyhood friend of Eudemius MARIUS, his son, of the Roman legions in Gaul MARCUS SILENUS POMPONIUS, Count of the Saxon Shore } AURELIUS MENOTUS, duumvir of Anderida } Guests of FELIX, his son } Eudemius CAIUS JULIUS VALENS, a Roman citizen } JULIA } NIGIDIA } Roman girls, daughters of the PAULA } guests of Eudemius GRATIA } NERISSA, nurse to Varia HITO, master of the household of Eudemius CHLORIS, of all nations, living upon Thorney SADA, a Saxon } inmates of her house EUNICE, a Greek } ELDRIS, a Briton, a convert to Christianity WARDO, a Saxon, a slave in the house of Eudemius VALERIUS, a Roman, a soldier of fortune TOBIAS, a Hebrew, a worker in ivory RATHUMUS, a British peasant, bound to the soil SUSANNA, a Hebrew woman, his wife NICANOR, a story-teller, their son WULF, the Red, a Saxon free-lance CEAWLIN, a Saxon chieftain FATHER AMBROSE, of the Christian church NICODEMUS, the One-Eyed, a British freedman MYLEIA, his wife MARCUS, a slave in the house of Eudemius BALBUS, a convict JUNCINA, a fish-wife on Thorney SOSIA, her daughter A flower-girl, a Saxon singer, slaves, trades-folk, soldiers of the military police; guards and overseers of the mines, and miners; Roman nobles and patrician women; Saxon men-at-arms, and men of the outland nations Scene: Britain in the last days of Roman power Time: between A.D. 410 and 446 ----------------------------------------------------------------------- LIST OF TOWNS AND RIVERS WITH THEIR MODERN SITES AND NAMES Abus Flumen Humber River. Ad Fines Broughing, Hertfordshire. Anderida Pevensey. Aquæ Solis Bath. Bibracte _Unknown_. Caledonia Scotland. Calleva Silchester. Corinium Cirencester. Cunetio Folly Farm, near Marlborough. Deva Chester. Dubræ Dover. Eboracum York. Gobannium Abergavenny. Glevum Gloucester. Isca Silurum Carleon. Leucarum Llychwr, county of Glamorgan. Londinium London. Noviomagus Holwood Hill, parish of Bromley. Pontes Staines Portus Magnus Porchester. Ratæ Leicester. Regnum Chichester. Rutupiæ Richborough Sabrina Flumen Severn River. Serica China. Tamesis Flumen Thames River. Tripontium _Near_ Lilburne. Uriconium Wroxeter. Urus Flumen Ouse River. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE MANTLE OF MELCHIOR BOOK I ----------------------------------------------------------------------- NICANOR: TELLER OF TALES Book I THE MANTLE OF MELCHIOR I Nicanor the story-teller was the son of Rathumus the wood-cutter, who was the son of Razis the worker in bronze, who was the son of Melchior the story-teller. So that Nicanor came honestly by his gift, and would even believe that his great-grandsire had handed it down to him by special act of bequest. Now Rathumus the wood-cutter, tall and gaunt and fierce-eyed, coming home with his fagots on his shoulder in the gloam of the evening, when the fireflies twinkled low among the marshes, saw Nicanor on the side of the hill against the sky, sitting with hands clasped about his knees, crooning to the stars. Rathumus bowed his head and entered his house, and to Susanna, his wife, he said: "The gift of our father Melchior hath fallen upon the child. I have seen it coming this long, long while. Now he singeth to the stars. When they have heard him and have taught him, he will go and sing to men. He is our child no longer, wife. His life hath claimed him." Susanna, the mother, said: "He will be a man among men. He will be a great man among great men. It may be that the Lord Governor will send for him. But--oh, my boy--my boy!" Rathumus answered gravely: "Pray the holy gods he will not misuse his power!" Presently Nicanor came in, with the spell not yet shaken off him, wanting his supper. A smaller image of his father he was, lean and shock-headed, with gray steady eyes changing from the stillness of childhood's innocence to the depth and wonder of dawning knowledge. Rathumus said: "What hast been doing, boy?" Nicanor stretched like one arousing from sleep. "I know not," he answered. "Perhaps I slept out under the moon last night and she hath turned my head.--Father, I have been thinking. When I am become a man I shall do great things. Even you have told me that the destiny of a man's life lieth between his hands." "Son," Rathumus said quickly, "remember also that men's hands lie between the hands of the gods, even as a slave's between the hands of his over-lord. Keep it in mind, child, that thou art very young, that thy first strength hath not yet come upon thee; and strive not to teach to others what thou hast not learned thyself. For that way lies mockery and the scorn of men." "Now I do not understand where thy words would lead," Nicanor said; and his gray eyes, in the wavering torchlight, were doubtful. "I teach no one. Perhaps--it was not I who slept under the moon, after all." For he was young, and though his parents saw what had come upon him, he himself saw not. So Nicanor had his supper, of black bean-porridge, taking no thought of those parents' loving thought for him; and later climbed the ladder to the loft where he slept. After a while, Susanna, yearning over her boy in this, the first dim hour of his awakening,--yearning all the more since she saw that he was following blindly the workings of his own appointed fate, without any sense or knowledge of it himself,--went up the ladder also and sat beside him, thinking him asleep. But Nicanor put out a hand and slid it into hers, and shuffled in his straw until he was close against her. She gathered him into her arms, his shaggy head upon her breast, and rocked him to and fro in the darkness. To-morrow he would go where this fate of his called him; but this last night he must be hers, all hers, who had borne him only to give him up. Nicanor, stupid with sleep and comfort, murmured drowsily, and she bent close over him to listen. "Mother, three nights ago my father spoke of Melchior, and the name hath lingered in my head. Who was he? What was he?" "Thy father's father's sire," she told him. She saw it coming; the chains which bound his heart to hers were stretching. "He was a teller of tales, son, and--thy father thinks a fold of his mantle hath fallen upon thee. He it was who was first servus in the family of our lord. Little one, tell mother; what thoughts hast thou when the night comes down and the wide earth hushes into drowsy crooning? Hast ever felt dreams stirring at thy heart-strings like chords of faintest music?" "Mother!" Nicanor cried, and tightened his arms about her. "Thou hast it--the words--the words! Tell me how to do it! Thoughts I have, and visions so far away that they are gone before I know them--but the words! I cannot say the things I would, so that they ring. Teach it me, then!" Susanna laughed, and stroked her boy's hot head. "Words I have, little son," she said softly, "but I have no tune to sing them to. A woman hath but one tune, and that is ever in the same key. One song, and one only, in her life she hath, and when that is ended, she is dumb. But please the good God! thou'lt have what lies behind the words and alone makes them of value; the thought which is the foundation-stone to build upon. And then the words will come also. What visions hast thou seen, sonling?" "Mother, I cannot tell, for my mouth is empty though my head rings. Always it begins as though a curtain of mist were swept rolling back from the face of the world, and I see below me vague mountains and broad lonely wastes, and gray cities sleeping in dead moonlight, for it is ever night. I see clouds that reach away to the rim of the earth, and it is all as in a dream, and--and so deep within me that I lose it before I know it.--Oh, I cannot tell!" He stirred restlessly and nestled his head deeper into her breast, and she stroked his hair in silence. When he spoke again there was a new note in his boy's voice. "Mother, I too will be a teller of tales, even as was that sire of my father's sire whose name was Melchior. For in that there is to me all joy, and no pain nor sorrow at all. And I shall be great, greater than he and greater than those who shall come after me." Susanna laid her hand across his mouth. "Hush thee, for the love of dear Heaven, hush! That is boasting, and good never came of that! Oh, little son of mine, listen to me, thy mother,--it may be for the last time,--and keep my words always in a corner of thy heart. They shall be as a charm to keep all danger from thee. Pray to God nightly, the dear God of Whom I have tried to teach thee; keep thy hands from blood, thy body from wanton sin, and thy tongue from guile. So shalt thou be pure and thy tales prosper; for untainted fruit never blossomed from a dunghill. Remember that the Lord loveth all his creatures even the same as he loveth thee. As thou hast good and evil both within thee, so have others; wherefore judge them in mercy as thou wouldst thyself. And judge thyself in sternness as thou wouldst them; so shalt thou keep the balance true. Now thou art sleeping through my preaching--well, never mind! Kiss thy mother, dear one, and I will go." She descended the ladder; and Nicanor's voice came sleepily muffled through the straw. "All the same I shall be great--greater than that old man who was before me--greater than kings--greater than any who shall come after--" He slept, and the moonlight streamed upon him in a flood of silver. And below, at Rathumus' side, lay Susanna, the mother, and stared wide-eyed and wakeful through the darkness. II Nicanor sat beside the fire, his hands clasping his knees, his eyes glowing in the ruddy leaping of the flames. Around him on the moor squatted a band of belated roving shepherds, who from all the country round were bringing their flocks to fold for the Winter. About the fire, at discreet intervals, the sheep were herded, each flock by itself. Around every huddle a black figure circled, staff in hand, hushing wakeful disturbers into peace. The shepherds ringing the fire sprawled carelessly; uncouth rough men with shaggy beards and keen eyes, their features thrown into sharp relief against the light. Farther off, small groups, close-sitting, cast dice upon a sheepskin with muttered growls of laughter. The musky smell of the animals tinged the first chill of Autumn which hung in the air. Around them the moor stretched away, vast and silent, broken into ridges filled with impenetrable shadows until it melted into the mystery of the night. Over the world's darkness a slender moon, sharp-horned, wandered through rifting clouds. Nicanor's voice rose and fell with the crackling flames. His eyes gleamed, his face quivered; the men within hearing hung upon his words. Gradually the dicers' laughter died; one by one they left their clusters and joined the circle at the fire. Nicanor saw, and his heart swelled high. This was what he loved,--to fare forth at night and come upon such a crowd of drovers, or it might be wood-cutters or charcoal burners; to begin his chant abruptly, in the midst of conversation; to see his listeners draw close and closer, gazing wide-eyed, half in awe; to move them to laughter or to tears, as suited him; to sway them as the marsh winds swayed the reeds. At times, when this sense of power shook him, he took a savage delight in seeing them turn, one to another, great bearded men, sobbing, gasping for breath, striving for self-control,--simple-hearted children of moor and forest, whose emotions he could mould as a potter moulds his clay. He could have laughed aloud, he could have sung for sheer joy and triumph, to watch this thing. Again, he would make them shiver at his tales of the world of darkness--shiver and glance from side to side into the outer blackness, with eyes gleaming white in the firelight. For it was a superstitious age, in which every field, every hearth-stone, had its presiding genius for good or ill; and there were many things of which men spoke with bated breath and two fingers out. Nicanor ended his chant: "So this man died, being unpunished, and went away into a great country which was a field of flowers. And in the midst of the field was a city wherein the man would enter. But even as he walked through this field of flowers, he saw that out of the flowers ran blood, and the flowers spoke and cried out upon him because of that thing which he had done when he was upon the earth. And the man was sorely frightened." There was a mutter and a stir among the crowd. A black bulk heaved itself up between Nicanor and the firelight, and a swollen voice cried out: "Now by Christ His cross, how comes it that this snipe of a stripling may speak from his mouth of what lieth beyond the grave? For this is death, and death is a matter concerning Holy Church alone. By what right doth he tell us of what she says no mortal may know?" Cries from his mates interrupted. "Nay, Rag; shut thy gaping mouth and leave the lad in peace! And so--and so--what then befell this wicked man, son?" But Rag was not minded to be put aside so lightly. "I say 'tis wrong!" he bawled. "No man, without warrant, may thus blab of what goeth on beyond the grave!" A voice seconded him from the outer ring, but dubiously. "I think the Saxon right! How may we know if this lad speaks true of that which comes to pass hereafter? Boy, what earnest canst give that this thing happened so?" But another shouted: "In the name of the gods, Rag, get thee to sleep once more, thou stupidest lout in Britain! It is a scurvy trick to waken thus at the wrong time and trumpet thy nonsense in such fashion. Good youth canst not skip that bit for peace's sake, and get on to the next part?" Rag's voice blared into this one's speech. "Nay, now I am awake, I'll not sleep again until I know if a lie hath waked me. For if it be not the truth, it is a lie, and a lie shall have short shrift with me!" The men, stirred by the tale, took sides. A gale of conversation sprang up. Some wished the story to go on; others would know by what means this lanky youth could tell of what was to come to pass hereafter. They knew not the word imagination. Consequently fierce arguments arose. The burly cause of the uproar curled up and went quietly to sleep once more, leaving his fellows to settle for themselves the questions he had propounded. It is the way of his kind. High words fanned the spark of their excitement. Two met with blows; one stumbled into the hot embers. He cursed, and the light flashed on a drawn blade. Instantly the noise redoubled. Mingled with it was the bleating of frightened sheep, the oaths of drovers who strove to check incipient stampedes. Nicanor hugged himself with joy. If but his father could be there to see! Melchior, that wonderful great-sire of his, could not have so stirred men that they were ready even for blood and violence. He, Nicanor, could; wherefore he was greater than Melchior. His blood leaped at the thought; he wished to proclaim his exultation to the world. But things soon took a different turn. In the confusion, Rag, lying almost beneath his comrades' feet, got himself kicked. He leaped to his feet, dazed, roaring like a bull, and, stupid lout that he was, took unreasoning vengeance upon the first object which caught his eye. This chanced to be Nicanor. "See what thou hast brought us to, son of perdition!" he cried. "But for thee and thy fool's tales we should be lying asleep like good men and true. This is thy work, with thy talk on heaven and hell and flowers which vomit blood. God's death! Heard ever man the like? If thou knowest not of what thou pratest, thou hast lied, and that deserves a beating. If thou dost know, thou hast the black art of magic,--an evil-doer, with familiars who tell thee things not to be known of earth; and that deserves a flaying!" His voice was loud. His partisans took up his cry. Nicanor found himself surrounded. He became enraged; forgot that he himself with his wizard tongue had worked them into a very fitting state for any outbreak. That the emotions he had aroused should be turned against himself was a monstrous thing. He drew his knife; one seized it from his hand and flung it into the heart of the fire. Black figures danced around him; he was lifted off his feet by their rush; flung down, trampled upon, bruised, kicked, beaten. Men, losing all thought of him, fought over his head, clamoring old pagan creeds and shrieking aloud their theories concerning the Seven Mysteries of the Church. They differed wildly. From the criticism of a romantic tale, the discussion flamed into a religious war. One with a broken head fell senseless near Nicanor. He, in scarcely better case, turned and squirmed until he got himself covered with the body; so saved his ribs and perhaps his life. The combat ended, after a lapse of minutes, as abruptly as it had started. A cry arose from the hurrying guardians of the flocks: "The sheep! Look to the sheep! They scatter!" The animals, frightened by the uproar into panic, broke from their cordon and bolted into the darkness. Religion was forgotten on the instant; men in the act of giving a blow swung around and fled after their property. Seeing this out of the tail of his eye, Nicanor crawled from beneath the protecting body. He stood upright beside the deserted fire, panting, glaring, his clothes in tatters. Blood flowed from his nose, and from a cut upon his temple. He was a sorry sight. He lifted his clenched fist and shook it at his vanishing assailants. "By Christ His cross!" he swore, repeating Rag's oath, "after this I shall make you believe what I tell you, though I say that your hell is heaven and your heaven hell. You have bruised me, beaten me, because of what? Something too high for your sodden brains to know! You have flouted me; now I shall flout you. I shall make you fear me, tremble at my words--ay, kiss the very ground beneath my feet. You shall learn to fear me and my power; you shall cringe like the curs you are!" He went home in a quiver of rage and hate and shame, wounded in his body, still more sorely in his dignity, and told his mother he was going away. Where, he did not know. This was a small detail, since to him all the world was new. Folk had faith in the manifestations of Providence in those days; Rathumus and Susanna believed they heard Fate speaking by the mouth of their angry son. Susanna's eyes filled with tears. Rathumus nodded his great head gravely and slowly. Nicanor, overflowing with his wrongs, strode up and down the hard earth floor in a passion. Again he gave tongue to his lamentations. "I am stronger than they--I shall conquer! Thou shalt see! I shall make them acknowledge that I, son of Rathumus, am greater than they. This shall be my revenge, and though it take me all the years of my life, I shall win to it by fair means or foul." "Son, son!" Rathumus said sternly. "Speak not thus rashly. For the gods, and the gods alone, is vengeance." But Susanna took her boy to his own loft, and there comforted him, motherwise. "Thou wilt yet get the better of them all, my son. That they should have dared to treat thee so! But oh, be careful, for my sake! Now hearken. I will have thy father pray that our gracious lord permit thee to go to Christian Saint Peter's church, on Thorney, which is called the Bramble Isle, to learn a trade. Though he be no believer in the Faith, our lord is a good man, merciful unto us, his slaves, and I doubt not will give consent. Then seek there a man by name of Tobias, a colonus and a worker in ivory for the good Christian priests. He, it may be, will aid thee for sake of her who is thy mother." She stopped, then, and looked into his face. But he met her eyes without a change, and never thought to question what her words might mean. For he was very young; also his mother was his mother. So that Susanna smiled, for pure joy and happiness, and said: "He is a wise man, with goodly store of wealth. Also hath he been in far strange countries, and seen right marvellous things. And he will take thee to learn of him, if so be thou wilt say thou art son to Rathumus and Susanna his wife. And so wilt thou become great, and very wise, and loving." So in the end, Nicanor started off alone in the world, with his parents' blessing, which was all they had to give him, to find out whither this Fate of his had called him. III Thus it was that Nicanor left his home in the gray northlands, up by the rolling hills and the barren moors which lay under the great Wall of Hadrian; and journeyed down the long road which led ever southward to Londinium. Past Eboracum, on the Urus, that "other Rome," where the Governor of Britain dwelt, famous as the station of the Sixth Legion, called the Victorious, the flower of the Roman army, which men said had been there for upwards of three hundred years. He crossed the wide river Abus, and thought it the ocean of which he had heard tales; he stole at stations and begged at farms, and drank in all that he could see and hear. Over hills and through valleys the great road ran, straightaway for league upon league, turning aside for no obstacle, invincible as its builders, ancient and enduring. It crossed rivers, it clove through darkling woods, it traversed wide and lonely wastes, and led past walled towns, worn by the feet of marching legions, scored with the grooves of wheels. And even as across the world all roads led to Rome, so here did all roads lead to Londinium, and therefore to Thorney on Tamesis. And Londinium was no longer the collection of mud huts filled with blue-painted Britons, of which dim tales were told. For under Roman rule fair Britain had cast half off the shroud of her brutish early days, and blossomed into a civilization such as she never before had known, and would not know again for many hundred years. One passing glimpse of light she caught--even though it had its shadows--before the veil shut down once more with the coming of the Saxons. For, though Roman rule in Britain was said to end with the fourth century, Roman influence, Roman customs, Roman laws, survived and were paramount during the years of independence which followed, until throttled by the slowly tightening hand of Saxon barbarism. Then the old dark times returned. The Romans were hard taskmasters, but the task they had was hard. They were often merciless, but those beneath them had been wild beasts to tame. They were in power supreme and absolute, and they lived in ease and plenty upon the toil of native serfs and bondsmen. Fair villas, stately palaces, costly foods and fine raiment--all the luxuries those old days knew were theirs. Under them was the mass of the native population, staggering beneath their burden of taxation, bound to the soil, often absolute slaves, who spent their lives toiling in brickfields, in quarries, in mines, and in forests, living in straw-thatched cabins upon the lands of masters who paid no wage. When there was rebellion, these masters knew how to deal punishment swift and sure; when there was submission, they gave kindness and reward. Had Rome not been as strong as even in her decline she was, Romans could not have held Britain as long as they did. For on sea and land, on the verge of the civilization they maintained, were restless tribes, Scots, Picts, and Saxons, seizing every pretext, every moment of unguardedness, for encroachment and disturbance. So that their stern discipline was necessary, and not without results which went for further good. Under Roman rule all the surface of the land was changed. Great towns, walled and fortified, rose on the sites of ditch-surrounded villages. Marshes were drained, bridges were built, and rivers banked; forests were cleared and waste lands reclaimed. More than all, the land was tilled and rendered productive, so that Britain became the most important grain province of the empire. Romans found in Britain a scant supply of corn, grasses on which the cattle fed, wild plums, a few nuts and berries. They brought to Britain fruits and vegetables from many lands beyond the seas; from Italy gooseberries, chestnuts, and apples; walnuts from Gaul; apricots, peaches, and pears from Asia. Paved roads webbed the island, wide and well-drained, by which bodies of troops could be massed at any given point with incredible rapidity. Fortifications were built and in the north walls of solid masonry were thrown across the country from the Oceanus Ibernicus to the Oceanus Germanicus, for the determent of common foes. That upon which Rome once set her seal could never wholly lose the mark; must remain bound to her by ties, which, stretching across the centuries, would link the future to the past. In spite of the bitterness of her defeat and ruin, and because she still was Rome, she was mighty enough to leave precious gifts to the peoples who should come after her. To Britain, because Britain had been her own, she left many legacies great and small: the sonorous richness of her speech, soon corrupted to make for a new world a new speech as noble; and more than all, she left the word of her mighty law, proudest monument ever reared by mortal hands to a nation's glory. Rome's sons builded well for her; and the labor of their hearts and hands was not for the day alone, but for the ages. Towns yet to rise upon the ashes of her stately cities would find their model in her municipal government, and in her laws concerning the taxation of land and the distribution of personal and real estate. Old customs she left to be handed down to those who should sit in her sons' places,--the luctus of widows, who for a full year of widowhood might not wed again; the names of her deities she gave to the days of the planetary week. Her superstitions and folk-lore, deep-rooted, survived and lingered long among many nations: the old sorcery of the waxen image of an enemy transfixed by bodkins for the torment of that enemy; the belief in the were-wolf (one of the oldest of Roman traditions); the association of the yew tree with mourning and the passing of human souls. Britain, with all her virgin wealth unmined, furnished Rome with enormous food supplies; sent many thousand men to serve with Roman armies on the continent; and received the colonists, called auxiliaries, brought thither in accordance with Rome's invariable policy of transplanting to the land of one nation captives from another. Thus the population of Britain, composed of people from nearly every race or tribe which has been subdued by Rome, was strangely heterogeneous, yet as strangely fused. It was Romanized; the national individuality of its units was lost in that of their conqueror. But as Rome destroyed the nationality of her captives, so in time she inevitably destroyed her own. If they were Romanized, she was Gothicized and Gaulicized. But by this means only was the circulation of her life-currents maintained to the uttermost branches of the empire. That great empire, age-old, rotting inwardly almost to decay, was vitalized, as it were galvanically, against her approaching dissolution by the blood of her colonies. In the throes of hierarchical government, torn by three irreconcilable religions,--polytheistic, Julian or Augustan, and Christian,--she had no strength to spare for these outsiders when her own life was at stake. The story of Roman Britain is the old story which history repeats down all the ages: Rome sacrificed one part of Europe that the whole might not be lost, and offered up the few for the good of the greater number. For in those dark days from the second century of the Christian era until near the close of the fifth, when came the last stage of the struggle and the extinction of the Empire of the West, the world seemed tottering to its ruin. Kingdoms shook and crumbled to their fall; new powers strove headlong for their seats; men found themselves harried on all sides, with no pause for respite, and harried again in turn. They did not understand; they knew only that fierce unrest possessed all the earth, manifesting itself in the terrible wandering of the nations, which was to culminate in a new world and a new order of things. Small wonder that bewildered folk, swept on and overwhelmed in the maelstrom of world-wide turbulence, unknowing what must happen next, predicted and believed that with the year 999 the end of the world would surely come. They had good reason for such belief. At Rome the fierce tribes from Northern Europe could no longer be held back. Goths, Vandals, Huns, each in their own good time had joined in the attack. Rome the Mighty, the Eternal, invincible as Fate, whose power no man believed could have an end, was brought to bay at last, impotent, drained by internal sores, goaded and tortured by foes without, with a horde of wolfish barbarians snarling and snapping at her throat. From one distant province after another her legions were called home. The fated twelve centuries of her power were ended; the direst tragedy of history had begun. Britain, with all her fear and hatred of the heavy Roman hand, had yet been secure from outer harm while the strength of that hand was with her. For in the north were skulking bands of Picts and Scots, lawless and undisciplined, seized with the contagion of excitement which stirred their neighbors. In the south were Saxons, the terrible men of the Short Knives; about the coasts to east and south were bands of pirates, Jutes and Saxons both. Driven from their own lairs, they could but seek new resting-places; and Britain was the only spot where they might obtain a foothold. These rovers the Roman legions had held long years in check; yet it was told that soon the troops would be recalled to Rome's defence. None believed that Britain would be left wholly to herself; for Rome was too far away for her full peril to be brought home to those whose own affairs kept their hands well filled. But in the tenth year of the fifth century across the sea came letters from Honorius the Emperor, urging the cities of Britain to provide for their own defence, since Rome could no longer send them aid. And for Britain this was the slow beginning of the end. There followed then invasion after invasion of barbarians, which the cities, forever quarrelling among themselves, were forced to unite in repulsing. The Saxons thus overcome, ended usually by settling in Roman cities under Roman government peaceably enough until the next attack by their countrymen, in which they invariably joined. By the year 420 Angles and Saxons had gradually established themselves on the eastern and southeastern coasts, while other allied tribes constantly harassed the western districts. Since the second century Rome's army in Britain had dwindled to four legions. At Deva, in the west, was the Twentieth Legion, holding in check the fierce mountain tribes of the Silures, and, with the Second, farther south, at Isca Silurum, keeping at bay the pirates who at times sailed up the broad Sabrina on plunder bent. In the north, at Eboracum, was the famous Sixth, within quick reaching-distance of Valentia and Caledonia. At Ratæ was the Ninth, guarding the low country and the eastern fens. But after the Emperor's letter, the Ninth and the Twentieth sailed away, and the proconsul at Eboracum perforce sent part of his own troops to fill their places. Two years later, the Sixth was recalled. And then the consul abandoned Eboracum, that great city which since its foundation had been the seat of government for all the land, and with his forces moved farther south, leaving it deserted. But not for long. For Caledonians and Saxons came down from the north and occupied it, and settled there to stay. And after that, whenever Romans left the northern towns, seeking greater security in the southward provinces, the barbarians advanced and took possession, and thus gained the foothold for which they had been struggling ever since the Conquest. And so the coming of the end was hastened. Those later days of the departure of the troops were stirring days. The island, governed by the lords of the cities, each in feudal independence, had shaken off the leading-strings of Rome. It was wealthy; as yet it was prosperous; the advance of the barbarians, though it might be sure, was slow. When Rome's troubles were past, she would send her troops again, and the invaders would be driven out for good and all. Yet there were many folk abroad in those days, asking anxious questions, filled with responsibility and care. And ever and again, along the great white roads, a cohort would go flashing past, lined up to full number, gallant in fighting trim, with standards flying, and eyes set always southward, toward the sea and Rome. * * * * * There were many other folk upon the busy highways,--an endless procession that went and came. Pack-horses, war chariots, slaves and soldiers, nobles, merchants, and artificers, men with goods to sell and men without,--a motley throng from many lands. Nicanor, shy and fierce-eyed and of shaggy hair, tramping steadily southward in the wake of the swift-footed soldiers, felt that the world was a very mighty place, and never had he dreamed of such great people. As he drew nearer Londinium, the traffic and the bustle increased. More troops kept coming up; and again others passed them, going down. And now, among the low hills, he caught glimpses of fair and stately houses gleaming among wooded groves; and there were huts of plastered mud, straw-thatched, where dwelt gaunt, collared slaves. On either side of the road were broad meadows where sheep were grazing; and ploughed fields where men and women stood yoked like cattle and strained to the cut of the ploughman's lash; and quarries where men toiled endlessly under heart-breaking loads, driven on by blows and curses. These were the things which Nicanor had known all his life, for his father worked, and his mother. But when he met a fat and perfumed man, riding upon a milk-white mule, with servants before and behind him, and beasts of burden bearing hampers,--then Nicanor could not understand. He bowed before the fat man deeply, thinking him the great Lord Governor himself; and men by the roadside laughed and mocked him. So that he fought them, and came out of his second conflict very valiantly, with a closed eye and a lip badly cut. And so, in the fulness of time, he came to the last day of his journey. It was a gray day, touched with the smoky breath of Autumn, with all the country veiled in softest haze. It was very early morning, and few people were upon the road, although since the first light of dawn men had been working in field and forest. From a farmhouse off the road came the crowing of a cock and the creak of a cumbrous handmill hidden in a thick copse near by. Nicanor, sitting by the roadside where he had slept, ate the food remaining overnight in his wallet, and rolled his sheepskin cloak into a bundle for his shoulders. Behind him, from the road, came a man's voice, suddenly, singing a rollicking drinking-song. The singer brought up beside Nicanor, a black-haired man in a soiled leather jerkin and cap of shining brass, with a matted beard and narrow eyes, and a great leaf-shaped sword swinging at his thigh. This one hailed him heartily, in a loud voice. "Good youth, canst tell me where I am?" "Why, yes," said Nicanor, proud to display his knowledge of the locality. "This be the street a Saxon man at Ad Fines named to me Eormen--" "Ad Fines? Thirty miles from Londinium? Now I could have sworn that yesternight I was in Tripontium, thrice thirty miles from there. I was there yesterday--or maybe that time a week ago. 'Tis a small failing of mine to go where I do not mean to go, and know not how I get there, when the wine is in me. But this way will do, and now I am so far upon it, I may as well go farther." He sat down beside Nicanor. "Dost know of any lord would have a fine stout serving-man?" he said with a wheedle. "One who can carve, be it swine or human, skilled with sword or sling, who can drive a chariot, pair or single-span?" "Not I," Nicanor answered. "I be a stranger in these parts." "Bound for Londinium?" asked the black-haired man. "Nay, for the Christian church of Saint Peter's, on Thorney which is called the Isle of Brambles," said Nicanor, without guile. "Why, then, I'll go there too," the stranger said amiably. "For I am most devilishly lost, driven from town and camp, the first time sober in a week; and money I must gain, or starve. Eh, Bacchus! the women--the women!" He sighed, shaking his black head dolefully. "What concern had they with it?" Nicanor wished to know. "Did they turn thee out from camp and town?" "Ay, boy, turned me out and turned me inside out," said the black-haired man, and grinned. "Never a little copper ass have I left upon me. See, now, our paths lie in the same direction, since my path is any path. Shall we go together? For I swear I'll not get lost again. Behold me, Valerius, sometime of the Ninth Legion at Ratæ, now, by the grace of God, of no legion at all. I have my tablet of discharge from service; a follower of fortune you see me, with my sword as long as the purse of him who hires it." Nicanor, half shy, half pleased with his new acquaintance, told in turn his name and station. "Thou and I will be good friends," the soldier said. "I love a lad of spirit, such as thou. I'll fight for thee and thou shalt steal for me. 'Tis a fair division of labor. Hear you how my tongue waggeth? For a week it hath been sleeping off the wine, and now that it be sober again, it runneth by itself. Come, friend, art ready?" On the way Valerius talked irrepressibly, with many strange oaths and ejaculations, mixing his religions impartially. He told weird tales of life in camps and teeming cities, so that Nicanor's blood tingled, and he longed to go also and do these things of which he heard. The tales of Valerius did not always hang together, but Nicanor cared not at all for that. By and by Valerius took to asking questions, his tongue in his cheek at some of Nicanor's replies. In half an hour he had learned the boy's life, deeds, and ambitions, and had extracted a promise that Nicanor would get the worthy Tobias to provide him also with employment, preferably around the church, where would be fat pickings and little work. At noon they ate by the roadside with two kindly disposed merchants, and later continued on their way, meeting other folk, with whom Valerius passed the time of day. So, toward sunset, they came with many others ahorse and afoot, to Thorney, the Isle of Brambles, at the foot of the road. And here Nicanor thought he had never seen anything so wonderful, and stood staring wide-eyed, while Valerius hummed his drinking-song and chewed a piece of metyl leaf, which turned his lips and teeth quite red. For here the country broadened out into a great marsh, vast and spreading widely over the land, dotted with eyots, where birds flew low among the sedge. Away to west and east were low grim hills, with a sense of unending space and loneliness upon them. And at the foot of the street was the ford, crowded here with men,--soldiers and serfs and freedmen,--with horses and mules and heavy carts. Through the ford they all went splashing; and it was wide and shallow, marked out by stakes and with stepping-stones showing above the water. And beyond the ford, under the gray skies, was Thorney, the Bramble Isle, alive with a swarming throng of people. On the right of the island was Saint Peter's church, upon the spot where next Saint Peter's Abbey, and centuries later the great Westminster, would stand. It rose silent in a smother of confusion and a babel of noise of men shouting, and horses neighing, and the songs of boatmen on the Tamesis which bounded the southern end of the island. There was a temple of Apollo close beside it, for old gods and new dwelt side by side. To the ancient faith of their pagan fathers the aristocracy of Britain still held true; the new God was for slaves and humble folk, who had derived no benefits from the old creeds and were willing to try any which promised help. And old Rome had seen the rise and fall of many gods, for she was aged and very wise. Jupiter, best and greatest, Isis, Mithras, Astarte, Serapis--what was one more or less in her pantheon? Around the church was a formless huddle of houses, thinning out and straggling at the water's edge; and fires were blazing here and there, and men were hurrying to set all in order for the night. For Thorney was a halting place where travellers from north and south and east and west rested a space and went their way,--a noisy, crowded place, where centred traffic for all Britain passing to and from Londinium, the great port, and the greater inland cities. All of this Nicanor took in with delighted eyes. He ran down to the ford, dodging between pack-mules and jolting two-wheeled carts, and slipping eel-like past other pedestrians, forgetting Valerius, who hurried after. He strode from stone to stone, splashed by straining horses that tugged beside him, and sprang to shore upon the island. So he won to his journey's end. "Now to find that good man Tobias," quoth Valerius, and shook his wet feet daintily, as a cat that has stepped by accident in a puddle. "He will give thee food and lodging, which thou wilt share with me--so? Knowest thou his house? Jesus, Lord! Did ever man see the like of the nest of houses? Hey, friend!" He laid a hand on the shoulder of one passing. "Canst tell us where dwells the worthy Tobias, worker in ivory to the Christian Church?" "Nay, not I," the man said, and hurried on. Over his shoulder he called back: "Ask the good priest yonder." Valerius doffed his brazen cap to this holy man. He, in frock of sober gray, with head shaven to the line of the ears, and worn, pale face, walked toward the church, his beads swinging by one finger. At Valerius's question he looked up. "The house next the open space on the right," he answered; raised two fingers in benediction upon them, and went his way. Valerius and Nicanor betook themselves to the house appointed. It was then that Nicanor began to realize that he wished himself alone. Valerius hung to his arm affectionately, and Nicanor was too shy to shake him off. He did not know what to do; wherefore he did nothing. The house next the open space was low, of stone and timber. It was evident that Tobias was well-to-do. Valerius pounded upon the door; the heavy shutter of a window swung open, and a man's head peered out. It was a pink head, very bald, with flabby cheeks, a full-moon face, and pursed lips, and the beaked Hebraic nose of his father's race. "Who comes?" the man asked, and stared at them. Nicanor said: "Art thou Tobias, the ivory carver?" and the pink head nodded. Then Nicanor said: "From Rathumus and Susanna his wife I come, and I am Nicanor, their son, and would be prentice to thee." "And Valerius, thy friend," whispered Valerius, plucking at his sleeve. "And Valerius, my friend," said Nicanor, obediently. "Why, holy saints!" Tobias said. "From Susanna--and would be prentice to me! Hold a minute till I let thee in." His pink head disappeared and the shutter slammed. Soon the door was opened, and Tobias welcomed them to his house. And a very good house it was, for Tobias was wealthy. He called his slave, and she brought food and wine, and they sat at the trestled board on cross-legged stools and ate until they could eat no more. Then Tobias asked questions, and Nicanor told of his home and of his parents and of his mother's words, while Valerius, full-fed, dozed with his head on the table. And as Nicanor talked, Tobias watched him, for to save his life the boy could not open his mouth without a tale coming out of it; and when he had ended Tobias rose and kissed him on both cheeks, and said: "Thou'lt stay with me, boy, and learn all that I can teach thee, until thou'rt master-workman. And thou shalt live with me, and be my son, for sake of her who is thy mother--and it is not my fault that thou art not my son in very truth. Marry, but thou hast a silver tongue in that shock head of thine. Now come to bed; thy friend here is snoring like an ox. And in the morning we'll begin work, and one of my lads shall tell thee what to do." So they roused up Valerius and took him off to a room with one window and a bed. And here Valerius, slipping out of his baldric, pulled the blanket from the bed, flung himself, dressed as he was, upon the floor, and was instantly as one dead. IV But Nicanor went to the window and opened the wooden shutter and leaned out. He heard the roar of the many camps, blending into one vast undercurrent of sound; he caught the red gleam of fires half hidden behind intervening houses; now and then a bellowed chorus reached him. Also there were sweet tinkling sounds, of a kind which he had never heard before, which thrilled him strangely. Sudden desire took him to be out in the midst of this new stirring life; to see the crowded places, the mingling of many men. Preparations for the night were going on, for it was dark by now, with high twinkling stars. He could see, by leaning far out, the moving glare of torches held high as belated wayfarers crossed the ford, the reflection of the lights dancing on the shallow waters. The fascination of it, this his first sight of Life, gripped him, not to be denied. He sprang to the ledge of the window, writhed himself through, and dropped to the ground outside. Then, at once, he was in a new world,--a world of flickering flames and black dancing shadows, and strange sights and sounds, and restless figures passing always to and fro. And, quite dazed, he stumbled against one, not a rod from the house, who laughed, with a laughter which made him think of the tinkling music he had heard, and beckoned him, drawing him in the darkness. But Nicanor, thrilling through all the awakening soul and body of him, turned and ran, shy suddenly, but at what he did not know. So he came to a fire burning in a ring of stones; and around the fire men were sitting, eating and drinking, and the light played on their faces. With them were women, at whom Nicanor stared agape. For they were very fair to look on, with jewel-bound hair and slumberous eyes, lithe as snakes, with bare shoulders and dress of strange clinging stuffs. These were dancing girls, being taken to the great inland cities for sale or hire. And near by, huddled close for warmth, were slaves,--men, women, and children, chained in long strings, on the way to be sold in Gaul. Here were fishermen, also, and boatmen, gathered by themselves, a noisy crew, with loud jokes which Nicanor heard and did not understand. All about him was a babel of voices and laughter, boisterous and profane; now and then an altercation, short and violent. It went to Nicanor's head like wine. Never had he known anything like it; life like this had passed his bleak northern home entirely by. He drew nearer the groups around the fire, drinking it all in greedily,--new sights, new sounds, new impressions. His face was flushed with excitement, his breath came short; so much he found to interest him that he stared bewildered, uncertain what to look at first. The smell of cooking food was in the air, mingled with the aromatic pungency of many fires of wood. Horn cups clashed; at intervals hoarse laughter drowned the shouts of teamsters and the creak and strain of wheels. And suddenly, under the intoxication of it all, Nicanor found himself speaking in a new, fierce mood of exultation. What he was going to say he did not know; but his voice fell into the old measured chant, regular as the tramp of marching feet, which carried through all the tumult of sound around him. His heart beat hard, his hands clenched, but he flung back his head with eyes which glittered in the firelight. Those nearest looked on him in amazement, ready to scorn. Then they held silent, and listened. Others drew closer, to see what might be going on. More came, and more. Women left men's knees and joined the little crowd, smiling, then with parted lips of wonder. Nicanor neither saw nor heard them. For the first time in all his life he was carried beyond himself; in a physical ecstasy he spoke out that which clamored at his lips, caring nothing for his audience, unconscious of them utterly. And because that is the one thing which will grip men's minds and compel them, he held them spellbound, in spite of themselves,--until, abruptly, in a flash, he became conscious of himself, seeing himself, hearing himself. That moment he lost his hold of them. And he knew it, and stopped short. And for an instant there was silence. Then a woman drew a long breath which was like a sigh, and a man muttered something into his beard. The spell snapped; and like a flood let loose their talk leaped at him. They shouted, "More!" They would know who he was, and whence he came, and he must finish the tale for them. But Nicanor shook his head, dumbly, with a new and strange emotion surging through him. He was frightened at himself, at his feeling, at what he had done. And back of his fear lay something deeper, something which he could not name,--half exultation, half truest awe, as though he stood in a presence mightier than he and knew himself for but the tool with which the work was wrought. There came a woman, very wonderful, and hot as flame, and put into his hand a broad piece of silver, looking into his eyes. A man with a broken nose thrust a copper coin into his palm; others followed. For a moment he stood staring at the fire-lit faces around him like one foolish or in a trance, with his own face quite white. That he might receive money for his soul had never entered his head. Then he broke away from them all and ran--ran as though for his life--back to the house of Tobias, and clambered through the low window and flung himself upon the bed, laughing and sobbing and shaking, and clutching his coins in sweating hands. For he had entered into his heritage at last, and the Future had become the Present. V The working-place of Master Tobias was a small room half underground, with three windows on a level with the street. Long boards on trestles were ranged upon three sides, leaving the centre free; these were much chipped and scarred, and black with oil and dirt. On these tables were small list-wheels for polishing, formed of circular thicknesses of woollen stuff clamped tightly between two wooden disks of smaller diameter which left a pliant edge of wool projecting, held firmly in wooden frames and turned by hand. There were trays of tools for carving and graving and scraping, and boxes of fine sand and of glass-parchment. In a corner was a grindstone; and the unclean floor was littered with sawdust and scrapings of bone. Here half a dozen men were working, in oil-stained aprons of leather. The wheels hummed continuously, with a steady droning; at intervals the great saw shrieked and grated; from the storeroom a boy brought long tusks ready for the first cutting. Men have worked in ivory before ever history began, and of all known arts it is the most ancient and one of the most beautiful. And no two master-workmen have gone about it after precisely the same manner, but each has followed his own method of treating the bone, of cutting, which is a delicate business, of smoothing, and of polishing. At different ages widely differing means were employed to bring about the same effect. There were many curious things to be learned in the way of what and what not to do,--how to treat bone with boiling vinegar, and secret processes of rolling out ivory and joining it invisibly, for the making of larger pieces than could possibly be cut from any one tusk. Lost secrets, these, to us; and being lost, by many doubted as having ever been. These things Master Tobias had learned, many years before, from a workman of Byzantium, where the work was already famous, and far and away ahead of all. This man, dying, had left Master Tobias all he knew, and tools such as never otherwise could he have obtained. So that the fame of Master Tobias went abroad through the province; and he did much work in the way of tablets, diptychs, caskets, figures of gods and goddesses and of Christian saints. Many a carven comb and jewel-box found its way to some haughty Roman beauty's dressing-table, the work of Master Tobias's own fat hands. He found good markets for his wares, since Roman love of bijouterie was strong, and he had few competitors. It was not until the establishment of Saxon dominion that the art obtained a permanent foothold in Britain; and then it went back to its first crude beginnings, as did nearly all other things at that second conquest. So behold Nicanor, bare-armed and in leathern apron, carrying tusks to and fro, cleaning them after their arrival from the merchants' hands, and giving them out to the workmen as required. Thus he came to learn the various shades of coloring; how to tell when bone was healthy and might be expected to take the cutting well, or when it would be apt to crack and split under the saw. Having come to know the differences in degree, he was put to checking off the lots as they arrived, according to kind and grade. Mammoth tusks of elephants, sometimes ten feet in length, weighing close on a hundred pounds, solid to within six inches of the tip; teeth and tusks of the wild boar, walrus-bone and whale-bone, used for coarser work and filling,--all these he must tell apart at a glance. For to the untrained, bone is bone. This was light work, and left him time to watch what others did; whereby, quite unconsciously, he absorbed much useful knowledge, which was as Master Tobias intended. Then, being well acquainted with color and texture and grain, he was put to help with the big saw, coarse-toothed, worked by two men, and had to learn to cut his lengths to a fraction of an inch as required, with the least possible waste. This took him some time, for a bone is full of twists and turns which render it liable to be cut to pieces, so that much care is needful. So he went up, step by step, knowing well each detail before he undertook the next, until at last he began to work under Master Tobias's own eye. And then, for the first time, having acquired an insight into the art, was he able to appreciate the skill of the master-workman. And this is the way of all art from the beginning, and as it must be to the end, since only he who knows may understand. In long course of time, when many months had gone, came the day when he brought forth his own first work, a crucifix, the fruit of his own labors, touched by no other hands from first to last. Himself he selected the tusk, flawless, finely grained; cut it to the block, shaped it, the upright of the cross, the arms, the rough outline of the Christ upon it. Then, bit by bit, cutting, cutting, cutting, the figure grew, with rounding outlines, and coherent features. The straining ribs,--for this effect he cut against the grain, in the way that Master Tobias had taught him,--the pierced hands and feet, the draped cloth about the loins; slowly it formed under his eager fingers. He smoothed it with glass-parchment, polished it on the list-wheel; in the end painted it, with red lips and crimson drops of blood and draping of richest purple. And he chose that Christian symbol solely because, out of all the subjects offered by Master Tobias, it presented fewest difficulties in the matter of draperies--greatest stumbling block to all novices. So it was finished, and became the pride of his life,--but not for what it was; only for that it was the work of his own hands. Had it been an offering to Apollo he would have loved it just as well. And when he had finished it, Master Tobias kissed him upon either cheek, even as he had done once before, and declared that he could die happy, for he should have a successor to keep his art alive. But all this took much time; and meanwhile Nicanor was learning many things besides the art of carving. When he was in the humor for it, Nicanor could work very well indeed, as he had shown. But more often than not he was sadly out of humor; and liked nothing so much as to slip away from the hum and drone of the wheels and the smell of bone and oil, and wander out of the quiet church precinct down to the busy life at the fords. Here was unending amusement; all day long he would watch the going and the coming, listen to the uproar of traffic, silent himself or mingling with the crowds. Day after day narrow barges went up the Tamesis with the tide from the port of Londinium, deep-laden with wines and spices, silks, glass, candles, and rich stuffs from foreign lands; with lamps and statuary and paintings for the great Roman houses; with fruits and grain, vegetables, meats and poultry. And at the ebb came the barges down again, this time with wool and pelts, smelling villanously and tainting all the air as they went by. Here also was the river-ford, passable at low tide, marked out by stakes, and leading from the southern side of Thorney, opposite the marsh-ford, over to the mainland, where again the road began and stretched away to Londinium. Here the fisher-folk cast their nets for salmon in their season, for other fish in plenty the year round, shouting across to the bargemen passing up or down. These, besides the few priests and servants of Saint Peter's church, and the keepers of the inns, were the only ones who lived upon the Bramble Isle. All others came and went, and never stayed save for a night. Day after day came craftsmen, traders of all kinds, merchants with bundles of hides on pack-horses to be shipped at Dubræ; mimes, actors, musicians, jugglers. Crested-helmeted cohorts, with glancing shields and bristling spears, splashed through the fords on their way south, stern dark-faced men from many nations. Long strings of slaves, who then as later formed so large a part of Britain's export trade, were marched with clanking chains along the highways. Always was color, life, movement, the clamor of voices, the rumble of wheels; a constant stir, ceaseless, pulsing, feverish. It was small wonder, then, that Nicanor, alive in every fibre of his eager being, thirsting for adventure, should escape from the workshop's confinement as often as might be, to watch and wonder at the passing show. Also it was small wonder that Master Tobias did not like such rovings of his pupil, and openly disapproved. With reason he argued that if a man would make his work worth while he must stick to his bench and tools. But Nicanor, at such times, cared little whether or not he made that work worth while. At his bench he was restless, fretting to be gone. Only outside, amid hurrying men and the confusion of arrival and departure, was he at peace, entirely happy and content. And this was but natural, since young dogs strain always at the leash, and as his fate had written. But this, Master Tobias, bound heart and soul to his beloved task, could not understand. Being both fiery, they clashed often, when dire confusion followed. Upon these occasions, Master Tobias, purple with wrath, brandished his burin and raved. Nicanor was an ingrate; Nicanor was a fool and a good-for-naught, who deserved everlasting punishment and would surely get it. And Nicanor, white-hot within and silent,--two years before he would have screamed with rage like any other infuriate young wild thing,--laid aside his tools and left the work-room, his head in air, his jaws set like steel to a thin smile, his wrath blazing all the fiercer for being dumb. Not until he found himself with a circle of gaping faces around him, hanging on his words, would his anger cool and his world right itself to normal. Then, his steam worked off, himself peaceful and serene, he would return to the house for supper, meet Master Tobias's menacing growls with demure politeness, and forthwith charm him into abject surrender with diabolical art. So peace would be restored, with the combatants firmer friends than ever--until the spirit within him moved Nicanor once more. And yet,--for this is as it always happens,--each fresh quarrel was fiercer than the one before. It was after one of these passages-at-arms that Nicanor, losing his temper completely, spoke to Master Tobias as he had never dared speak before. And then, foolishly bound to keep the last word, strode off in a fume, out of the church grounds, through the huddle of houses and crowd of passing folk, whose clamor put him yet more out of sorts, and down to the river-ford. Here he paused, kicking up the earth with the toe of his laced leather shoe, in a very evil temper, wanting only something to vent his spleen upon. And standing thus, he heard all at once an outcry behind him, and wheeled, and saw a thing which made him forget his grievance and consider that after all he was more lucky in his lot than some. At first he saw only a crowd of men and boys, who jeered and hooted. This was a sight not new; but in their midst he caught a glimpse of a crested helmet and the black cloak of a slave-driver. And then the crowd parted, and Nicanor saw a girl, a lean wisp of a thing, with burning eyes and a gray face framed in straight black hair, with chained wrists and a ragged frock which slipped aside to show a long red welt across her brown shoulders. The slave-driver held the end of the chain, his heavy whip tucked beneath one arm,--a squat man with a black and brutal face and small hard eyes. He was appraising the girl's good points glibly, as though of a mare to be sold,--her working strength, present perfections, future possibilities. The soldier, wax tablets and stylus in hand, his back half turned to Nicanor, made notes of what he said, at intervals throwing in a comment or a question. "From the north, you say?" "Ay, lord, born of a Roman soldier and a British wench. A good investment, noble sir, and the price but small,--only five-and-fifty sestertii,--and that because I give thanks to be rid of her." "Hath she spirit, fire? I want not a puny, slinking chit." "Spirit--fire!" the man repeated with a curse. "If that be what you wish, lord, it is here in very flesh. This young she-devil hath given me as much trouble as three men." The soldier fumbled for his pouch and counted money into the dealer's hand. The latter counted it again, spat upon it for luck, made his mark in the Roman's book, and unchained the girl's wrists. The Roman laid a hand on the shoulder of his bargain. "Come, pretty one!" said he, and turned, so that for the first time his face was to be seen. "Thou'lt get no more blows nor curses, if so be thou'lt do thy duty well." Leering, he drew her forward. Nicanor cast a glance upon him, and started, and hailed him. For the Roman was Valerius, the errant one; and what he wanted with a slave girl who had no beauty, and where he got her price, was more than Nicanor could tell. Valerius, still with a hand on the girl's shoulder, grinned at him, and said: "Why, now, friend, 'tis a very good day that brings thee to my sight. Not since I was repairer of sandals to the good fathers--thanks to thee--have I seen thee, though I hunted the place over for thee, and mourned right tenderly when I found thee not. And that was near a year ago." And always, though his speech was pleasant, as he spoke he moved away, sidling, with a certain stealthiness, a glinting of his narrow eyes from side to side. Nicanor became interested, and followed a pace. The girl stared at him with desperate dumb eyes. "Thou hast made a good purchase," he said carelessly, and thought that for an instant the other showed his teeth. "Not for myself!" Valerius said humbly. Whether it suited him, for motives of his own, to play the worthy poor man, Nicanor could not tell. "I but act on behalf of my lord Eudemius, of the great white villa off the Noviomagus road, this side of Londinium--hey, now! by all the furies, what is this?" For the gray-faced girl, with hunted eyes, flung herself suddenly from his hand, crying in a hoarse croak of a voice: "Not for him! Not for the lord Eudemius, the Torturer! I am not bought for him!" Again Nicanor found himself staring, for there was fear and anguish in her voice such as he had never heard in human tones. And as they looked at her in amazement, she rocked from side to side, sobbing without tears, and whispering keenly: "Not for him! Ah, dear Christ in heaven! not for him!" "And why not?" Valerius demanded. "What hast thou against him that his name sends thee squealing--" "What against him?" the girl said fiercely. "He tortures--he mutilates--he strips flesh from living bones, and laughs! Let a slave raise an eyelid in his presence, and he were better dead. Ay, I know--I know! I will not go to him! I will drown--choke--hang myself first!" She glared around her as though to seek deliverance where none was. Valerius shook her roughly by the arm. "Thou'lt come with me and hush thy whining!" They had reached a lane between the houses, unpaved, trampled hard and uneven by many feet. This lane was known then as the Street of the Black Dog; and it ended abruptly at the low stone wall which here marked the boundary of Saint Peter's land. By the wall, at the head of the street, was one of the rude stone crosses which were raised at intervals around the walls and at every gate therein. This was forty or fifty yards ahead of them as they stood. As Valerius touched the girl she sprang away from him and fled forward up the street, with head thrown back and torn rags fluttering and her black hair streaming behind her in a cloud. Valerius shouted and plunged after her, a hand outstretched with clutching fingers. And after them went Nicanor, his eyes alight with the lust of the chase, the fierce joy of the hunting, old as mankind itself. As Valerius snatched at a rag on the girl's shoulder, he gave a sharp yelp of triumph, as a hound yells when its leash-mate has nipped the fox. But the rag tore away as the girl struggled free. She reached the head of the street, a flying figure of terror, with the black-browed Roman at her heels and Nicanor racing alongside; staggered, recovered, stumbled again even as he touched her, and fell forward at the foot of the stone cross, with a sob like that of a horse ridden to the death, clasping the column with both hands and crying: "I claim sanctuary! I claim sanctuary!" Then her head fell forward on her outflung arms, and she lay with thin shoulders heaving to her fighting breath, and her face hidden in her tangled mane. Valerius stopped, almost in his stride, all but overrunning her, so close upon her had he been. He shook his balled fist and cursed her, glaring down upon her, not daring to touch so much as a strand of hair. For she was in the shelter of holy Church; and few men were bold enough to violate that terrible, wonderful Law of Sanctuary which even then was beginning to be dreaded and respected, and which high and low might claim alike. So that Valerius walked in half-circles about her, like a baffled beast which sees its prey torn from its very jaws; and she lay and shuddered, and Nicanor stood watching with avid eyes. For as yet he was only a very primitive young animal, with the instinct of his kind to join with the hunter against the hunted. People began to gather, quickly, clamoring with question and theory; and upon these Valerius scowled, biting his nails in fury. The girl raised herself, crouching close beneath the cross, and looked around her like a trapped thing, crying: "A priest! Is there no Christian priest here who will tell this man that I be safe from him in sanctuary?" Valerius pulled Nicanor to him. "Go thou and find one," he said harshly; "for while she sticketh to this cross I dare not lay finger upon her lest I be torn limb from limb by fools. He can but give her up; for she is bought and paid for, and it is not hers to say whether she finds her master to her liking. And quick with thee, that I may get her where she cannot fly again." So Nicanor went swiftly through the nearest gate into the yard of the church, and looked about him for a priest. And it seemed to him that the more hasty grew his search, the less was it rewarded, for he was in a desperate hurry to get back and see what followed. Presently, ahead of him, he saw a priest, whom he knew as Father Ambrose, and he ran to him, shouting: "Holy Father, a slave hath claimed sanctuary at the cross by the Street of the Black Dog, and asketh for a priest to confirm her right." The good Father kilted up his gown, and together they ran through the nearest byway to that street. And then, quite suddenly, as they reached the end of it, Nicanor felt with a shock that he must have mistaken the place. For although the cross was there, and the wall, and the street was the Street of the Black Dog, yet there was no sign of the girl, nor of Valerius, nor of any of those who had gathered to look on. So that Nicanor turned to Father Ambrose with a face of pure fright, and stammered: "But I left them here, upon this spot! Or else I am sure bewitched!" He looked to right and left and back to Father Ambrose. Father Ambrose shook his head and said passively: "It may be that they have arranged the matter among themselves. Let us return." He walked off, placid and unstirred; and Nicanor touched the cross to make sure that it was real and no delusion, and looked into the sky and around upon the clustered houses, and spoke no word at all. But he knew quite surely that the matter had not been arranged. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE GARDEN OF DREAMS BOOK II ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Book II THE GARDEN OF DREAMS I The years went on,--misty Springs, golden Summers, flaming Autumns, Winters stark and chill, leaving each its tale on the unrolling scroll of time. For in those years the consul departed from Britain with his forces, and the cities ruled themselves, each in a state of feudal independence, now warring amongst themselves, now making common cause against their common foes. Were history to write itself more often with a view to cumulative dramatic effect, there would be small need for the romance of imagination. One would have history a tale, of swift climax and excitement, when it is in fact a scattered medley--a battle here, a bit of statecraft there; here a burning Rome, yonder a new God; and between these the commonplace round of human life and toil and death, the inevitable dead level of the tale. It is because of the long lapses between cause and effect, the revolutions slow and of secret tardy growth instead of by fire and sword, that men turn to Imagination to bridge the gap. Events, grand and stirring, woven, one believes, into the very fabric of history, are proved to be the pleasant tale of some ancient ardent romancer, with an eye for dramatic effect. And often it is the bit choicest and most intimate of detail, binding the chronicle into a dramatic whole, which the iron pick of Research digs from the heap of bones, and wise men say: "That brilliant hero never lived; this great battle was but a skirmish; some old monk wrote that--it never happened." Many a glowing jewel, cherished tenderly and shining bravely through the dust of ages, has turned, in the white light of knowledge, to worthless glass. So do the old gods perish. Thus came the chronicle of Saxon conquest down to us,--a brave and lusty tale, scarred with battles, written in blood, picturing a horde of savage foe-men that swarmed over the Walls and swept through a blood-drenched land. In fact and deed, it was a conquest of absorption rather than extermination, dramatic only in its vast significance; a gradual amalgamation of two forces, in which the stronger, cleaner Norse blood triumphed over worn-out and depleted Roman stock. As weeds, rank and sturdy, overrun a garden, choking out other plants, so in Britain, Saxon life overgrew Roman life, inch by inch, almost imperceptibly. The conquest was by no means bloodless. Towns were sacked and men were slain; here was an explosion, there an outbreak of lawlessness; but for the most part the change was wrought with deadly slowness and a sureness which nothing could check. In these years Nicanor grew tall and strong and long of limb, and his voice ceased to play him false with strange pipings which had filled him with wrath and dire dismay. He learned to use eyes and ears as well as tongue; he worshipped at the altars of strange gods, and laughed at them. He lived from day to day as the birds live, picking up a crumb here and yonder. In the workshop he spent as little time as might be, restless, not content with what he had, ever eager for that which he had not, devoured by the curiosity which would lay hands on the strange throbbing thing called Life, and probe its inmost hidden meaning. And as time went on, the unrest deepened which possessed him. He was unhappy, and he could not tell why. He wanted something, and he knew not what. His shyness developed into fierce aggressiveness, unreasonable, alarming. He prowled continually among the camps, sullen and quarrelsome, vaguely miserable, and blaming his misery upon all the world. He took to spending much time, with small profit to himself, among the chained gangs of slaves, where were cruel sounds and crueller sights. At the hiss and cut of the lash on bared backs and thighs he thrilled with savage exultation; he took morbid delight in the sight of pain inflicted; and this he could not at all understand. At this season his tales were all of war and blood and violence, of treachery and despair. When night came he slept fitfully or not at all, with uneasy half-formed dreams. And in these dreams he was always searching for a thing which had no name, starting over the river-ford upon the high southern bank, ending nowhere under gray skies and desolation. He neglected his carving, waged bloody battles with his fellow workmen, bullied Master Tobias like any slave-driver. Lonely and shy and sullen, he fought through his crisis by himself, not knowing that it was a crisis, nor why it had come upon him. No one took the trouble to help him; he would not have thanked them if they had. Outwardly he was taller, more gaunt, with a certain rough virility which impressed. Men knew that he was savage, and baited him even while they feared him; himself only knew that he was miserable,--more miserable, because he could not understand why he should be so at all. He lived the wild life of the camps, drinking, brawling, making fierce love with a vague notion that this was what he wanted, ever finding the fruit of desire change to ashes in his mouth. Always the power within him grew; and always he despised those upon whom he wrought his magic. For it was nothing to master these, to do with them as he willed; all his art was lost upon them since they could not understand. He was then at work with Master Tobias upon a book-cover for the gospels, which was for Saint Peter's, and very much interested he was and pleased with his share in it. In the morning he went to work right willingly, with no thought other than to do as best he might with all his skill. So he got his tools, and the oil and glass-paper for the first polishing, and, Master Tobias not having yet appeared, started to go on himself with the bit of scroll he had begun the day before. Seeing it with fresh eyes after a lapse of hours, it struck him that a change might be made in one place with much advantage from the design which they had planned. So he made the change, and was still more pleased. When Master Tobias entered, Nicanor pointed to what he had done, and said: "Is not this a better way, good sir? That corner needs balancing, and it is in my mind that the design should work up this way--" he illustrated with his burin--"and so bring into harmony--" And then it was that the unexpected happened. For Master Tobias rose from his stool and stood over him, and said: "Hast thou changed the design I made?" Nicanor replied that he had, and wished to show the advantage of his new idea. But Master Tobias struck his hand aside, and shrill with rage, exclaimed: "Thou good-for-nothing clod! Thou hast spoiled the work with thy clumsy handling! Why canst not leave alone what thou dost not understand? Who gave permission to change? Body of me! Must I stand over thee every hour in the day and switch thy hands for disobedience?" "But it is not spoiled!" Nicanor protested with indignation. Master Tobias stormed. "I say it is! I say it is, and must be smoothed out and changed. And thou'lt stay within and do it, until all is as it was before. I'll show thee my designs are not to be altered thus unwarrantably!" And herein he made a mistake. For when he said "Thou shalt!" Nicanor's impulse was "I will not!" and as yet he acted upon impulse. Master Tobias could have flogged him if he wished; Nicanor cared not a rap for flogging. He rose in open rebellion and pushed away his stool. "Not I!" he said. "The design is false, and I will not put into my work what is not as it should be!" He turned and marched out of the room--leaving Master Tobias dumb with astonishment and rage--surly and savage and very bitter, with his hand against every man because he thought that every man's hand was against him. And then, quite suddenly, there swept over him the fierce, insistent longing for change which wrestles with every man at some time or other in his life; the hot desire to fling himself out of the rut into which that life inevitably must settle, to encounter anything, good or bad, so long as it brought a change. And because he was still too young to see that this is the very one thing which may not be; the one thing of which Fate says: "Come and go, and plan as ye will, but remember that I hold the leading-strings; for my name men call Circumstance, and my law is that man shall do not what he will, but what he must,"--because as yet he could not see this, he left Thorney that day for Londinium, saying no word of his grievance to any man, with his bundle tied to a stick upon his shoulder. It was on the road to Londinium that he overtook one journeying in the same direction, who kept pace with him persistently, let him go fast or slow. This was a venerable man, with a long beard of white, and wise, all-seeing eyes that smiled and smiled beneath the penthouse of his brows. Nicanor came to hate him vindictively, with no reason at all, as he hated all the world just then. Nicanor stopped at evening by the roadside, and sat down to eat the food he had brought with him. And this ancient man stopped also, and sat upon a stone near by, and watched him. Nicanor, with meat and black bread in his hands, glanced up, ready to scowl, and met the old man's eyes, smiling at him. It was so long since any man had done other than revile him--since one's own mood will reflect itself like an image in clear water upon the minds of those around one--that Nicanor was surprised into smiling back, uncertainly, it is true, but still smiling. Then it was as though a bit of that outer crust of moroseness melted, and left something of his old boyish shyness in its place. Without stopping in the least to think why he did it, he broke the bread and meat into two portions, and held out one, in silence, awkwardly, as a child who does not know whether his gift will be accepted or cast upon the ground. Now if that old man, perhaps not understanding, had not taken what he offered, turning from him then, it must surely have been that Nicanor would have shrugged his shoulders, and flung the food upon the road, and shut up once more within his shell of surliness, with his opinion of mankind fully justified in his own mind. But whether he wanted it or not, the old man took his gift, with eyes grave yet always smiling upon his lowering, half-shamed face, and said in a voice like a deep-toned bell, so clear was it and vibrant: "I thank thee, my son." He ate the food, slowly; and Nicanor watched him slyly, as he ate his own supper, fancying himself vastly indifferent to all ancient smiling strangers. But deep down in his rough shy heart he was pleased for that he had succeeded in not turning another soul away from him--so small a thing has power to change the balance sometimes; and when the old man spoke he did not wish to repulse him, as often. The stranger said, quite as though he had a right to know: "Son, art sure that it will be well for thee to go to Londinium? Is what thou seekest there?" Nicanor answered with immense surprise: "I seek nothing." "So?" the old man said, and smiled. "Now I thought that surely thou wert seeking something, and very near to black despair because thou hadst not found it." And at once, like an echo from another world, there came to Nicanor the memory of a time when he had wandered seeking for something which he could not name, upon the downs, under gray skies and desolation. And he did not know if this had really happened or had been but a dream. But he began to think the old man very strange and rather to be feared. He said: "Old man, how may you tell that I seek for what I cannot find; and why would it be not well for me in Londinium?" The old man's face changed then, so that for an instant Nicanor was frightened. For into it there came a high far look of utter peace, such as the face of a holy saint who has suffered all might wear, if he awakened. And while Nicanor stared, not knowing what to think about it, the old man said gently: "Son, I may tell by right of having known myself what thou art knowing now. For the faces of men are as an open scroll to those who have learned to read what is writ therein, and thy story is upon thee very clear. Thou art in a world of thine own creation, but this world of men hath also claims upon thee, which thou canst not ignore. And I say to thee, go again to that place which thou hast left, for to find what thou art seeking, one need not go afield. And when thou hast found that thing, which is in this world of men, seek thou sanctuary, which is holy love." Nicanor said: "I do not understand! What hath love to do with it?"--and told of the love that he had seen, which was all he knew. The old man listened, with unchanging eyes upon him, and said: "Now truly I see thou dost not understand. This be not love, but a blast of furnace heat which scorcheth. But some time thou wilt come to understand the meaning of my words, and then shalt thou find sanctuary and peace. Ay, peace--that is what men cry for in the dark days that are passing; and they shall seek refuge and find none, and the bitterness of death shall be upon them. For it shall be said even as by the prophet of Babylon, mother of old evil--'Rome the Mighty is fallen--is fallen!'" He swayed gently as he sat, with hands uplifted and eyes no longer smiling; and to Nicanor's eyes his long white beard and hair were as a mist of silver around his head. "Thou also shalt pass through the Valley, for the Black Dog of trouble is upon thee; and thou shalt work out thine own unhappiness and thine own salvation. For thy way is the way of loneliness, and of misunderstanding, and of the Cross. And this is as it must be, since the price of heart's blood and heart's desire is pain, and for what thou gainest, thou must pay the price." He ceased, and his hands fell to his sides and his white head drooped. He leaned to Nicanor, groping, old, and suddenly very feeble, and whispered: "Son of men, I too have trod the path which thou art treading now. And I say to thee, seek thou sanctuary while yet there may be time, for no man knoweth what the end shall be. And when thou art entered in, all else on earth shall matter nothing, for thou shalt be at peace. This I know, O Youth, and tell thee, for--I did not enter in." He rose and laid a withered hand on Nicanor's bent, shaggy head. "Unto each his own appointed work, and his own appointed fate, and the reward which he hath merited. Now peace be with thee!" He turned away and passed onward into the falling night. Thereafter the world unrolled itself between them, for they never met again. Wrapped in his cloak, Nicanor lay and stared at the stars above him, and pondered those things which he had heard. And, because again he could not understand, he put upon them his own interpretation. But he at once began to make a tale about that old man, with his silver beard and his smiling eyes; and so he fell asleep, thinking that that was all there was in it. When he awoke at break of dawn, he was inclined to think the whole a dream. But there was a new and softer mood upon him, greatly surprising to himself, and the black soul within him was tamed and stilled. So, in blindly superstitious obedience to the word of the strange old man, he turned his face away from Londinium and all that he longed to find there, back toward the life which was his, and the work which was his, and the Isle of Brambles in the fords. And so came Fate, hard following on his heels. II For out of the gray mists of morning came soldiers, six or eight, with ring of weapons and shuffling thud of feet; and with them was a centurion in command. These overtook Nicanor where he went slowly back toward Thorney; and the centurion laid a rough hand upon him and bade him halt. Nicanor turned; but before he could ask angrily why they had stopped him, his wrists were fast in handcuffs and he was a prisoner in chains. He turned upon the centurion. "Now what is this? I have done no wrong. I demand release!" "Demand if it please thee," the soldier said. "But in truth I think thee something more than fool to let thyself be thus caught doddering by the way. To escape once, and baffle all the great lord Eudemius's searchers, and then be stumbled upon like any sheep--faugh! I expected better things of thee!" "Now have I naught at all to do with the lord Eudemius!" said Nicanor. He explained, carefully, who he was, and whence he came and to whom he belonged, and they turned a deaf ear to him. He was the man they sought, even the slave of Eudemius, escaped three days ago, with a reward out for his capture. This last explained it, but that Nicanor could not know. They insisted that they were in the right; all he could say and do would not convince them otherwise. They skirted around Londinium by a street lined widely with tombs, and struck a road leading south and slightly west, which the men, talking among themselves, named the Noviomagus road. Ten miles, and they reached the station known by that name, and here took horse, with Nicanor mounted behind a guard. The road led through the neck of the great forest of Anderida, and came out again into the open, and they followed it until three hours after noon. Then they turned aside into a narrower branch road, and so rode easily for another hour until they entered a grove of ilex trees. To the farther end of this they came abruptly, and saw before them open country, a broad and gentle slope of hill; and on its summit a great stately house, white-walled, with outbuildings in the copse around it. In the centre of the blank wall of the front of the house which confronted them, was a gateway, with gates of bronze, and a porter's lodge. Here the porter, looking through his wicket, asked their business, and, being told, directed them around to the rear. So they entered at another smaller gate, and were in a court, open to the sky and surrounded on all sides by buildings, where slaves were working. This, Nicanor learned from the soldiers' talk, was in the quarters of the slaves. [Illustration: "'Were I that woman, I should have wanted to love him.'"] And here the centurion found the overseer, and talked with him long and earnestly. The overseer paid over the reward, and the centurion, as Nicanor saw without at all understanding the transaction, returned certain broad pieces, which the steward hid away upon himself with a furtive glance around. The soldier then departed with his men, his tongue in his cheek; and the overseer came to where Nicanor stood in chains, and looked at him. He was a very fat man, with little eyes sunk in unwholesome flesh, and was far haughtier than the great lord Eudemius himself. When he saw Nicanor's face, he began unexpectedly to curse and bluster, and said: "How now, fellow! Is this a trick thou and thy mates have played upon me, to obtain my master's gold? Thou art not he who escaped three days ago." But light had broken upon Nicanor, and he answered: "So I told them, and so thou couldst have seen if thou hadst looked before thou didst pay--and receive back--thy master's gold. If this be thy practice, sure thy lord must be the poorer for thy loyal service!" But the overseer was talking very fast, without paying heed at all. "By my head, but this is a scurvy trick to play a man! But now thou art here, here shalt thou stay in that other's place; for it would go hard with me were my lord to learn that reward had been paid for nothing--and a slave is a slave to him." Nicanor turned on him in a blaze of wrath, and the fat overseer, wary of the lean strength of him, called his men. "Take him to the armorer's and have put upon him the collar. And on pain of punishment let no man say he is not the one who went away." So they put upon him the brazen collar of slaveship, with the name of Eudemius engraved thereon; and set him to work among the household slaves. And he, being alone, was helpless, and could do no more than bide his time as best he might. But at first, when his bonds galled, he stormed, raging in fury at his impotence and the high-handedness of those who had betrayed him to his servitude. Finding that this brought him but blows and curses, and was of no manner of good, he calmed down and simmered inwardly. Then--and herein he surprised himself--he began to take an interest in this new life into which he had been cast. He had abiding faith in himself, and this is a thing of which every man has need; he was undergoing a new experience, which at the outset was interesting. When he became tired of it--well, he would then find means of escape. The work was not over hard, since there were many hands to lighten it; he was brought into contact with a magnificence of which he had never dreamed. As always, he kept his eyes and ears open; with his strange, sure prescience that all he could see and hear and know would be useful to him, somehow, somewhen, he set out to learn all he could of the life of the great mansion and of those who dwelt therein. So he found out many things; and one day he found Varia, the great lord's daughter. The house was so vast that one might lose himself with ease among its many halls and courts and passages if he did not know its plan. Nicanor, sent one day on an errand to the kitchens, reached them in safety; and then took the wrong way back, and found himself wandering in a part of the house new to him. This did not trouble him, for by then he was well known among the household servants, and was sure of soon meeting some one who would set him right. So, quite without thought, he pushed open a door at random, and then abruptly lost all his wits through sheer amazement and delight. For he was in a garden, beautiful to his eyes beyond all words, with broad terraces and gleaming marble steps where peacocks strutted; with at one end a fountain banked in a tangle of roses, where sprays of water fell with silvery splash and tinkle; with marble seats and statues gleaming from the cool gloom of trees. Around the garden were high walls, vine-hung, with the surrounding buildings of the villa for a broken background. An untamed profusion of green life rioted here; pale flowers of night, whose fragrance hung heavy on the air, swam in a sea-green dusk; ivy clung and clambered along the crannies of gray walls; roses sprawled in a red torrent of perfume over the yellowing images of old gods and heroes. In one corner a placid lake gazed still-eyed at the sky, with white swans floating on its mirrored black and silver. Nicanor drew breath with a quick pleasure which was almost pain; here one might think great thoughts and dream great dreams. For it was as a bit of that Forgotten Land of dreams, through which all men have journeyed, though the road to it is lost, with a glamour of mystery and a charm upon it which held him spellbound. Out of the velvet shadow into the still evening light, one came toward him, in silence, with dark hair hanging in heavy braids on either side of her pale face, with dusky eyes and scarlet lips and jewels that glimmered in the folds of her perfumed robes. He bowed before her, keeping his eyes upon her face; for though he was a slave, he was first a man, and next a poet, which means a lover of all things beautiful, and he had never seen a woman like her in all his life before. "Who art thou?" she said. And though she was a great lady and the daughter of that noble house, she was yet a girl, and scarce beyond her childhood, and she drooped her head before his glance. "Nicanor, thy slave," he answered, but his voice was not a slave's voice. "Why art thou here?" she asked him. "This is mine own place, where none but I and my women come." "I crave thy pardon, lady," he said; and told her how he came. In turn, her eyes rested on his face; and he, meeting them, felt his pulses leap to a sudden shock which sent the blood back pounding to his heart. For they were wandering eyes, awake and seeing, yet which slept, with no light of reason in them. So then he understood why the name of their lady was spoken throughout the household in hushed tones as of one dead; why she was so closely hidden from the eyes of the world. And she was the Lady Varia,--the lord Eudemius's only child,--the last of his great house, fair, futile flower. "Nicanor," she repeated, with a pretty halting on the word. Her voice was low and dreaming, more tender than a dove's. "Where have I heard that name? Why, Nerissa hath told me thou art he who telleth tales to the men and maids at evening. See, it is evening now. Wilt not tell me too a tale? I should like it, for sometimes I am very lonely." She was far above him as the stars; but she was a woman, and he a man--and the first tale was told within a garden. She held out a hand to him, and he took it and touched it to his forehead, and it fluttered in his and then lay still. She led him to a bench by the sleeping lake, a child whose will might not be thwarted, and bade him tell her tales such as he told her men and maidens. This the sure instinct of his art taught him he might not do, since those tales which held them thralled were not for such as she. But he locked his hands about his knee, and thought an instant, his head flung back and his eyes intent and eager, with an odd shining deep within them. So his tale began, in the deep-voiced chant which had rung out by moor and camp-fire, hushed now, that the peace of the evening's stillness might not be broken. She sat quite still beside him, her hands clasped childlike in her lap, listening with parted lips. The dusk deepened, and the golden moon hung over the surrounding wall and flooded the garden in wan hoary light. The pool lay a lake of silver in a black fringe of trees. The night flowers breathed forth drowsy perfume, making heavy the summer air. Nicanor's voice rolled on, endlessly through the scented darkness.... Until Nerissa, the old nurse, came upon them suddenly, clamoring for her charge. Varia sprang to her and kissed her, with fond coaxing arms about her, so that she relented, since her lady's will was law. She dismissed Nicanor, and he crossed his arms before his face, and went away from Paradise. Varia hid her face on her nurse's shoulder--poor groping soul that found its happiness in things so small--and said: "He hath told me tales, Nerissa, so strange and wonderful that never was aught like them in all the world. I will have him to come again, for I am so happy--so happy! And thou shalt not tell, for then he could not come, and he is not to suffer for it. Promise, Nerissa, dear Nerissa--it is but a little thing!" Thus Varia. And Nicanor--ah, Nicanor! That night there opened to him a new world,--a world of beauty and of sweetness and of pain. He, a son of the soil, knowing his roughness, his uncouthness, his bondage, never giving them a thought till then, had led her by the hand, a daughter of the stars, for a little space, the barriers down between them. One bit of common ground they had; beyond it, distance immeasurable and impassable. * * * * * That night Nicanor was once more seeking, always seeking, for something vague and left unnamed; past the river-ford of Thorney, where ever that night-long search began; and so through all the world to where a garden lay in moonlight. Here also he would have sought, for he knew that what he strove to find was waiting. But a web of moonlight held him back from entering; and from the outer darkness an old man's voice came to him, clear as a deep-toned bell, which said: "The price of heart's blood and heart's desire is pain, and for what thou gainest, thou must pay the price." III In the garden was a little narrow door, vine-hung, which led to the outer world. No one ever used this door; for long years it had stood locked, and the key to it was lost,--so long lost that no one ever thought to look and see that the lock was clean and newly oiled that it might turn without noise; and the vines which half hid it on the inner side could tell no tales. Marcus, oldest of all the many household slaves, white-headed and shrunken, and bent with the toil of years, squatted by the fire in the court of the slaves' quarters, cleaning a copper pot with a swab of twigs soaked in oil to pliancy. Within the house a feast was in progress, so that all the slaves were there on service, and Marcus had the fire to himself. He crooned softly as he scrubbed; and the flames struck gleams of light from the collar of brass about his neck and the round shining sides of the kettle, as it turned and twisted in his hands. Presently Nicanor came into the circle of firelight, staggering under the weight of a great cask upon his back, with sweat-matted hair that streaked his face, and straining muscles. Out of the zone of light he passed, with only the panting of labored breath and the pad of naked feet; and the darkness swallowed him. Following came another, also laden; and another, with a squat stone jar upon his shoulder; and yet another, each giving out every ounce of power within him, straining like a beast of burden beneath the yoke, that those in the great house might be served perfectly and without fault. They passed; and from the kitchens came a rattle of crockery, a hiss of burning fat, the shrill voices of cooks and scullery women. Marcus flung his mop into the fire, got himself to his feet, and went after them, kettle in hand. The fire, left to itself, cast wavering gleams upon the dark walls about the court, the bare trodden ground, the covered well in its centre. Marcus, seeking Nerissa to give the kettle to her, came to the garden, and stood in the entrance and looked across it. Further than this even he dared not venture, since all the space within was sacred to the lord's daughter and her women. Opposite him, across the open lawn, were the wide steps, white in the moonlight, leading to the tessellated walk above. Beyond this, light shone softly from Lady Varia's chamber, half screened by the tall slender columns of the gallery. The two windows, reaching to the floor and giving upon the terrace, were open to the warm air; in the room the lights were low. Marcus saw suddenly the Lady Varia herself enter the room alone, walking slowly, like one unwilling or tired. Then he would have gone, lest he be reprimanded; but even as he turned, the vines along the farther wall rustled, though no wind stirred. So that Marcus, faithful old watch-dog, drew back in the shadows and waited, thinking no danger, yet bound to see that all was well. This was what he saw: Lady Varia moving within the low-lighted room, pausing before her dressing-table near the tall silver lamp, to remove the weight of jewels which loaded her, aimless, and with slow uncertain steps like a child too weary to know rightly what it does. And from the darkness by the wall a figure coming with swift silent strides across the turf to the marble steps, black as a shadow in the moonlight, lean and lithe and with an untamed shock of hair. The figure stood upon the lowest step and called softly,--a tender, wordless call which drifted low across the night and scarcely reached to Marcus's ears. Marcus felt for the knife-hilt at his belt. But the Lady Varia, within the lighted room, heard the call, and stepped across the threshold with head raised and hands hanging at her sides like any sleep-walker, and crossed the pavement where the moonlight lay in silver, and came down the steps, slowly, yet hesitating never at all. Marcus, watching in wonder and fright and awe, saw the black figure lift her hand and kiss it; saw the two walk hand in hand across the garden into the dusky jungle of tall shrubbery. So that Marcus was in two minds,--whether to give the alarm at once, and have the intruder captured, or whether to go up quietly himself and find out what was going on. In the end he crept along through the shadow beneath the walls; and presently, as he came, heard a voice speaking softly, yet with passion. The words were plainly audible, and Marcus heard, and crept closer yet and listened,--listened to words such as in all his stunted life he had never heard before; words which stirred forgotten memories of other things once known, once loved and lost, which he understood in part, and felt more than he understood. He crouched in the shelter of a wide-leaved plant, seeing only the outline of a black figure on the stone bench, and a white one half lost in the darkness beside it. The spell of the voice wrapped him round, deep-toned, vibrant, yet hushed into accord with the stillness of the night. Bent on capture, he found himself all at once held captive, his mind swayed as grass in the wind to the sweep of that other's fancy. But abruptly the voice ceased, and the stillness settled deeper. Marcus heard a rustle of soft garments upon the bench; a low voice saying: "More--more! Cease not, I pray thee, friend!" And that other voice, answering: "Nay, lady; what use? Something is wanting--the words will not come. I know not why, whether it be in me, or whether--" "Nay, but I'll have one more. Once thou didst begin to tell of a youth who was poor and lowly, who lived in the country of the north--" "Does she, then, remember that?" Marcus muttered, "she, whose mind is water, where an image fades with the changing light? Eh, thou black-headed slaveling, what miracle hast thou wrought?" "Wouldst have that tale?" Nicanor asked. "Ay, lady, once I did begin, and dared not finish. Dare I now? My faith! the trouble will not be for lack of words in this! So then; it was even as thou hast said. The youth lived in the gray northlands, up by the Great Wall, where gray hills roll over all the earth and gray skies look down upon them. He tended sheep upon these hills for his father's lord, and lived upon black porridge and sour bread, and went clad in a sheepskin. And because he had never known that life held other things than these, it was all to him as it should have been. But there came a time when this youth went out into the world. He left his flocks and herds, with his lord's permission, and went down the long road to the south, past great cities where men lived in luxury and ease and other men toiled and sweated that this might be. He saw many strange faces, heard the babble of many tongues; and it seemed to him that each face was seeking for a thing which had no name, and each tongue was calling for what might not be found. And after a while the youth knew that he too was seeking what he could not find, and he wondered if it might be that same thing for which those stranger faces hungered. In the end, he came to a fair house, and dwelt there, among those ones who sat in luxury and ease and those others who toiled for them. And in this house was a certain place, of which was said: 'This spot is holy ground. Here none may enter rashly.' But the youth was rash, and entered." His voice faltered. On the seat beside him the Lady Varia leaned forward. "And then?--" she said softly. "And there he found what he had been seeking," said Nicanor, very low. "What every soul upon this earth has a right to search for, but not every soul has a right to take. The name of this thing, O lady of mine, was Happiness; and some there be who call it also Love, and others there be who know that it is Pain. For in the garden dwelt one fair and pure and holy,--a daughter of the great ones of the earth. And because she was fair he loved her; and because she was great he might not woo her; and because she was pure he would not stain her. For she had taught him to love as a woman may teach a man." "He loved her?" Lady Varia said. Her voice was low and dreaming under the spell of his. "Ay, lady of mine, he loved her!" Nicanor said; and in place of the vibrant tenderness of his voice was a swift fierce triumph. "He loved her, and nothing could do away with that." Once more his tones were hushed. "On earth, between man and woman, are two kinds of love, my lady,--one which a man may teach a woman, which is quick desire and the bitter sweetness of passion, the meaning of a kiss, the thrill of a caress: and this, when all is said and done, is of earth, and of the flesh; and one which a woman may teach a man: and this is reverence, and tenderness, and holiness, and of the spirit. And she taught the youth this kind of love, my lady; taught him to revere and honor what in other women he had ever held lightly; taught him that because she was weak she was so strong that nothing he might do could prevail against her. And so--he went away." "And she?" said the dreaming voice. "Did she love him?" There fell a pause. In the bushes, close at hand, one strained his ears to listen, a naked knife gleaming in his hand. "Ay," Nicanor answered slowly. He turned to her, not touching her, yet so close that he felt her breath on his sleeveless arm. "She loved him. And she did not know it." "Not know it?" Varia said. She turned her face toward him, and the moonlight fell full on the warm whiteness of her throat. "I think she should have known. And then, she being great, and he so lowly, I think she should have told him that she knew." "If--if you were she," said Nicanor, and his voice shook, "would you have told him?" "Oh, I should have told him!" Varia said, and her voice was low and strained. "I should have said--'I want you to love me! I want you to love me and stay with me always--'" Nicanor bowed his face forward on his hands. Lady Varia, leaning forward, put her hand upon his shoulder. "Were I that woman, I should have wanted to love him if he had been like that," she said, tremulously, yet very sweetly. Nicanor straightened up and caught both her hands. "Ah, no, my lady, you would not!" he said hoarsely. "You would have driven him from you and been angered beyond forgiveness. You would have hated and despised him, because--oh, don't you understand, it is the only thing you could have done! If she had said that--how could--how could he have left her?" "But why did he leave her?" Varia asked. "Could he not have stayed always in the garden?" Nicanor mastered himself with an effort. "No," he said thickly. "Because he was only a man--and some day--it would be more than he could endure. If he saw that in her sweet innocence she did not realize the temptation she held out to him, he might--he might have done that which always after he must regret." He raised her face with one hand and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her red mouth quivered. He hesitated, his breath coming hard; then he bent his head and kissed her. As he took her in his arms, she shivered, crying softly: "I am afraid! Oh, what is this that you would do!" But when he loosened his hold she clung to him, murmuring: "Nay, I am not afraid! I love your kisses. Oh, you must not go as did that youth--always you must stay within this garden--" Then Marcus crept from his shelter and stood before them, silent, his knife gleaming in his hand. Nicanor, lifting his head, saw him suddenly, and started, for this meant death by tortures no man might name. He sprang to his feet and thrust Lady Varia behind him in the same motion, so that in the darkness his body hid her as she crouched upon the bench. Marcus snarled, like an aroused watch-dog, and said: "Thou more than fool! Dost know what this night's work will bring thee?" Nicanor, his heart pounding hard, his hands clenched, answered nothing, glancing about him to see if the old man might be alone. But the garden lay silent. Then he sprang, as a wolf springs, straight for the old slave's throat, and felled him. Lady Varia screamed,--a quick, shrill sound which stabbed the night stillness like a knife, and cried: "Oh, kill him not--kill him not! I pray thee, kill him not!" "Hush thee, dear lady, or the house will be upon us!" Nicanor exclaimed, his words rushing through locked teeth. "Get quickly to thy chamber and leave all things to me." She sped away over the turf, panting with fear and excitement, and flitted up the steps and across the marble walk and into her room, and closed the window. Nicanor, kneeling on the slave's chest, gagging him with a wad torn from his own garment, heard the doors shut with a gasp of relief. He tied the old man's arms tightly with his girdle, trussing him as he had trussed the carcasses of sheep to be loaded upon mules. Then, having him bound and helpless, he rose and stood over him, whetting his knife on his hand, with senses keyed to hear footsteps in every stir of leaf and sigh of wind. But the garden lay always silent under the moon's cold eye. He spoke to his captive, in a voice which grated just above a whisper. "I'll not kill thee now, since she begged thy life, old man. But while thou'rt above the ground there's no more peace for me. Now what to do with thee?" He stood over his prisoner, motionless in meditation, muttering his thoughts aloud. "There's no place within the house to keep thee safe. And if that clacking tongue of thine betrays us, it needs not much to fancy what will happen then. This is what comes to pass when one serves a brutal master, old man; one must e'en be a brute one's self. I cannot kill thee; they'd miss thee and start a search--besides, my lady said me nay. Ha, that makes thee squirm? Ay, she'd be mine for the lifting of my finger--even I, Nicanor, thy master's slave, have but to say to her, thy master's daughter, 'Go thither!' and she goes, and 'Come!' and she comes to me as I will. Hearest thou that, old man? Her lips have been defiled by a slave's kisses; she hath lain unresisting in a slave's arms, to the unending shame of her proud lord father. And why do I tell thee this, old man? To see thee writhe, thou also, at that shame; to have thee know the whole, and never profit by thy knowledge. Again I say, I cannot kill thee, but none the less I'll stop that tell-tale mouth of thine. Look you, it's the choice between my life and thy eager tongue which even now yearns to blab the tale of my sin and her disgrace. Therefore--" He knelt above his captive, who glared at him with bloodshot eyes that glittered in the moonlight. He tested the keenness of his blade, shook back his shaggy hair, and with a sudden twist removed the gag from the old man's jaws, choking back, at the same moment, with pitiless hands, the cry which rose to his lips. Then he bent over, so that the bulk of him hid from the moonlight his victim and his work. There was a single glint of steel, a convulsion of the thin figure on the ground; a faint click, and a choked and gurgling cry, instantly suppressed. Then Nicanor cleaned his blade by driving it thrice deep into the soft ground, and stood up; and Marcus rolled over and over in agony at his feet, with inarticulate animal cries which scarcely rose above the silence of the night. Nicanor unloosed his bonds and touched him with his foot. "Hereafter thou'lt hold thy peace, old man! Neither good nor ill wilt thou ever prate of mortal more, for I've drawn thy sting. Once thou wert kind to me; twice, in return, did I steal for thee, and once took a beating from thy shoulders. But thou wert more loyal to thy master than thou wert friend to me--and in a matter such as this, I take no chances. As I have served thee, so will I serve any man who crosses me. Now go. Wash thy mouth with cold water and chew pounded leaves of betel. It will stop the blood." He left the garden with noiseless strides, a black shadow in the moonlight. Marcus got himself slowly to his feet, moaning like an animal in pain. He shook his fist at the vanishing figure, with uncouth and terrible sounds which had once been speech, but even then were none the less a curse. So, shuddering and crying, he crept from the sleeping garden, where all was still and peaceful, and where pain and sorrow should have had no place. * * * * * And never again was that garden so peaceful and so still, for Life had entered it, by the little narrow door, bringing with it what Life must bring. IV Nicodemus, the freedman, one-eyed, short, immensely broad, beetle-browed, and grizzled, stood in the door of his wine-shop and watched the crowding press of travellers at the marsh-ford, fore-runners of the throng which nightly descended upon Thorney. Behind him, in the dim recesses of the smoky shop, his wife, Myleia, hawk-nosed and slatternly, prepared food for the strangers who would soon be upon them clamoring for bed and board. It was early evening, with a faint twilight haze still tinged with pink and primrose; but already lights were twinkling here and there among the clustered houses, and fires had been started on the beach. There was no more excitement at the ford than was usual at that hour; the noise was no greater, the confusion no more profound; yet Nicodemus watched it all intently, as though he had not seen it every night before. His one eye, small and hotly blue beneath its bushy brow, glinted over the bustling scene; watched a dozen men flogging a horse that had slipped in mid-stream and fallen with its pack, blocking a long file of animals and carts behind it; followed three half-drunken soldiers lurching through the shallow water, using their pikes as staves; lingered over a bloody battle between two carters whose wheels had locked; and suddenly sobered into gravity at sight of a figure striding through the ford, in worn leathern jerkin and brazen cap, with a ponderous leaf-shaped sword swinging at its side. At sight of this one, Nicodemus turned and went within. The shop, lighted dimly by an evil-smelling lamp, showed small and low-ceiled. Jars of cheap wine and casks of ale and beer, with an array of drinking-cups of all shapes and sizes, stood on shelves along the wall at one side. A trestled board, much scarred and hacked, ran down the centre of the room, flanked by rows of stone stools. Built around two sides of the room was a series of rude bunks. Over the edge of one of these a head of rough and matted black hair was visible. An odor of stale liquor, scorched meat, and pungent wood-smoke hung heavy in the air. Myleia entered, from the kitchen beyond, with a tray of half-cooked beef. Nicodemus went to the bunk and shook the occupant ungently. "Valerius is here!" he said. His voice, like himself, was rough and brusque, rumbling hollow from the depths of his cavernous chest. The figure in the bunk stirred and muttered. Nicodemus turned his head. "He'll not sleep this off for another six hours," he growled. "Wife, some water." The hawk-nosed woman came to his side with a jug of water. As she gave it to him, she put one hand, gnarled, distorted by work, hairy as a man's, on his broad shoulder, and he put his own hand up over it. They stood silent, looking down at the black head buried in the dingy blankets. The lamplight fell soddenly on their faces, throwing them into relief against the murky gloom of the room. Nicodemus grunted, and without warning emptied the water over the black head. Myleia laughed huskily. The remedy was partially effectual. The head rose dripping from the blankets, with dazed and drunken eyes. "Pull thyself together, Nicanor, lad!" Nicodemus said sharply. "Valerius is coming for thee. Thou hast overstayed thy leave; he is to take thee back to the house of thy lord. Dost understand?" Nicanor, answering nothing, sat upright with an effort, pressing his hands to his head, his body swaying slightly from the hips. Nicodemus put a hand on his shoulder. "Come!" he urged. Nicanor looked at him, blinking stupidly. Still he did not speak, but moistened his lips with a swollen tongue. He began to sink slowly back into the blankets, supine and inert. Nicodemus sat on the edge of the bunk and passed a long gorilla arm about his shoulders. He motioned to his wife, who stood watching, arms akimbo, her face expressive of lively sympathy. She went to the shelves where stood the jars of liquor, returning with a brimming horn cup. Nicodemus took this, tilted back the heavy head at his shoulder, and started to pour its contents down Nicanor's throat. Nicanor choked, gasped, and swallowed automatically. A black figure blocked out the twilight in the door. "Peace be with ye, friends! What's all this?" said a hearty voice. Valerius entered; saw the face of the patient, and stopped short. "Nicanor!" he exclaimed. "Why, I'm come for him. He should have been back last night. Hito--prince of overseers--hath a black mark against him. Drunk again?" Nicodemus nodded casually. "Bide a bit, friend, and I'll have him in shape. He's awake now." Nicanor, slowly recovering his sodden wits, looked at Valerius, recognizingly, opened his mouth to speak, found the exertion too great, and shut it again. He let his head sink back against Nicodemus. Presently, with his eyes closed, he said thickly: "You, Valerius? What now?" "I want you, my friend," said Valerius, promptly. "It would seem you forget the trifling fact that Hito commanded your return last night. While you wear the collar, you'll have to heed the word of him who holds the chain--mark you that. You're in for a flogging as it is--best not let your case get to higher quarters." He turned to Nicodemus. "Can we get him started, think you?" Nicodemus let the shaggy head drop back into the bunk, and rose. "Let him bide an hour and he'll be ready for you," he suggested. "Which is to say that he'll be able to walk, with help. Sit you down, comrade--the night's young yet." He beckoned Valerius with him to the table, with a nod at Myleia. She brought cups and an ampulla of wine--not from among those upon the shelves. Valerius, with a grunt of satisfaction, pushed his sword out of his way and sat down. But voices at the door, a shout, a pounding of horses' hoofs, recalled Nicodemus to his duties as host. He signed to Valerius to help himself, and hurried to the door. The twilight had deepened into dusk, through which the fires at the ford glowed redly. The air, sharp with the evening chill, was vibrant with sounds of preparation for the night. Outside the wine-shop door a group was gathered,--three men mounted, three others afoot. One of the latter, a slave, was calling lustily for admittance, beating with his staff upon the door. "Here, lords, here!" cried Nicodemus in alarm. "What may the lords be pleased to want?" "Food and drink and a place to sleep if you have it," said one on horseback. His voice was full and resonant and very deep; the tones of one used to command men. Another added querulously: "This place is crowded to the doors. Every public-house--Say quick if you can take us in, for a cloud of vermin is swarming at our heels, ready to snap the food from our very jaws." Nicodemus's eye, long used to sizing up the purses of would-be customers, lighted to quick and eager greed. "All I have is at your lordships' service. You say truly; Thorney is crowded, so that many will sleep on the naked ground to-night." There came a group of weary carters along the street, smelling loudly of drink and of the stables, clamoring at every crowded house for bed and board. Nicodemus saw the disgusted scorn with which the lord who had last spoken regarded these; saw the other two on horseback turn away as though contaminated by the very atmosphere of their presence,--an atmosphere none too sweet, in truth,--and promptly took his cue. "Nay, friend," said he to the foremost carter, as they clustered close around, hopeful at last of shelter. "You're too late--I'm full. Best go to the Black Cock--a step further down the street. There you'll find all you ask for." "The Black Cock be full also," the man protested sulkily. "You have room to spare! See then, friend, we'll pay 'ee well." But Nicodemus, fearful lest his golden geese should fly, turned on him fiercely. "Get ye gone! I've no time to dicker over coppers. I'm full, I tell you, and that's all there is to it.--This way, lords." He led his guests into the house, shouting for Myleia to come and put up the horses. Two wore the dress of private citizens of wealth; the equipment of the third and youngest proclaimed him a military tribune. The face of this one, the most noticeable of the trio--a man of some seven-and-thirty years--was pale and aristocratic, with high nose, thick and level brows, a thin-lipped mouth at once refined and sensual. And the eyes were the eyes of a son of Rome the Mighty, dark, keen, dominant, impatient of restraint. Behind them one might read what the man himself stood for; the epitome of centuries of culture, of severest physical training and the restraint of the discipline of the mightiest machine the world had ever seen; and, at the same time, of equal centuries of indulgence and luxury and vice--a curious mingling of ascetic and sybarite. Of the other two, one bore a marked resemblance to the soldier, with the pride and passion of the younger face tempered by years to a mellower dignity. He was richly dressed, and on his thumb was a large and heavily chased signet ring. The third man, who at first spoke little, keeping his eyes cast down, was small and shrivelled, with a scholar's face and a distinct cast in the right eye. These three sat at the table, whence Valerius had hurriedly removed himself and his wine, and were served obsequiously by Nicodemus and his wife with the best the house afforded. For a while they ate and drank in silence. Then the tongue of the small old man, loosened by the wine, began to wag. He spoke abruptly, in a voice husky and somewhat over-precise. "I had not looked to see thee here, friend Marius. Thy father made no mention of thy coming." "He knew nothing of it," the young tribune answered shortly. "There was no time to send word from Gaul--where I have been stationed these last two years--that I had been ordered into Britain. And when I arrived, he was travelling, and my letter did not reach him." "He came with his legion, which is that one sent hither by the proconsul Ætius of Gaul, at the request of the governors of the cities to drive out the barbarians from Britannia Secunda. And that was nine months ago," his father explained. "So; I see. It was gallant work of gallant men," said the old man with effusion. The soldier shrugged his broad shoulders in an indifference half contemptuous. "And thou hast remained in Britain since thy comrades sailed back to Gaul?" "The commander left certain men to guard against further outbreak," the father of Marius explained, patiently. "And my son is of that number. But the trouble seems thoroughly subdued, and they have been ordered to return to Gaul." "I have applied for leave by the physicians' orders, having been wounded during the affair," said Marius. "Myself I know that I am fit for service, but I am constrained--" Again he shrugged. "A campaign hath been started in Gaul against the Huns who threaten us, and you may guess if I like the prospect of missing it. Until my leave is granted, I am here to make arrangements for a vessel for my cohort. After, I shall remain for some weeks; it is long since my father and I have been together." "And those weeks, I doubt not, you will spend together at the house of Eudemius," the old man persisted, and received a curt grunt of assent. Undeterred by lack of enthusiasm of his hearers, he settled to the discussion of a new subject. "It is years since I have seen him, but men say that he is greatly changed, since the physicians have failed to mend his daughter's misfortune." The soldier, staring moodily into his horn cup, made no sign of having heard. His father poured himself more wine, and nodded. The old man added, with a chuckle and a senile attempt at jocularity: "Marius, boy, thou shouldst but see her! Not a goddess of Rome herself could equal her. Eh, but she's the morsel for thy lips, she and her fat lands and the gold of her father's coffers. And it were high time thou shouldst think of marriage." "I care nothing for damaged goods," Marius interrupted. "And as for marriage, that may well wait awhile." "But since thou art to visit the father, it is but meet that thou shouldst become enamoured of the daughter, for the time at least. What else could be expected of thee?" quavered he of the cast. He poured himself another cup of wine; his hand, none too steady, shook, and the liquor spilled. Hereat he wept, dolefully, and forgot his discourse on the duty of guests to their hosts' daughters. Unheeding him, the others talked quietly, in low tones. But he, bound to hold the centre of the stage, remembered suddenly what he wished to say, and began again. "My boy, thou couldst have her for the taking!" Marius, his speech with his father interrupted, eyed him with a sort of grim patience, waiting until he chose to cease. "A fit morsel for thy lips," the garrulous one repeated. "I speak of what mine eyes have seen. What if the mind be wanting, so long as the face is fair? Many a man hath found too much mind a sorry investment in a wife. And she's fair enough! By Venus, yes! Eyes like clouded stars, midnight tresses, a bosom whiter than milk--" Marius laughed scornfully. "Maybe so! But so have a thousand others, with sense thrown in. Why so keen to set me after her? Let the poor fool be. I tell you I'll have no damaged goods. If I marry at all, by the veil of Isis, the price I must needs pay will be high enough to warrant me in asking the best in return." Nicanor, hearing the murmur of voices, raised his head slowly and looked over the edge of the bunk. He saw Valerius in his corner, sound asleep, and wondered what he wanted there. The old man sat with his back to him, but the face of the soldier was in plain sight. At him Nicanor stared, stolidly, without interest, and let himself drop back into the blankets. But the remedy of Nicodemus was beginning to have effect. By degrees his head became clearer; objects in the room no longer jumped startlingly when he set his glance upon them; his thoughts became more connected. There had been a scene in a garden--her garden. Marcus had come; had discovered him with her. His heart stood still. What had happened then? Had he killed the old man? He recalled the truth with a gasp of relief which yet was mingled with apprehension. But afterwards? There came to him, slowly, a memory, vague and confused, of a weary wandering through endless night, torn by temptation and desire, raging with defiance of the consequences of his rashness, consumed by fever that ran through his veins like fire and dried the very heart within him. What had become of Varia? Of Marcus? How much had been found out? Sudden blind fury at his impotence in the face of supreme and arrogant power possessed him. The brazen collar about his throat burned like a band of fire. He raised his hands to it, and let them drop. What could he do--a slave? After all, what did it matter? Nothing mattered then, save Varia. He lay devising ways and means of seeing her again, since this he was bound to do, though gods and men might say him nay. The voices at the table droned on, as from a great distance, and Nicanor lay and listened. They spoke of some woman. No name was mentioned, but the description of her, as it fell from the old man's maudlin lips, sent his heart pounding. So might be described another woman, who for him held life and death and all that lay between. The voice of Valerius at his ear made him start. "Awake, lad? Art better? So, then; it's time to start." Nicanor got out of the bunk. Once on his legs, he discovered that he was by no means steady. The three at the table ceased talking as he rose, more from prudence than curiosity, it seemed. The soldier glanced at him, with keen eyes, indifferent at first, lighting to faint professional interest, that noted every point of bearing and physique; the lean flanks, swelling upward to muscular torso and the shoulders of a chariot-racer; the knotted muscle of forearm and back; finally rested on the broad collar circling the brown massive throat. "That fellow would look well in the ranks," he observed casually. His father glanced at Nicanor as one might at a dog whose good points were under discussion, and nodded. Marius added, continuing what had gone before: "You can't kill a man with hard work if you know how to handle him. I tell Fabian that these brushes with barbarians at least serve the purpose of keeping the men in condition." His father sighed. "Always thou wert a hard taskmaster, Marius," he said gently. "It may be that thou drivest the men farther than thou knowest. Men are not brute beasts, that they must be goaded even to the breaking-point." "Most men are, my father," Marius returned. "Most men will do what they are made to do, no more. As for driving them to breaking-point, I think you need not fear for that. Men need a lot of killing." He fell into silence, staring into the amber depths of his cup of wine. His father glanced at him, sighed once more, and turned away. Nicodemus and Myleia hurried in to prepare fresh beds for their lordly guests. Valerius and Nicanor went out into the night. The keen air struck Nicanor like a dash of cold water. He drew a deep and grateful breath of it, and felt revived. "How long have I been from the house?" he asked, with intent to fill in the blank spaces of his memory. "It is the second night," Valerius answered. "When you asked Hito for leave, he gave command that you return last night." "When I asked Hito--" Nicanor repeated. He had no recollection of having asked the overseer for anything. "You did not come, so, being angry, he directed me to search for you and bring you back for a flogging. What more was in store, he did not say." Nicanor shot a glance of swift suspicion at him through the darkness. "What more should there be?" he demanded. "Why, how can I tell?" Valerius parried. "Imprisonment, maybe, for a day or so.... Though, in truth, as the offence is repeated by some one or other every day, he can have no excuse for--" "Well?" Nicanor said impatiently, as Valerius paused. "Treating you as he would like to do," the latter added soberly. "Hito hates you, my friend." Nicanor shrugged his shoulders. This tale of an overseer's feelings was not what he had feared. "Oh, that!" he exclaimed, and snapped his fingers. "If that were all I had to think about.... Valerius, tell me this. Each time I have seen you I have wished to ask. How comes it that you are in the service of the Torturer?" "I got tired of the church," Valerius answered simply. "The good fathers were very good, but me they singled out as the black sheep of all the fold, and it was more than could be endured. 'What religion have you?' says Father Ambrose. 'None at all,' says I, 'and want none.' So he nearly wept, and told the others, and they agreed that I was fit food for the fires of hell. So they gave me their blessing, and told me Holy Church was better off without me, and there were no more sandals to be repaired. Then I fell in with Hito, and he took me into the service of our lord. How hath it been with you?" Nicanor told of the manner of his capture, and Valerius laughed. "Clever!" he chuckled. "But tell me truth, lad. Is not this a long sight better than the work-room of that fish-faced brother Tobias? Are we not hand in glove with the great ones of the earth? Do we not know them, in all their parts, far better than those of their own world could ever do, since we serve them?" "Ay," said Nicanor. "That is so. And yet, after all--when I was in the workshop, if the bone cut straight, and if there was what I liked for supper, I was happy, and wanted nothing more. Now--" "Now," said Valerius, dropping into his old familiar tone, with an arm thrust through Nicanor's--"now thou hast found that there are many other things in life which a man may want. Is it not so?" "Ay," Nicanor said again. "That is so also." V In the slaves' quarters, next morning, Nicanor took his flogging without a change of face, while Hito, the fat overseer, looked on and grinned in evil glee. But Nicanor had so much worse than flogging hanging over him that he scarcely felt the blows, and merely grinned back at Hito, with insolent bravado, until the latter was cursing with rage. Then, being set to grind sand for the floors of the kitchens, he made an opportunity to seek out Marcus. But Marcus was nowhere to be found. Nicanor questioned, cautiously; no one had seen him. Apparently, no one cared what had become of him. He might have been rotting in sewer or drain-hole for all his fellow-slaves seemed concerned. To save his life Nicanor could not have told just why he wished to find the old man, since the farther he and Marcus were apart, the better it would be for both. Foiled in his search, he went back to work again. Many times before his labor was ended, he passed the closed door of the garden where Varia dwelt; and each time his heart beat hard and his face flushed and his brown hands trembled. To know her so near, and not to see her; to be conscious of her in every throbbing pulse, and not to seek her; not to know whether she was safe and unharmed, or whether blame for his rashness had fallen, through her father's wrath, on her-- "Last night I could have gone to her had I not chosen to make myself a drunken swine," he said, and caught himself up in fear lest he had spoken the words aloud. "Did she look for me--wait for me?--for I'll warrant she has not forgotten. But to-night--to-night--" He caught his breath, his eyes lighting. "I'll make her confess she loves me! I'll have the words from her own lips--words, ay, and kisses also! Ah, lord, noble lord, mighty lord! what wouldst say to know that for the lifting of a slave's finger thou standest to lose what all thy gold could never buy thee back?" His passion died before it had fairly gathered force. He stood an instant, motionless and shaken, drew a hand across his eyes, and returned to his labor. All that day Hito worked him mercilessly, in a mean and entirely comprehensible spirit of revenge, until, being not fully recovered from his drinking-bout, his brain was reeling and he could scarcely keep his legs. At sunset he took his share of the rations dealt out nightly to the slaves, but although he was faint from emptiness the sight of the food turned him sick. He went to the cell where he, with others, slept, and dropped like a log, exhausted in mind and body. Here he lay until Hito's whistle summoned the household slaves for emergency service. Not to obey meant punishment, but in his present state Nicanor cared little for that. He lay listening to the sound of hasty feet and voices as slaves passed to and fro across the courtyard to the house, expecting momently to be called to account for his delinquency. But no one came to him, and by and by he slept. Waking, he found the world dark and peopled with restless, moving shadows. There was still much hurrying here and there, and from the kitchens came strident sounds of nervous activity. Thither Nicanor started, across the unlighted court, stopping on the way for a cup of water at the well. As he put down the dipper and turned to go, he ran into some one bound in the same direction, who staggered under the shock with an exclamation, and dropped a dish, which crashed into fragments on the ground. At the same instant Nicanor caught her by the shoulder and steadied her; in the darkness he could not see her face. "It is broken!" she exclaimed. "I must go quickly and get another." "It was my fault," said Nicanor. "I will go." "There is no need," the woman answered. She started back, Nicanor keeping perversely beside her. "What is happening?" he wished to know. "Is there a feast made in the house to-night?" He could feel that she was looking at him in surprise. "You do not know? Two strangers came to-day, with news of importance, men say, for our lord. There be strange things told: they urge that our lord will go back with them to Rome. The old man was indisposed when he arrived; his servant tells that he is not over strong." She hurried off, and Nicanor stood still, repeating stupidly her words. "Our lord will go back with them to Rome. Then she will go with him. But that is not possible. His home is here--why should he leave it?" At once he was filled with feverish anxiety to find out what truth there might be in the gossip. He invented an errand which would take him within the house, to see if by chance Lady Varia might be among the feasters. Since she was kept in strictest seclusion by Eudemius, he was quite sure of not finding her, but his mood of perversity still held. On the way he met a Saxon slave, Wardo, a fair-haired, blue-eyed fellow, hurrying toward the atrium with a pierced copper bowl packed with snow for cooling wines. Him Nicanor stopped with a question. "Hast seen these strangers, Wardo? Whence come they, and who have been bidden to meet them?" "They and our lord sup alone," Wardo answered. He shifted his bowl from hand to hand, and blew on his fingers as though it burned instead of freezing him. "The dancing girls have been commanded, and wine is to be brought. Much hath been brought already. And Nicanor, hark 'ee! Egon, who pours the wines, saith that the talk is strange talk for feasting. They urge that our lord go back with them to Rome--wherefore, think you? They speak of Rome, and Londinium, and the legions from Gaul, and of losses of ships and money, until one's head rings. What might it be about? Think you that we go to Rome? I should like to go to Rome, if it be anything like Londinium--" "We go to Rome?" Nicanor repeated. "Say rather that we should be left here to die like chained rats that the trainer hath forgotten." He went off; and watched his chance and slipped away outside, and stopped before the little garden door. He put his hand upon it, drew back, and glanced over his shoulder as though for possible pursuit. His face held a curious mixture of doubt and boldness, hesitancy and desire. Only a moment he paused; then opened the door with a silent key, slipped inside so that the vines scarcely rustled, and closed it without noise. No one was in the garden. His eagerness took fire at the delay; lithe and silent as a mountain cat he crossed the open space of lawn, mounted the steps of the terrace, and gained the windows, whence came no light from the tall silver lamps within. And here he discovered that the windows were closed. With all his boldness he dared venture no further. Baffled, yet keener set in his determination for being thwarted, he drew back into the shadows and waited. From where he stood by the marble bench no sound came to him save the chirring of insects in the grass, the squeak of a bat or twitter of a sleepy bird. One might never have thought the place to be in the heart of a house whose inmates numbered five hundred souls and more, so still it was, so seemingly remote from all human noise and tumult. The combined effects of the silence and the perfume of the many night-blooming plants made him drowsy; also his head was light from want of food. Every clump of bushes seemed suspicious; he began at last to hear footsteps in every sough of wind and creak of branch. But he set his teeth grimly, bound not to be beaten, fighting hard against sleep and overwhelming weariness. Yet what it meant for him should he, in spite of himself, fall asleep and be discovered there by Lady Varia's women, none knew better than he. "She will come! She must come!" he muttered, and kept himself awake with that. And she did come. After untold hours of waiting, during which he alternately dozed and started into uneasy watchfulness through sheer force of will, she came to him out of the scented darkness, walking slowly, with hands hanging straight at her sides, a slim figure dimly white. So suddenly did she appear that at first he did not move, believing himself still drowsing. But she stopped before him; and at once the world fell away from him, leaving him thought and memory of nothing but that she had come to him at his call and that they were alone together. "I am here," she said, very low. "Didst call me, or did I dream it? And why?" "Because I wanted thee!" he answered, and caught her hands and kissed them. His own hands shook as he drew her down upon the bench beside him; he dared not trust his voice to utter what was on his tongue. She sat beside him, leaving her hands in one of his, and he slipped his arm about her, unrebuked. In the darkness he could not tell whether or not her eyes were on him. Presently she spoke. "Hast thou not a tale to tell to-night? Last night thou didst not come, and I was lonely. All the night I did not sleep. Now I am tired--so tired...." Her voice drifted into silence. She yawned, quite openly, like a sleepy child, and leaned her head slowly back against his arm. Nicanor quivered from head to foot, and tightened his clasp about her. It was these innocent tricks of hers, these child ways, wholly trusting, without thought of guile, that made him mad for her, tempted him almost beyond endurance, and yet, in their very innocence, made themselves her strongest shield. She knew nothing, with that child's soul of hers, of the passion which shook him at her touch, which sent his hands hot when her fingers fluttered into his, and set his heart pounding in heavy throbs when, as now, she leaned her cheek above it. How should she know? Her mind was a child's mind, unawakened, even though her body was a woman's body, fragrant cup of the mystic wine of life, abounding in sweet allurements of which she knew not the smallest meaning. "I would have another tale!" she said at length, imperiously, and raised her head to look at him in grieved surprise that her command should be so slighted. But Nicanor drew her back to him, lifting both her cool palms to his burning face. "Ah, lady mine!" he said, "the only tale I have to tell thee, I may not utter. None other have I to-night; my heart is big with it, my brain reels with it, but my lips must e'en be dumb. And yet--I know that thou wouldst listen; that what I might say would echo in thy heart forever and a day. Then why should I not say it? Why, if the thorns be not strong enough to guard, should I not pluck the rose?" He gathered her more closely into his arms, drinking the perfume of her hair, the warmth of her, into every fibre of his being. She lay quiet, her head thrown back against his shoulder, great eyes wide open in the darkness, resting easily as a bird in its nest against his strength. "Because the rose is too fair and fragrant for common hands to pluck." Nicanor's voice grew to a hushed intensity, as though he argued with himself a point gone over many times before, yet never wholly gained--what higher manhood there was in him contending with temptation innocently offered, striving against lawless passion and desire. "Now it is but a half-blown bud, this rose, knowing nothing of the perils which beset all roses in all gardens, lady mine, hiding the golden heart of it in shy, half-open leaves. Some day a high-born stranger will enter the garden, and the gardener will point to this his rose, and say: 'Look you, friend, at the fair flower I have nurtured here. I have tended it well, kept from it frost and blasting heat, watered it, let the sun to shine upon it. Now it is ready for the plucking--take you it.' Then the stranger will pluck the rose, and will watch it unfold, petal by petal, until all the beauty of it is laid bare. And gardener nor stranger will ever know that one was in the garden there before them, with his hand upon the rose's stem and his breath upon the rose's heart." Varia stirred and brushed a hand across his lips. "But that is not a tale!" she said plaintively. "Or if it be a tale, it is a sad one. The poor rose! It may be that it wished to stay within the garden, and not be plucked to fade away and die. I had not thought of that before! Never will I pluck a rose again; I will let it live where the gardener plants it. I thought it pretty to pluck them and smell them, and watch the leaves all fall; I did not know I killed them! Sometimes I think that people do not know when they kill roses. Now tell another tale, I pray thee! Tell that tale of when thou and I lived long and long ago, and of how we met in that other world which is gone. That tale I love the best of all." "Of how we met--" Nicanor repeated absently. Again his mood had changed, as always in her presence. When away from her, with but the memory of her face, her innocent wiles, her passiveness under his caresses, passion had its way with him, blinding him, rendering him desperate, careless of consequences. But when with her, that very innocence of hers wrought its own spell upon him, taming and stilling him with an awe which he but half understood. Curiously, this chastened mood left him invariably sullen and surly, after the manner of a beast which sulks at having missed its kill. "Of how we met?" he said again. "So then. Once thou and I lived very long ago. Ages and ages ago it was, when the world was young, and only the moon and the stars were old. None walked upon the earth save we two, and the world and its beauty was for us alone. Dusky forests covered all the land, where strange birds sang and great flowers grew. Wild beasts roamed these forests with us, but we walked among them unafraid, for they knew not that they could harm us. Beneath the sunken light of old scarred moons we wandered hand in hand; and day by day I told that tale to thee I dare not tell thee now, and there was none to hinder me. "Canst dream of a world all happiness, my lady, a world without shadow of sorrow or cloud of care, with nothing but happy sunshine and the songs of birds? That world was our world. And in it we were free, we two, free to wander where we would, free as the winds that called us. Who may know freedom as do those who walk in chains? We knew not then the measure of this our freedom, for we had known no thraldom of flesh nor spirit. Therefore the high gods decreed that we should be brought to know the greatness of their gift, by losing it; that in our lives to come we should be bound, and bound remain until we knew what we had lost. Thy bonds sit upon thee lightly, yet in thine eyes I read that they are there. And I--I am learning fast what freedom means. In the shade of great trees which upheld the very floor of heaven we rested, thou and I, and saw the wide earth smiling in warm golden noons. It was then thy hands first learned to cling to mine"--he raised her hands and kissed them--"it was then thy head first leaned above my heart--ay, even so long since, in the beginning of the world. Down all the after ages it hath been the same; somewhere, somehow, we met; and each time of our meeting there came to us a memory of dear dead days long gone, forgotten until a breath from dim gardens where we wandered blew to us from the past. Oh, but those days were long, each one a jewel of flame and azure, strung on the golden chain of Time; and the nights were long, and warm, and clear, and perfumed as thy hair. Our food was fruit and the nuts I gathered; our wine the waters of clear brooks which thou drankest from my hands. Ferns, deep and fragrant, made our couch." He stopped abruptly. "As my soul liveth, I can tell no more!" he said, and his voice was shaken. "Sweet lady o' mine, urge me not, for thine own sake! Thou dost not understand--how shouldst thou? Any tale I'll tell thee--any tale save a tale of thee and me." "That is the tale which I will have," said Varia, drowsily. Nicanor smothered an exclamation. "Child, canst not see that my hands tremble, that I burn with fever, and am scarce master of myself?" His tone quickly changed and softened. "There, then, I will not frighten thee! Only ask me not to try my strength beyond its limit with that tale I taught thee to love and long for--" "Then I shall go," said Varia, with no smallest understanding of his cry, and rose from the bench. But Nicanor was quicker than she. He caught her hand and turned her half around to face him. "Nay, I'll not let thee go!" he said unevenly. "The hour is mine, and the night is mine--and I cannot let thee go!" She sat down once more upon the bench, passively submissive as a child to its elders' will. Nicanor dropped on one knee on the grass beside her, his arms across her lap, his hands prisoning one of hers. His deep voice lowered to a note of lingering tenderness that thrilled like the strings of a harp gently touched. "Oh, light of all the world to me!" he said softly. "If I but dared tell thee of the thoughts that are mine, and the madness that is mine, and the punishment for them that is mine also! Wouldst understand? Ay, truly, I think so! For I'd tell it so that the deaf trees, that whisper always and hear not--ay, and the very winds of heaven, could not help but know the meaning of my words." She put her free hand to his face, upturned to hers, and stroked it. "Thou poor one!" she said with gentle pity. "Is it that thou art ill to-night? Thy face burns hot, like fire. Is all well with thee?" Nicanor suddenly bowed his head forward on her knees. "Nay," he answered huskily. "It is not well." She sat a moment, her hand resting idle on his rough black head. "I am sorry!" she said then, simply. "Is there--is there aught that I could do? When my lord father is ill, he will have me sometimes to stroke his head, to ease the pain. Wilt thou that I should stroke thy head also?--Nay, do not move! See, I will touch it so, and so, and soon thou shalt be cured." She bent over him, as he leaned against her, her soft hands slowly stroking his forehead with touch as light as the brushing of a rose-leaf. Nicanor stood it as long as he could. Then he crushed her hands in his, and kissed them passionately, many times, and rose to his feet. "Dear little hands, that would cure all the pain and sorrow of the world an they might! They have healed me, sweet, and made me sane--ay, and wounded deeper than they healed! Go now, quickly, dear heart, while I have courage and will to say it." "But--" she began, hesitating. He interrupted, fiercely. "Go, child, go! Or I'll not give thee the chance again!" "But thy head--" she persisted. "It is cured," he answered. As she turned away, surprised at his sudden brusqueness, he took a step beside her. "Hast heard that thy lord father will leave Britain for Rome?" he asked abruptly. "Leave Britain? But it is not so!" she exclaimed. "Why should he do that? He would not leave without me, and I--I will not go. I will stay here; I will not go to Rome! And thou,--" she came closer to him,--"wilt thou come to-morrow and tell me tales? Last night I waited for thee, and when thou didst not come I was lonely. Do not let me be lonely again, I pray thee!" Nicanor looked at her for a time. "Ay," he said finally, in a hushed voice. "I will come." She turned from him and started across the grass. He watched her, and his hands slowly clenched. She looked back once over her shoulder, her face glimmering white in the starlit darkness. It was enough. In a stride he was after her; in a heart-beat she was in his arms, her face hidden against his breast. "I love thee--I love thee!" he whispered hoarsely. "Heart of mine, that is the tale I dared not tell! A tale of three words, three little words, which yet is longer than any tale that ever was said or sung. Dost understand, dear heart, what that must mean to thee and me?" She drew herself away from him with her hands against his breast. "You love me," she repeated, not questioningly, but as one making statement of a fact. "Ay, I understand that. Why should I not?" Her voice grew tenderly solemn. "'Where thou art, Caius, there am I, Caia; and thy people shall be my people' ... _that_ is when one loves." Nicanor cut her short with an exclamation. "Ay, that is when happy other men and women love!" he said bitterly. "But not for such as thou and I. For us, beloved, it means that where thou art, there I may not be; that all men, all circumstance, would strive to part us, since the world will have it that high blood may not mate with lowly." "But why?" she asked. Her voice was wondering. "If two people love, is not that enough?" "'If two people love,'" Nicanor repeated. He drew her back into his arms and turned her face upward to the stars and to his eyes. "Beloved, I have said I love thee with a love that must last through life and death and all that lies beyond. So, since I am what I must be, I have placed my life within thy hands for good or ill. Thou sayest 'If two people love.' Dost thou then love me?" She raised her head and looked full at him. "Ay, surely I love thee," she answered. "Thou hast told me tales so strange and wonderful that none were ever like them in the world before. And thou hast been kind to me, nor ever scolded, nor called me fool, as does my lord father when I have displeased him. Does not one always love those who are kind to one? It is the least that one can do, I think. And yet ... I do not know. What is this love thou hast?" "The most terrible thing in the world, and the sweetest," Nicanor answered, his eyes on hers. "It is a chain that binds life to life, and the links of the chain are drops of heart's blood. It is pain from which one would not seek relief. Men have called it a flower, beloved, but it is no flower, for flowers wither in a little space, and die, and love hath eternal life. Ay, for it is eternal; and death, to it, is but a moment in the dark." Varia caught her breath with a smothered sob. "Ah, but I do love thee when thou talkest so!" she whispered. "Often I cannot understand thy words, but I can feel them, here,--" she clasped her hands above her heart,--"and sometimes they make me glad, and sometimes sorry, and sometimes they frighten me, and I do not at all know why. But always I long to hear more. They make me to want things I have not got, to know things I do not know, for I am very foolish. Oh, thou wizard of the silver tongue!" She raised both hands to his temples, and he could feel that her fingers shook. "Play not with me for the sake of thy sport, I pray thee! Ay, I am very foolish,--I know it,--for I may not understand how such things be; but thy speech leads me as a nurse leads her child by the hand, and I am afraid, because I cannot understand whither thou wouldst have me go." "Play with thee! Beloved, it is no play to me," Nicanor answered. "I'd give thee all my life and soul, as I've given thee my heart, could I but keep from thee a moment's fear or sorrow." He bent his head and kissed her snowy eyelids. "Whatever God or gods there be that men may pray to, may they have thee, lady mine, in their holy keeping. Whoever they may be, I give thanks that this night they guarded thee--or was it the veil of thine own white innocence around thee?--for this night hath a beast been held at bay." He let her go, and stood watching hungrily as she slipped away from him across the grass. Over the surrounding walls of the villa a faint gray mist came stealing. The song of the insects had died, and the world hung silent, awaiting the mystery of the day. The trees and bushes of the garden massed themselves into denser shadow against the tinge of ghostly light. From somewhere, far away, a cock crew, and another answered. Nicanor listened until the faint click of a closing window reached him. Suddenly he buried his face in his hands and stood an instant motionless, a dark and sombre figure in the gray loneliness of dawn. Before the light had gathered strength for him to be more than a moving blot among the shadows, he pulled himself together with a quick shake of his shoulders, and vanished amid the tangle of vines and shrubbery that hid the little garden door. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- PAWNS AND PLAYERS BOOK III ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Book III PAWNS AND PLAYERS I The lord Eudemius, covered with tawny leopard skins, lay stretched on a couch of carven ebony in the library of the villa, of which the windows overlooked the great central courtyard. He was a tall man, spare, with black, sombre eyes, a high nose, and a wiry black beard, close clipped. His hands, long and white and nervous, held a scroll which he kept slowly unwinding and letting roll together again. His face was remarkable for nothing save its complete impassivity; devoid of all expression, it was merely a mask behind which the man kept locked his real self and thoughts. A dish of fruit stood on a stand at his elbow. With him in the room sat Livinius, the father of Marius, making notes with a stylus on a tablet of ivory coated with wax. The face of Livinius was grave, yet eager. He began to speak presently, as though continuing a conversation which had gone before. "Rome has often needed gold, and has wrung it from the people mercilessly; but I tell you, Eudemius, that her need was never greater than in this hour. Ay, and not gold alone she must have, but brains to plan for her, hands to work for her, blood to be spilled for her. You, yourself, friend, have been soldier, senator, statesman. You know, as I know, and as every Roman in his soul must know, that the core of the trouble lies in the fact that she hath gathered in more than her two hands could hold. I would not see her other than she is,--mistress of the world; but I would first see her in a position to maintain that title in the face of all challenge. And she is not in such position. Outwardly, she hath all show of might, of force invincible and impregnable. But behind this, what is there? The weakness of dissension, where there should be solidarity; division of interests, where nothing can save but union; rottenness, where there should be wholesomeness and vigor. This is not treason I speak, but truth. We have served her in field and forum, you and I; we have offered our blood on her altars; we shall both carry the marks of her service until we die. And she hath paid us well. Now I am worn out, useless, and cast aside; she has taken all she would from me, even my son. But you, old friend, have still what she needs to offer. She needs gold; but more than that, she needs one, powerful as you are powerful, to come forward and point to more timid ones the way. When she enters her own once more, she will repay your loan with interest, for that hath ever been Rome's way. I tell you, Rome in these days is like a sinking ship, from which the rats scurry in swarms, to stand aside and wait to see if there be prospect of a safe return. Here, overseas, you get but an echo of the truth. Every day the call goes out for more troops, and more." Eudemius nodded thoughtfully. "So the Third Legion is to be recalled from Gaul to Rome. It is what may be expected, but I had not thought so soon. Their plans have been kept well secret. Ætius will soon not have men enough for himself, not to speak of sending over men to our assistance. I suppose your son goes with them? It must be all of ten years since I saw him last." "He hath changed," the father answered quietly. "Yes, he goes, and I go with him. Come thou with us, friend! What has Rome done to thee that thou shouldst not answer to her need? Now, if ever, is the time when her sons must rally to her, for with all her faults--and she hath many--she is still the mother of them all. I know well that it was within her walls that thy trouble fell upon thee; but was she to blame for that?" Eudemius's dark face never changed from its graven inscrutability, but his thin hands clutched the scroll tighter and let it fall. Livinius eyed him tenderly. "Is not the old wound healing, even yet?" he asked with great gentleness. For a moment silence fell. Then Eudemius, stooping from the couch to pick up the fallen roll, said in his hard and even voice, as though he discussed matters of small moment and everyday concern: "Healing? Nay, how should it heal when each day fresh salt is rubbed into it? Take a look at it now, if you will, for hereafter we'll let it bide and rankle as it must. Tell me; have not your eyes seen changes, mental as well as physical, concerning which your lips have not questioned?" "Changes? in you?" said Livinius, dropping into the other's more distant tone. "Ay, that is true, and my heart aches to see them. That is another reason why I urge your return to Rome. New scenes, new faces--your life is broken, yet a broken pitcher may be mended." "True," Eudemius admitted evenly. "But who expects it to hold water again? Is it not rather placed upon the shelf and forgotten--if, indeed, it be not flung upon the rubbish-heap?" "But think of this--" Livinius persisted. Eudemius broke in. "Ay, I have thought of this and that, and this is all it comes to!" he said harshly. "That when I am gone, my name, blazoned in the annals of Rome before great Cæsar was, must dwindle out to nothing with a weak girl. It came to me great, unstained, heavy with memories of soldiers, heroes, statesmen, who had borne it worthily and left it clean for their sons and their sons' sons. I made it the name of wealth as well as of greatness; I thought to hand it down to my sons and my sons' sons, as the fires of Vesta are handed down from one generation to the next. A son I prayed for--what any sodden carter is judged worthy to beget; a male child to uprear in the traditions of his house, to add, an he might, his share to the glory of it. A son to serve Rome as his fathers served. And what was born to me? A puling fool, not worthy even to breed her kind into the world. Were she blessed with wit, she might mate with one worthy of her blood and keep her name thus from complete extinction. As it is--what man would have her to bear him mindless brats? Who would become sire to a race of idiots?" Livinius scratched the wax of his tablet absently, and rubbed his finger over the mark. "I have wondered often why you never married again," he remarked, tentatively. "It is fifteen years since Constantia's death; surely in that time you might have found a woman to become the mother of your sons." "True, I might," Eudemius admitted, coolly. "But those fifteen years ago, through mine own folly and hatred of life after that double blow of her death and knowledge of the girl's condition,--for it was a blow, Livinius, since I was not then the wooden image of to-day,--there fell on me the judgment of the gods for such rebellion as mine." He turned his sombre eyes full on Livinius. "Would you believe, to see me as I sit here, that mine is a body racked by the tortures of the damned, drained of the very sap of life by disease that eats into every nerve and leaves it raw and quivering, yet that only numbs when its fury is spent, and will not kill? That time after time, when its throes are on me, I have turned craven and begged Claudius for a potion to end it all?" He laughed shortly, with no sound of merriment. "I marry again--a rotten hulk fit only for carrion!" Livinius listened, shocked. "Oh, my dear!" he exclaimed in honest sympathy, "is it indeed thus with thee? And I had thought of thee entering the harbor of thy rest, wealthy, honored, reconciled, perhaps, to what the gods in their wisdom had ordained for thee, to end thy days in quiet and content. For fifteen years, thou sayest. Man, how hast thou lived to tell it?" Eudemius smiled, a smile which began at his lips and ended there, leaving his bitter eyes unlightened. "Ay, fifteen years--and yet not so bad as that!" he said shortly. "Or it would have been well over with me by now. But I have known from the first what lay ahead. I won it from Claudius,--poor fool, how he trembled to tell me!--knew that each attack must be more severe than the one before; that each day the disease would stride forward a slow inch, no more, and no human skill might advance it or hold it back." His harsh voice sank a note lower. "At such times, when that grip closes upon me, I know not what I do. Rather, I know, yet am powerless to act otherwise. I tell thee, Livinius, I have had slaves flogged, ay, tortured, before my eyes, to see if by chance I might find suffering greater than mine own. And if they died, I have had tortured those who let them die, for it is not death I want, but what I have found to be worse than death. Judge then if I were not better out of the world! Yet the only way of release open to me I will not take, since I have not yet lost courage enough to brand myself a coward. I have told Claudius, on pain of death for disobedience, that no matter how I cry to him for peace, he shall pay no heed. Strange, is it not, that in this house the only happy thing is the cause of all the sorrow that hath entered it? And yet--perhaps it is not so strange. She is but the cause; on others fall the effects, ... and in their wisdom the gods have ordered that only effects shall count in their scheme of things." He put a hand over Livinius's hand, held it a moment, and let it go. For the first time he fell into the intimacy of the other's speech. "Thank thee, old friend, for thy sympathy. It is not often that the gall of my bitterness overflows, for I have learned the wisdom of the Stoic at first hand. But I can claim scant sympathy here,--and would not if I could,--where men call me the Torturer behind my back and cringe like curs before my face. I am hard and cruel and calloused to the bone; yet were I not thus, in the name of the high gods, what should I be? A thing lower than man, who can be lower than the beasts; from which gods and men--ay, and beasts themselves--would turn in loathing. Thou art my childhood's friend; thy sympathy hath been sweet to me, and I've bared my heart to thee. I have said: 'The world runs thus and so with me; were it in my power, I'd have it otherhow. As it is, no good will come of its discussion, so let there be an end to it, now and for all time.'" A quick step sounded on the marble floor; the curtains at the entrance parted, and Marius came in. He went clad in spotless white, which oddly accentuated his bulk and made his swarthiness darker by contrast. He stopped short at sight of the two apparently in earnest conversation. "Pardon!" he said easily. "I was told that I should find my father here, but I intrude." "Not at all!" Eudemius answered. "We had finished our talk, and it was over time we were brought back from the memory of other days." Livinius smiled at his son as the latter sat down on the wide low ledge of the window, and his genial eyes were full of pride. Eudemius caught the look, and his own eyes darkened, even though the mask of his face never changed. This indeed was a son of whom one might be proud--a son such as he himself should have had but for the mockery of the gods; a son strong of mind and body, able to hold his own against all men, to assume the burdens that one by one slipped from his father's shoulders. There was hint of dissipation in the clear-cut face; there was more than a trace of headstrong will, which might easily enough turn to sheer brutality against whoever crossed it. There was hardness, and small tenderness, in the firm jaw and the black keen eyes; but what Roman father could not condone such things as these? For to Roman eyes, all this went to spell strength; and Romans worshipped strength as Athenians worshipped beauty. And Marius was strong, so that Eudemius, who was strong also, with the most unbreakable strength of all, and could appreciate mere physical vigor the more since his own had gone from him, looked at him and envied the father of him with bitterness. "To-day I go on to Londinium," Marius said, gazing out into the sun-flecked courtyard. "Will you wait here, father, for me? To-morrow I shall return, or next day at most--the business will not take long." He turned to Eudemius with an explanation. "There is trouble about one of the transports which are assigned to my cohort for our return to Gaul. She has been discovered unseaworthy and in need of repairs, and may not be able to start with the rest of the fleet. This is doubly inconvenient, as there is small prospect of securing a vessel to take her place, and our orders are to sail for Gaul with as little delay as possible. So much misunderstanding and confusion has resulted, that I have been sent to report personally what are the chances for a start." "That is too bad," Eudemius said. He was looking at Marius at the moment, and Marius was looking beyond him into the court. Eudemius saw that all at once his face changed slightly, and his eyes awoke to a faint, curious interest. Eudemius knew that nothing in his words could have aroused this, and waited. Then he understood that Marius was watching some one outside in the courtyard; some one whose approach he could gauge by following the man's glance. The some one came to the door that opened on the court, and stopped there, and Eudemius glanced aside and saw Varia on the threshold. At the same instant Marius rose. She wore robes that flowed and yet were clinging, of faintest green, like the young shining leaves of springtime; and her skin glowed and her lips were crimson, and her hair was loose and tumbled. She held a ball in her hands, and stood in the doorway, hesitating, like a child who does not know whether or not it will be welcomed, and yet would like to enter and find out what was going on. In her pose there was a quaint and tender dignity, in odd contrast with her rumpled hair and the childish plaything in her hands. Eudemius looked at her; and for a single instant the veil of prejudice was lifted from his eyes, and he saw that, in spite of all, this child of his was fair,--as fair as the dear dead woman who had given her to him and lived to know what she had done. For that instant hope rose in him; he shot a glance at Marius and read the dawning admiration in his eyes; perhaps, after all, in some not too distant time, there might be--Then he realized the futility of such hopes, that had wakened and died so many times before. Marius did not know the truth. When he did know--He saw that Varia did not look at either of the others, but straight at him, and he spoke to her. "Come hither, child!" She came, docile, and stood near the foot of his couch. With her there seemed to enter a breath of pure fragrance, as of wind blowing softly among unspoiled, wild flowers of the country-side, of all things young and innocent and holy. Livinius's face softened as he looked at her. She waited, watching her father, expecting nothing. Always he had given her nothing to expect, neither unkindness nor affection. Eudemius looked at Livinius; from him to Marius, where he stood in the window, silent, dominant even in his silence. "And this is mine!" he said, with a motion of his hand toward Varia. Livinius, alone understanding all that his words and tone implied, gave him a glance of mute reproach. He took Varia's hand, as she stood near him, and patted it. "I am glad to know thee, dear child," he said gently. "Thy father I have known these many years, but thou wert a little baby when I saw thee last. Perhaps he has not told thee that I am a friend of his, and this is my son." And Varia, for the first time, looked into Marius's face, and smiled, saying nothing at all. She sat on the edge of the couch, the ball in her lap. "Where have you been, child?" Eudemius asked. "In the garden, playing ball. I am going to play again," she answered, and never thought to wonder why he frowned. But Marius came over to the couch. "Will you let me play also?" he asked, with a faint note of amusement in his voice. "Perhaps I can show you a game you do not know, which soldiers play in camp. When they have no ball, like yours, they take a lump of bread, that is round, and very hard, and will keep for months without spoiling, and they play with that." Varia jumped up. "I should like that!" she said eagerly. "I cannot show you any game, for I know none that are interesting; but I can learn yours!" The two went out into the courtyard, side by side. Livinius said, in his gentle voice: "She is a dear child." And Eudemius answered: "She is a bad bargain dearly bought," and turned his face away from the window. Varia wearied of the new game shortly, and sat down beside the fountain to rest, with a frank intimation that her companion might go back to the house. This he showed no intention of doing, but threw himself on the grass beside her, and set himself the task of making her talk. He studied her curiously; he had seen much of many women in many lands, but none who were quite like her. Her utter simplicity was baffling; artificial himself, brought up in a civilization which was artificial, he could not get it out of his mind that it was not a pose. Very soon he got her mental calibre; with it got also certain surprises. She was all-innocent; yet, at times, when she sat with hands clasping her knees and looked past him, without speech or motion, as regardless of him as though he had not been there, he caught a hint in her eyes of something he could not read. It was as though she struggled to recall a memory of something gone by,--something sweet yet unholy which she did not understand, would not ask about, and could not forget. And, at other times, in the midst of her childish prattle, she would say what would make him glance at her strangely, in a voice like hers, yet whose subtle intonations were not like hers. Also, he had not found many women who were at times as honestly regardless of him as though he had not been there. With all her contrarieties he found her merry, full of a primitive joy of life, touched only at moments with a haunting mystery which to his mind but added to her charm. Her laughter bubbled over as water from a spring; she was careless, thought-free, light-hearted. For it is only those who remember nothing that regret nothing; and Varia had neither remembrance nor what it brings. When he mounted and rode for Londinium that afternoon it was with the full determination to despatch his business as quickly as might be and return. He told himself amusedly that he had been singed too often, by too many flames, to care for the feeble light of one broken lamp. This was quite true. But also he acknowledged that when other lamps were wanting, a broken one might answer for an hour. II That night the sun went down in angry crimson that ate like fire through the sullen heart of clouds banked low along the horizon. In Varia's garden the shrill insect voices were hushed; the trees drooped their leaves motionless. It was a hot and breathless night, when thunder muttered distantly and vague lightnings played hide-and-seek among the clouds, and the earth was still as an animal that crouches waiting for a blow. Eudemius entered his room shortly before midnight, while the storm menaced and would not break. His thoughts still had their way with him, and they were none too happy thoughts. By the open window stood a tall standard of wrought bronze, from the arms of which seven lamps swung by chains, their flames flaring in the faint hot breeze which entered; otherwise the room was dark. Eudemius drew a light couch near the window and stretched himself upon it, slowly, like one worn out by weariness and pain. The lamplight fell upon his face, and showed it less of a mask, more unguarded, grim and hollow-cheeked, stamped with the seal of suffering. A slave entered, without noise, and placed on a stand a bowl of dewy fruit, a silver pitcher of wine, and a tall cup of the exquisite Samian ware, rose-pink, thin as a fragile egg shell. In the dim light it glowed like a ruby; Eudemius glanced at it with a faint pleasure in its beauty. As the slave turned away, he spoke. "Hath thy lady retired?" The man stopped in the doorway. "Lord, I know not." "Then find out. If not, bid her come to me here." The man, bending, crossed his arms before his face, and went. Eudemius lay and waited, watching the wan lightning at play in the lowering sky, listening to the far-off grumble of the thunder. Scents from the garden drifted to him on the warm sickly breeze; once a bat flapped past the window. His eyes grew heavy with drowsiness. But a step close at hand aroused him. He turned his head and saw Varia coming toward him, her face pale in the dim light. She stopped when she reached the couch, and stood waiting in silence. Eudemius rose, carefully, lest he bring on a spasm of pain, and stood under the light of the seven lamps. "Come here to me, child!" he said. Varia came, and stood where the light fell on her face and throat; and he took her by the shoulders and looked long at her. His dark eyes passed over her from brow to feet; noted the dusky warmth of her hair, where jewels gleamed like a coiled snake's eyes; the curves of cheek and throat, the ripening grace of her slim body, half-revealed beneath her silken robe. He studied her with an impersonal criticism, as though she were a statue with whose workmanship fault might be found. Had she been a statue, he could have found no fault. "Thou art fair, child," he said musingly, while she stood passive under his hands. "Art thou fair enough to win him, handicapped as thou art? And yet, who would take thee, when there are others for the asking, as fair as thou and with none of thy defects? If thou didst but know how to use that beauty of thine, it might make less of difference. For men have wedded fools before this. Ay, but those fools must have been half woman as well as fool; but thou--thou art all fool." He looked at her strangely; suddenly pushed aside the robe from her shoulders and laid his hands on her soft bare flesh. "Ay, she's fair enough!" he muttered. "If I could but lash that torpid soul of hers to life--teach her what all other women in the world know by nature and instinct! For if she have the beauty of the immortal women, without the warm spirit of sex behind it, it will avail her nothing. Passionless, she can never inspire passion. To see her mated to him--his child in her arms--a son--a son!--who should redeem for me all the bitterness and the disappointment she hath brought--would not that be better than nothing?" His hands on her shoulders shook. She glanced up at him under her lids,--a strange glance into which there flashed something that died as it came. Her eyes were dilated, but she made no motion to push his hands from her. "Could she win him?" Eudemius's voice was not above a whisper, yet it was tense with restrained excitement. Drops of sweat beaded his forehead; the cords of his neck were taut. "Varia, dost know, child, what thou art?" "Ay," she answered quietly. "A fool. Thou hast said it." Eudemius gave an exclamation of bitter impatience. "Fool--yes, and child and woman as well. Hast thou never thought what it might be to become as other women are? To know the kiss of a man's lips on thine--to feel his arms about thee--to listen to the tale of love that is told to all but thee--" "Tale!" said Varia, catching at the word. "Oh, I have heard tales--wonderful tales, more wonderful than any that ever were told before! And I have known the kiss of a man's lips on mine; and I have felt a man's arms about me!" Eudemius gripped her slender shoulders, staring at her, and his face worked. Then he flung her away from him. "Thou poor fool!" he said in contemptuous pity. He clenched his hands and strode up and down before the couch. "Oh, if I could but waken thee--if I could but waken thee! I'd use thee, poor tool as thou art--I'd make thee, a worthless pawn, queen to play my game for me! Thou art mine, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, to do with as I will. Sometimes my hands itch to shake into thee the sense thou lackest--or else to shake the useless life out of thee." He stopped before her, breathless with thwarted passion that time after time dashed itself like surge against the inexorable rock of Circumstance, to fall back baffled and beaten. "Tell me!" he said, in a voice grown suddenly calm. "Child o' mine, dost think that thou couldst win a man?" It was a strange question from father to child, but then he did not see it so. And Varia, looking at him, made a strange answer. "I have won a man!" she said, and her voice was slow and haunting. "Body and soul I have won him; he is mine for all time to come, to do with as I will. I am a fool, but I have done this thing, and I think--" She stopped, and her voice changed and grew scornful--"I think it is but a little thing to do!" Eudemius stared at her. "Thou hast--" he whispered, and moistened his lips with a dry tongue. "Say that again, girl! Thou hast--Is this thy raving? Nay, tell me, who is the man?" But another mood was on Varia. She laughed, like a rippling brook. "He hath no name!" she said merrily. "No name--nothing; for he is nothing! He comes in the clouds and in the storms and in the moonlight, and whispers strange things which none may hear but I. His voice is the wind and his words are the rustle of the leaves, and his speech is golden as flame; and oh, the tales he hath told to me!" Eudemius laughed shortly. "At first I even thought--" he muttered, and broke off. "Child, are thy women always with thee?" "Ay, save at night. I sleep alone," said Varia. Eudemius poured wine from the silver pitcher and drank it. Outside, the rain was falling with a gentle dripping. The thunder had died; the breeze, cooler, came laden with damp earthy smells. Varia went to the window and knelt beside it, leaning out into the warm darkness. Her father's eyes followed her. But if Varia's mood had changed, his was not to be shaken off so lightly. He sat down on the couch, wiping his forehead free from sweat. Here, he was close enough to touch her, and he drew her back from the window so that she leaned against the couch and his knee. "Varia," he said, moved by an impulse born of what had gone before, "dost love thy father?" "Nay," said Varia, simply. "Why should I, my lord?" "True," said Eudemius. "Why shouldst thou?" Varia leaned her elbows on his knee, looking up at him with her chin on her hands. Her attitude held the frank fearlessness of a child. "Does my lord father love me?" she asked, and smiled up at him. Something within him warned Eudemius to honesty. "Nay, Varia," he said gently, and put a hand on her dark soft hair. "Thy father hath never loved thee." Varia suddenly rested her cheek against his other hand. "Poor father!" she murmured, as though he were somehow deserving of all sympathy for this, "Didst ever wish that I had not been born?" "Ay," said Eudemius, still gently. "I have wished that." Varia considered a long moment, and he knew that her eyes were on him. "Why was I born?" she asked. Eudemius turned his head away. "Because thy mother loved me," he said, low and harshly. "Because--my mother--loved thee!" Varia repeated. "Now that is strange! Did ever any one love thee?" Eudemius started. Then he laughed. "_Habet!_" he exclaimed, in the language of the arena when a gladiator is down; and laughed again. "Ay, child; once one loved me, and once I loved. Thou canst not credit such softness in me? Well, I do not blame thee; but it is truth." "I believe," said Varia, "for thou hast told me truth before, to-night. If thou hadst said my father loved me, I should never have believed thy word again, but thou gavest me truth for the truth I gave to thee. I am a fool, and sometimes it is given to fools to know the truth." "And therein to be wiser than the sane," Eudemius muttered. "And that is truth also." He looked at her a moment with something awakened in his face. "Is there a change then, after all, in thee?" he said suddenly, deep in thought and study of her face. "Thrice to-night hast thou said what I did not understand, and never thought to hear thee say. Can it be that sometime in the future the dawn will break?" Varia looked at him in her turn, a curious sidelong glance. In the dim light her face all at once showed strange to him, as occasionally one will see a well-known face in a new aspect--pale, with scarlet mouth and long veiled eyes. "Thou art something besides the child I've known; though whether that thing be good or evil--" His speech died; he gazed at her as though he would pierce the mystery which shrouded her and learn what it was that made her alien, forgetting to finish his words. "There is a change, and I cannot fathom it. What is working in thee? Or is it the delusion of mine own imaginings? Thy face--thy eyes--have they changed also? Mine own imaginings--vain imaginings! What is there in thy life which could have changed thee? Ah, if but these next months might see thee still more changed!" Varia rose from her knees beside him. "Why should I be changed?" she asked. "And why wouldst have me changed? I am happy--I have been happy as I am. If the joy of life is not mine, as thou hast said so often, the sorrow of life is not mine either; and I do not wish to change!" Her voice grew and gathered passion. "I fear to change, for I know not what the change might bring. I do not understand. Oh, father--do not wish that I should change!" She took a step toward him with outstretched, appealing hands. Eudemius watched her with critical eyes. But even as he watched, his own face changed and went gray, and he caught his breath and put a hand against his side. His body stiffened and grew rigid, while at the same time long shudders ran through it, dumb protest of tortured nerves against what was in store for it and them. "Go for Claudius!" Eudemius gasped; and Varia turned and ran. Eudemius flung himself back on the couch and lay there, striving with all his iron will to hold the convulsions in check. But he began to writhe, terribly, with no sound but the whistling of his breath through locked jaws. His hand, outflung, touched the cup that glowed like a ruby on the stand beside the couch. He clutched it, and crushed its fragile beauty into atoms; and blood dripped with the wine upon the floor. A torch gleamed outside the door, and hasty feet came running. Claudius, the physician, entered, very old, very small, with silver hair and beard that was like a snow-drift, followed by two slaves with lights and instruments. They lighted all the lamps, so that the room was bright as noon; and Claudius took from them what he wanted, and sent them both away. Then he rolled his sleeves above his elbows, and went to the couch where the silent figure lay twisting; and as he went he tucked his long white beard inside the collar of his gown. III But the plans of Marius did not fall out as he had intended. It was a month before he returned to the villa, with the prospect of remaining on British soil until another galley could be fitted out and commissioned. This was exasperating, and Marius fumed secretly and swore at the delay. Thinking to make the best of his enforced idleness by betaking himself to Aquæ Solis, the fashionable watering-place of Britain, and what solace he could find there, he found himself again disappointed. The leave he applied for was granted, but as he was starting upon his journey, word was brought to him that his father was ill. He found it nothing serious, but Livinius, grown querulous and childish in his fever, begged Marius not to leave him. So, perforce, Marius stayed, contenting himself with boar-hunting in Eudemius's vast parks, and being entertained by his host. Eudemius, seemingly unchanged since his illness, had not forgotten that the young tribune's eyes had once looked with favor on his daughter. And since love, like life, is but a game, and much may be done by a player who handles his pawns wisely, Eudemius began to conjure up hopes which, in spite of himself, he knew might never see fulfilment. The more he saw of Marius, the more he coveted his strength to prop his dying house. His fortune would be safe in Marius's hands, his name would be safe in Marius's keeping. For with all his faults Marius had a soldier's honor, and could guard what was given to his charge. Forthwith, then, Eudemius began to lay silent plans; to scheme indirectly, with cautious skill. It was a new game for him; he went about it much as one ruler who seeks alliance, for political ends, with a neighboring kingdom. He was entirely consistent in his course; no thought of his daughter's desires or wishes moved him--even no thought as to whether or not she had desires or wishes on the subject. Nor did he consider the personal inclinations of Marius himself. The alliance would mean much for him, saving only for one thing--a thing which yet might override all advantages. This was where Eudemius considered all his skill and finesse would be needed. At first Eudemius mentioned this, the desire of his heart, to no living soul. He took Marius with him over his estates on his tours of inspection, tours become unexpectedly frequent; he took pains to have him present when overseers came with long tax-lists and rent-rolls to render account to their lord. Marius saw himself surrounded with every luxury art could devise and skill could execute, not as though brought forth for some occasion, but quite plainly in everyday use and service. Life, eased for him from all exertion by the unseen hands of many slaves, became a dream of indolence and content. Horses, grooms, slaves, were at his disposal; no wish of his, however lightly uttered, but was unostentatiously fulfilled. In the midst of all this he was left with no sense that it was done with a view to impress upon him the magnificence of the villa and the villa's lord. He took it as he was intended to take it, and as it was, as a matter of course, since all his life he had been accustomed to wealth and the luxury it might bring. And, being so accustomed, he was able to appreciate justly the amount of money it must take to maintain such an establishment in such a style. He listened to the reports of overseers and stewards, all unaware that he was meant to do so; by degrees his own and his father's fortunes came to seem by contrast mean and small. He fell readily enough into ways which, reasonable for Eudemius, were extravagant for him. But, in spite of his inclinations toward the life sybaritic, it was plain that he had no intention of getting himself in debt to Eudemius in any shape or form. When Eudemius judged the time to be ripe, he brought Varia upon the scene. This he did after his own fashion, studying carefully each effect that she should make, with an artist's eye and a mind that would stop at no subterfuge to gain its end. Livinius was convalescent, though still weak and unable to leave his bed, when Eudemius went upon a day to his apartments and was admitted. Livinius lay in bed, looking gentler and frailer than of old, with a slave reading to him from the _De ira_ of Seneca. He signed to the latter to leave, and held out a hand to his friend. "Sit by me here, if you will," he said. "I have much to ask, and, I doubt not, you to tell. That worthy physician of yours is dumb as any oyster. Were it not for my boy bringing me scraps of news now and again, I should indeed feel out of touch with the world." Eudemius seated himself beside the bed, his back, as usual, to the light. "The world wags to its own appointed end," he said carelessly. "Have you heard, then, that Rome has again refused to send troops to our aid? Verily, Britain is left to struggle with her independence like a dog with a bone too large for it. There is but a sorry time in store for us, if present indications point aright. You have asked me often to go back with you to Rome, and I have been long considering it. But Rome has twenty strong men where Britain has one, and I think that my place is here. To my mind, the people of the land, seeing those in power withdrawing, and not knowing what to do of themselves, will turn like sheep to any who will stand by them. Why, man, if one played his game with skill in this coming crisis, and kept from joining in the panic into which others have flung themselves headlong, he might make his power here little short of absolute, and reap his reward when Rome has settled her affairs and the storm has blown over. One might become a second Carausius, another Constantine. Already, since the troops of Ætius have gone, folk believe they hear that endless storm muttering again in the West and South, and tell tales of new invasions of Jutes and Saxons. It is a fact also that merchants going north require a double bonus on the goods they take. What Britain will do without the hand to hold to which has led her for so long, is a question which no man can answer and all men ask. But these be weighty topics to concern a sickroom, and I have other matters to discuss with thee." Livinius turned inquiring eyes upon him, but Eudemius was staring past him, thoughtfully. "A matter which touches me nearly," he said, and all at once dropped into a more familiar mode of speech. "Thou art my oldest friend, and there is none to whom I would sooner speak in confidence. Thou knowest that I am growing old. Soon the gods of the shades will lay their hands upon mine eyes, and my daughter and my house will be left alone. And a heavy time of trial it will be for her, incompetent, with the burden of my wealth upon her. Were it not for this, I could willingly leave all this; but some one first I must find to charge himself with that burden for the recompense it may bring him. And there is but one way to do this; I must mate her to some worthy man. If he be in humble circumstances, her gold shall alter that; if he be great, it shall make him greater. To take her with it would be, after all, but a little thing, since she is too much a child to want more than is given her, and is content with little. With her unmated, as she is, fancy what would follow were she alone. No--it needs a strong hand to guard what I have guarded; but it is a task well worth the taking. And it is in my mind that I have found that strong hand I seek--if so it be that the owner thereof is willing." He paused, to see that the sick man's eyes were on him in quickened interest. "That man, friend," Eudemius said slowly, "is thy son. Him I would have, and none other, to reign in my stead and take the place of that son denied me, who was to rear his children in the traditions of my house and his. What say you to this, friend, if it chances that Marius himself is willing?" For a moment there was a pause. Livinius lay back on his pillows, and his face was a battleground of contending thought. Plainly it said: "Power is great, but gold is greater, since it can purchase power; therefore gold is a good thing to have. Yet no bargain was ever offered without a 'but,' and what goes with this bargain of thine, O friend? An incubus which a man might well hesitate to let fasten upon him; a hindrance to himself and, it may be, a menace to generations yet unborn. And yet, the prize is worth risking much for, and the temptation is great." At this point came wavering, uncertainty, a look of greed, cautious and eager. Eudemius, watching, let the battle wage itself. When Livinius finally spoke, it was slowly, weighing his words with care. "You have spoken with all the frankness one friend could wish from another. It is only meet that I too should be as frank. If my words offend, remember that it is I who shall grieve most. Your daughter, fair though she is, and lovely, is yet a child, despite her years,--a child who needs the care and thought which only love can give. Needing all, she could give nothing save herself to her husband; and man's needs are of the spirit as well as of the flesh. And suppose he wanted not the gift; what would there be for him? You see, I set aside all mention of her dower; for though a man may marry gold, he must marry the woman also. I have watched Marius from his cradle; I have marked when his nature followed the lines along which I strove to train it, and when it turned of itself into new channels of its own. And of these channels, some, I confess, ran widely counter to those which I had planned. No parent ever saw a child grow precisely to the measure of the ideal of which he dreamed; it may be that every father under the sun is doomed to disappointment at some trait or other in the child of his flesh." Eudemius looked away from him, nodding soberly. "So it hath been with me," said Livinius. "Marius has been a good son; but a good man he has not been. For a bad man may make a good son, even though a bad son never makes a good man. But I am not blind, and year by year have I watched the changes in him, some for the better, some for the worse. When he was a child I chastised; when he was a youth I counselled; when he became a man I could do no more than stand aside and watch him start upon the road he had marked out for himself. And I tell you, Eudemius,--and you may guess if the words come easily,--that were I in your place I would not give my daughter, being what she is, to such a man as he. For her sake as well as his I say this. He is my son, and my house is his home for so long as he wills it, and what I have is his. But to your daughter, young, innocent, knowing nothing of the world, and less than nothing of men, he would bring only unhappiness and woe. She could not understand him; he would be at no pains to understand her. Whether love might raise him to its own height, I dare not say; rather I fear that he would lower it to him. He is passionate, yet cold; but he is strong, and to men he is loyal and a lasting friend. He is a soldier through and through; no mistress, were she never so madly loved, could come before his sword. For to him, arms mean ambition and the fame he has set himself to gain; love is a dalliance by the way, pleasant for the hour, soon forgotten. Sorry sport for a wife, you see! There you have him, as I, his father, know him. And how can I, his father, say these things of him, who should stand with him against all the world? Because he needs not my help to win his battles; and there is one who in my mind may need it sorely." And again there was a silence. Eudemius rose. "Thank thee, friend," he said. "Thy words have made me to hunger all the more for that son of thine. Mine also he shall be, if I can compass it. What need he give her but a name?--and that, in good sooth, it will not hurt him to bestow." He turned on his heel and went away; and Livinius looked after him long and gravely. When Marius entered, some time later, it was to find his father alone and in deep thought. Marius inquired how he had been feeling that day, and if he thought his strength returning. Livinius answered abstractedly. He was aware that Eudemius's plan was taking root in his mind; coming to weigh its pros and cons, he found that after all it might not be such a bad thing for Marius--and himself. He motioned Marius to seat himself. Marius obeyed, waiting for what his father might have to say. But Livinius kept his abstracted silence, and presently Marius himself spoke. "Will Eudemius return with you to Rome?" Livinius shook his head thoughtfully. "I fear not. I have tried to persuade him, but--I think his plans lie here. For one thing, he does not like the idea of going back with that daughter of his." Marius turned a slow glance on his father. "It is a pity about that girl," he said indifferently. "She is very fair--as fair as any of Rome's beauties." "And as wealthy. When her father hath undergone his fate, his estates will pass to her," said Livinius. He did not look at his son, and his voice was careless. "It is a pity," Marius repeated, noncommittally. Livinius put his own construction upon the words. "You mean--her misfortune? Ay, true. But many a man would overlook even that for sake of the gold she would bring him." "And that is true also," Marius said. "And yet--it were a risky thing for a man to give his sons a mother found so wanting." So that Livinius knew that Marius's thoughts, like his own, had strayed into those paths wherein Eudemius would lead them. He changed the subject then, speaking of the delayed transport and affairs in Gaul. Then he became weary, being still weak, and Marius left him. The next evening, Marius, returning from hunting to the villa just before dusk, unwontedly thoughtful over prospects which his mind was beginning to conjure up, to look at, and play with, as it were, was met by a slave who said that the Lady Varia sent word that she wished to see him on his return. Somewhat surprised at this, for he had scarcely seen her, much less spoken with her, since his arrival from Londinium, he followed the man to the door of her apartments. Here he passed a second slave, a tall fellow with a shock of black, unkempt hair, who was trimming a lamp near by. This one turned his head to watch him as he entered, with fierce wolf eyes into which leaped sudden jealous distrust. But a slave was a slave to Marius; and so heedless was he of the man's presence, that later he could not have told whether or not he had been there. Just inside the door Marius's guide crossed his arms before his face, bending low, and left him, as though at an order. Marius, again surprised at this, stood and waited. The room, lofty and warm and floored with exquisite tiling, seemed to overlook a garden, where dusk was gathering fast. It was furnished sumptuously, and was filled with flowers which stood in great jars of gorgeous Eastern coloring. Halfway down its centre ran one of the dwarf walls so common in Roman rooms, which was made to serve as the back of a low and cushioned couch on either side of it. A lamp of wrought bronze stood near, and by its light Marius saw that a figure was lying on the couch, with head thrown back against the cushions and one white arm hanging over the side. "Lady Varia?" Marius exclaimed. She did not answer, and he saw that she seemed asleep. He went to the couch, walking softly, with a faint wonder as to why she had sent for him. She lay with long lashes sweeping her cheeks and her warm lips parted, in the careless abandon of a child, infinitely graceful, full of allurement. The thought entered his mind that it was a pose, a piece of pretty trickery. He bent down until his lips all but touched her cheek and the perfume of her hair rose to him, so that had she been feigning she must have given sign, or else been better skilled in the gentle art of flirting than he believed. But she slept on, unconscious, with slow, regular breathing, so still that he could see the beat of her heart under the filmy stuff of her tunic. And even as he watched her, so another, unseen, watched him,--another with gaunt, haggard face and calculating eyes that took in every move of his pawns in the game to which he had set them. With his father's words, in which he had read the hint, clear in his mind, Marius stood looking long at the sleeping girl. Patrician she was from the crown of her dusky head to the tip of her jewelled sandal. Fair she was,--and his breath came shorter as his gaze wandered unchecked over her,--eminently desirable, and yet--He found himself confronted by the unavoidable fact of her affliction. A man might well hesitate in face of all that it could mean. One could not tell--that was the trouble. He realized, all at once, that her eyes were open, and that she was looking at him, without speech or motion. He drew back, with a certain wholly unconscious veiling of expression, and spoke. "You sent for me, Lady Varia?" She raised herself on an elbow, pushing the hair out of her eyes to look up at him. With the motion, the jewelled fibula which held her tunic at the shoulder became unfastened, letting the drapery slip lower over snowy neck and arm. He noticed that if she saw this, she made no effort to replace it. "Sent for you? Not I!" she said, and tapped her fingers on her lips to stifle a yawn. "Or if I did, I have forgotten. Why should I have sent for you?" She let herself sink back in the cushions, and he pulled a seat near the couch and sat down. She began to play idly with the coiled golden snake around her bare arm, looking down at it with long sleepy eyes. Again, as once before, the novelty of this lack of attention piqued him into a passing interest. "If I disturb you, I will go away," he offered. "You were sleeping; it were pity to disturb such sweet repose." "You do not disturb me," she answered, with all calmness, not looking at him. "Why should you? If you like to stay, you may. I am not asleep now." "Did you have pleasant dreams?" Marius asked, as he might have asked it of a child. She turned scornful eyes on him. "I do not dream asleep!" she said. "Only when I wake. What are dreams but thoughts, and how can one think, asleep?" He looked at her, surprised. She relapsed into silence, unwound the snake from her arm, at length, and took to turning it over and over in her fingers, letting the light play on its emerald eyes and the rich chasing of its scales. He continued to watch her, with greater freedom under her entire indifference. He felt that, if he should get up and leave her, she would take no notice, but lie there just the same, drowsy-eyed and indifferent, turning and turning the golden snake. This slipped from her fingers after a time and dropped to the floor at his feet. He picked it up, and as she held out her hand to receive it back, he clasped her wrist gently and began to coil the snake about her arm, above the elbow. She let him do it; emboldened, he kept her hand, when the jewel was in place, and pressed it gently. But she drew it away, not as though in rebuke, however, and examined the armlet to see that it was on properly. "Is it not right?" Marius asked, amused. "Let me do it again; this time I will make sure." She shook her head, with a slow smile at him. Greatly daring, he leaned nearer, and fastened the loosened pin on her shoulder. In the operation, his fingers touched her soft flesh. But she seemed not to notice him at all; so that quite suddenly he felt baffled and perplexed. "You are a strange girl!" he said abruptly. Again she smiled. "Why?" she asked. "Because you cannot understand me, you call me strange?" He laughed. "Perhaps that is it, O my Lady Wisdom. But truly I begin to think you a riddle worth the reading. It may be, that with somewhat of teaching, you might prove a pupil apt enough for any man." She looked at him eagerly. "Is it a game?" she asked. "You taught me one before, and I liked it. Wilt teach me also this other game? Is it a good game?" "Ay," said Marius, amusement in his voice. "It is a good game--the finest game in the world, for the one who wins. And, indeed, I have it in mind to teach thee, thou pretty witch, the more so since I should have the methods of no other to unteach. See, then, I'll show thee the first move. Give me thy hand--so." Varia held out her hand, leaning back on her pillows with eager eyes of anticipation. Marius took the hand. It was small and soft and fragrant, with rosy, polished nails. "This, you must know, is a game at which but two can properly play," he explained, as a schoolmaster might propound theories to a class. "Three have sometimes tried it, but the third in most cases has wished he had kept away. Most players divide it into three parts, for the sake of convenience. The first, for the woman; the second, for the man; the third, usually, for the lawyers. This latter may be played in various ways--sometimes is omitted altogether. A great advantage of this game is that so many rules govern it, that whatever one does, is in accordance with some rules, even though it may be at variance with certain others." He turned the little hand over and kissed the palm. "Certain things there be which every player should possess," he added in the same tone. "For the woman, beauty--or if not this, a cleverness which is clever enough to manifest itself only in results. Also, if a woman hath not beauty, it is imperative that she be an adept at the game. Innocence, in one party, not in both, is a valuable asset, since one of the objects of the game is the winning of it. Were both to have it, it would become in very truth a child's game. Wealth is also a good thing to have,--and this for both players,--since one or both are apt to pay dearly in the end. And wealth is also nearly always an object in the game. It hath many points, you see, which must be remembered." "I fear it is a hard game," said Varia, and shook her head in doubt. "I--I cannot remember things very well sometimes." "Even that hath been found an advantage at times," said Marius, and laughed softly. He changed his place and sat on the edge of the couch beside her, and possessed himself of her other hand. Varia glanced from her prisoned fingers to his face and back again. "The game may be played fast, or it may be played slowly," said Marius, his eyes on her perplexed face. "In most cases, the faster the better, lest one or other of the players should tire. What say you, sweetheart--shall ours be short and therefore merrier?" He drew her back into his arms, and raised her face with his free hand and kissed her lips. "No!" said Varia, quickly, and struggled slightly to sit up. "Yes--that is in the game!" said Marius, and would not let her go. "Does it come hard at first, my sweet? Never mind--soon you will like it better. Besides, I have told you that it is part of the game. So--rest quiet, and I will show you how else it goes." In her eyes he read a struggle to recall something gone before and all but forgotten; a mental groping, painful in its intensity. She ceased her resistance, and he drew her closer and kissed her many times, with a growing passion which surprised himself. Her breath came quicker, but in her eyes was only the dumb striving after things forgotten, with no fear at all nor anger with him. His lips strayed where they would; in her strange absorption she seemed scarcely conscious of him. "Truly I did well to call thee strange!" Marius said low in her ear. "Did one not know the facts of the case he might well count thee as good a player as himself." Varia wrenched her hands from his and sat up. So swift was her motion that he had let her go before he knew it. She put her hands to her temples. "But I have played this game before!" she cried, unheeding him. "I know now--oh, I know now! Thou wilt tell me that I am beautiful, and that thou lovest me, and thou wilt say that all is not well with thee for the pain thou hast. And I will stroke thy head to ease the pain, as sometimes my lord father will have me do. That is how the game goes. And Marcus comes and tries to play as he came before; he was the third, as thou hast told, who wished that he had not. But it should be in the garden; it was in the garden before!" "Now what is this raving?" Marius exclaimed, wholly uncomprehending. He tried to take her again, but she slid off the couch and escaped him. He pursued and caught her, but instead of the passive yielding he expected, he met resistance which was unlooked-for. "No! I'll have no more!" she cried. "Let me go--I do not wish to play this game with thee! Always he stops when I bid him--thou must do the same. I do not like this thy way. He is not rough, but gentle, and I do not fear him. Oh, let me go!" "Thou hast played this game before, then?" said Marius. "Be still, girl! I'll not hurt thee, but I will not let thee go. Is there more in this than I had fancied? Are thy words mere idle raving? By the gods, I think not! Answer me what questions I shall ask, and I'll let thee go, not sooner. I have a mind to know the truth of this!" She stood still, half in tears, breathing fast, like a frightened child. "Hast thou played this game before?" Marius asked. "Ay," she murmured, like a child brought to task, and tried again to release herself as though to escape punishment. "With a man didst thou play it?" "Ay, with a man." "What man?" She ceased her futile efforts to escape, and wrung her hands helplessly. "I will not tell! He said that if my lord father knew it he would be displeased!" she wept. "I think it likely that he would," said Marius, grimly. "But to tell me would not be telling him. It may be that I can help thee. There, never cry like that! Am I not thy friend?" "I know not!" she sobbed. "Oh, I am frightened! Let me go, I pray thee!" "Tell me first!" Marius persisted. He cast a hasty glance around. "Quick, for we shall not be alone much longer. Tell me, I say!" She only wept, her face hidden in her hands. Marius's temper, a fragile thing at best, gave way. "Never think to keep it from me! I'll have it whether thou wilt or no," he said roughly. The idea of an intruder upon what he had suddenly come to consider his own domain was not to be tolerated. Varia again struggled, with violence, and finding herself held fast, screamed loudly. "Hush, little fool!" Marius exclaimed. "I am not hurting thee!" "Let the girl go, lord!" said a voice behind them. Marius turned his head, to see a figure bearing down upon them, lean and tall, with a shock of black hair and angry eyes. Varia, turning at the same instant in Marius's grasp, saw the man, and cried: "Make him to let me go! He hath tried to make me tell thy name--do not thou tell it!" "So!" Marius exclaimed in triumph, catching the clew. "Thou art the man--thou!" His tone held wrath and amazed disgust. The slave stood his ground. "Let the girl go!" he repeated. It might well have been that never had a man used such a tone to Marius in his life before. From a slave it was not to be brooked. "Get you gone, you dog!" he said savagely. "Later I'll settle with you, if it be that my suspicions be correct. How dare you enter here unbidden?" "I heard my lady cry out," Nicanor answered. Varia's voice broke into his speech. "I tell thee make him to let me go! He is a beast, and I hate him--I hate him!" Rather than prolong the scene before a slave, Marius let her go. She ran to Nicanor and caught his arm. "Take me away!" she cried through tears. "I will not stay with him!" "It were best that you should go," Marius agreed promptly. "As for you, fellow--" "He shall come with me!" Varia said imperiously. "You will harm him--I will not have him stay. Go yourself, bad man!" "There will be no harm done, my lady," Nicanor said gently. There was all possible respect in his voice, but Varia went, obedient, with a last look backward on the threshold. Marius turned upon Nicanor. "Now, who are you?" he asked curtly. "You see me--a slave," Nicanor made reply. His voice was sullen; he was cornered, and he knew it. Also he was powerless, unable to strike a blow in his own defence; and who would see that justice was done a slave? Marius sat down on the couch and eyed him. Nicanor returned his gaze with watchful eyes alert for any move. "I have seen your face before!" Marius said suddenly, awaking to a consciousness of the fact. Nicanor answered nothing. The two eyed one another in silence, neither yielding an inch, the Roman coldly haughty, the slave always watchful. "Hast ever held communication with the Lady Varia?" Marius asked. "I have served her," Nicanor answered. Marius laughed, looking him up and down as though he had been a horse put up for sale. "So I begin to think!" he muttered. "After what fashion, dog?" Nicanor's eyes blazed beneath their shaggy brows; his brown hands clenched in fury. "As a servant should," he said harshly. Again Marius laughed. "So! That drew blood, did it? What has passed between you? Have you, you base-born clod, dared draw her attention to you, and she a noble's daughter? Speak, you fool, if you would not die the death!" Nicanor raised his head slowly and looked his questioner in the eyes, a defiance as direct as insolent bravado could make it. Marius's thin lips drew tighter. "You refuse to answer, do you? Do you know that for this you will be broken on the rack at the lifting of my finger? And if you refuse to speak, this shall be done before another day is past. You have a chance now which you will not have again, to deny or to confess. And it is not every one who would give it!" "My lord hath not questioned me. To no other am I accountable," said Nicanor. Marius grunted scornfully. "You fool! Do you think your silence can save you? I'll have the story from Lady Varia; how may she withhold it? Her own lips shall seal your guilt, as already they have convicted you." This was true. Nicanor knew it, but he did not flinch. All that was left to him was to die game, and this he knew also. Marius all at once wearied of his examination. "Be off with you!" he ordered insolently. "I'll have you cringing yet before I am through with you." Nicanor turned on his heel, with no obeisance such as a slave should make, and strode out of the room. Marius gave a short, angry laugh. "The brute will not whine! By all the Furies, he's worth the breaking. Now, methinks, I have my scornful lady where I want her--and my lord as well. This slave may be a weapon worth the having, since my foot is on his neck also. We shall soon see!" IV That night Eudemius and his younger guest supped alone, with but one slave to wait upon them. Marius, never prone to speech, kept his own counsel as to the events of the afternoon, and bided the time when he might turn them to his own ends. Eudemius also was more silent than his position as host seemed to warrant. That he was in bad humor was to be seen from the threatening glances he cast at the luckless slave when a dish was delayed or a wine too warm. He was an old man, this latter, white-haired and bent and very skilful, with a sunken face as pale as parchment. Marius, as keen to observe as he was silent, saw that always the old man watched his lord's face with an eager anxiety, like a dog that would read every thought in its master's eyes. Eudemius, as was his custom, took only fruit and one of the light Cyprus wines. Marius, not at all disturbed by his host's example, dined luxuriously and drank freely. Wine had small effect on him; but he noticed that each time his glass was filled Eudemius glanced at him, with apparent carelessness. This amused him, and, sure of himself, out of sheer perversity, he took care to have it replenished many times. Halfway through the meal, Eudemius clapped his hands. "Marcus, come hither!" he said shortly. Marcus came, with servile submission. "Go to Nerissa, and bid her bring her mistress here. She will know what to do." The old man hesitated a bare instant, with a strange glance at his lord, crossed his arms, and went. "Marius." Marius's keen wits, instantly at work upon the name and the half-forgotten idea it conjured up, found the thread they sought. "Marcus came once and tried to play; he was the third," Varia had said. Marius's eyes lightened to a secret satisfaction. Here was one, at his hand, who could supply the information he wanted. He leaned forward across the table. "To-day I had speech with thy daughter," he said, as one introducing a topic which may prove of interest. Eudemius turned his inscrutable eyes on him. "So?" he said calmly. "She told me a wondrous tale of a man who came to her in a garden," said Marius; and watched suspicion grow into the other's eyes and burn there. "She said it was a game they played--what game, thou and I may guess. I put it down to the--fancies she hath at times, and paid no heed. But when she said that one Marcus had seen this man there also, it came to me that perhaps there might be more in it than might be thought. If this be the Marcus of whom she spoke, it may be that he would have something to tell.--Try these roasted snails, I pray thee; they are beyond praise. It would seem that they are delicate enough--" "She herself hath said--" Eudemius began, and stopped. The mask of his face never changed; only his mouth settled into sterner lines and his eyes grew more forbidding. Silence fell between the two and lasted until Marcus came in again and held the curtains apart for Varia. She entered quickly, her bosom heaving, lips pouting, eyes full of tears. "Nerissa would have it that I should wear this dress, and I hate it!" she cried petulantly, before either man could speak. "She said that thou didst will it so. Wherefore? I will not wear it ever again. I scolded her until she wept, but she made me wear it." "She was right. I gave command to her," Eudemius said coldly. "Sit there." Varia dropped into the seat opposite Marius, with a resentful glance at her father and a wrathful twitch of the hated robe. It was of faintest amethyst, with tunic embroidered in gold, fastened by many jewels. She looked like a fair young princess, a very angry young princess; and Marius, from where he reclined at ease on the opposite side of the table, looked across at her with quite evident admiration. "Why should you hate it, if unworthy man may ask?" he said amusedly. "Surely not because you think it makes you less fair, since nothing could do that. Why, then?" "Because I do!" she flashed at him, as though that settled the matter. Marius bowed in mock humility. "The best reason of all!" he said gallantly. "Child, with whom didst thou play thy game in the garden?" Eudemius asked. His voice was gentler than his face, and quite casual. Varia fell into the trap. She looked up eagerly. "It was a game--" she began, and stopped, with the red blood flushing into her face and her eyes turning from her father to Marius. "I do not remember!" she stammered. Eudemius turned his sombre eyes full on her, and she shrank and trembled. "Thou dost not remember?" Eudemius said in his even, inexorable voice. "But there was a game? Was it a game in which a man held thee in his arms and kissed thee?" She nodded quickly. "Ay, a game," she exclaimed, and caught herself up. "No, no!" she cried fearfully. "It was no game--Oh, I do not know! I cannot remember!" She hid her face in her hands and wept. Eudemius motioned to the silent slave behind her chair. "Take her to her nurse and return," he said. "I'll have the truth of this by some means." Marcus led his weeping mistress away; and Eudemius saw that Marius's eyes followed her until the curtains fell behind her, and read the look therein. With her exit, Eudemius all at once lost his composure. He sprang from his place at the table and took to striding up and down the room. Unexpectedly he stopped before Marius. "If there be truth in this," he said, and his voice shook with rising fury, "I'll find the man who hath entered my gates by night, and for what damage he has wrought I will make him pay tenfold with living flesh and blood. Marcus was there, thou sayest; he will know. And if he will not tell--if he thinks to shield him--" He broke off with a quick intake of breath, and put a hand to his side. A spasm of pain crossed his pale face and distorted it. "Come back, thou knave, while I have sense to question!" he muttered, and dropped into the nearest seat, and sat there, with head bent forward and hands clutching claw-like the arms of the chair. Marcus entered, alone. Eudemius raised his head. "Didst thou--" he began, and stopped. But he gathered himself together, and tried again. "Didst thou see him who entered the women's place by stealth to hold speech with thy mistress?" Marcus nodded eagerly. His voice was drowned in Eudemius's exclamation of fury. "So the fool spake truth when I thought she raved! Not so much fool after all, perhaps, but better fool than--" He checked himself on the word. "Who is the man?" Again his face grew distorted; on the hands that gripped his chair the veins stood out dark and swollen. Pain made him brutal; he glared at Marcus with the bloodshot eyes of a goaded beast. Marcus, with a hoarse cry, bowed himself to the ground, his hands before his face. Eudemius brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. "Who is the man? Answer, slave, if thou wouldst keep the flesh on thy living bones! Who is the man, and what hath been his work?" Then Marcus raised himself, with outstretched hands, gesticulating frantically. The effort he made to speak was fearful; his face became congested, his eyes seemed starting from his head. And his voice was as fearful, hoarse, bestial, with apish gibberings. But no words came; he could only beat the air and cry out in impotent despair. "The man is mad!" Marius exclaimed, staring. Eudemius lifted himself half out of his chair. Beads of sweat stood thick upon his forehead. "Mad or sane, I'll have the truth from him!" he snarled. He caught the dog-whip from the back of his chair and lashed the slave across the face. "Now speak!" he shouted. "Think not to shield him so, for I'll have thee flayed alive before thou shalt defy me thus!" "I--I!" groaned Marcus. The word had a strange and guttural sound, but Eudemius did not notice. "Go on!" he ordered furiously. "I--I--!" Marcus screamed, and fell grovelling at his master's feet. A spasm of pain shook Eudemius and turned him livid. He kicked savagely at the writhing figure on the floor and clapped his hands thrice loudly. Two slaves came running, with faces pale with apprehension. Eudemius, almost beyond speech himself, raised a shaking hand and pointed downward at the heap. "Take him to the stone room and put him to the rack until he is ready to say what I would hear!" he said hoarsely. His voice broke into a gasp; he leaned back heavily, with his other hand against the chair from which he had risen. "When he is ready, call me!" The men lifted Marcus to his feet and took him away. Marius watched interestedly. To counsel mercy never crossed his mind--the mind of a Roman bred to consider bloodshed a sport and mortal strife a pastime. If Eudemius chose to kill his slave for a whim--well, the slave was his, and it was nobody else's business. He turned to the table and poured himself another glass of wine. Eudemius dropped back heavily into the chair and sat, as before, with head bent slightly forward and gripping hands. And, as before, he seemed listening; only this time it was with a cruel and eager greed, and his eyes, bloodshot and terrible, were as the red eyes of a vulture that waits for its victim's death. From time to time his mouth twitched, and a shudder, long and uncontrollable, ran through him. But still he waited, and there was silence in the room. V That day Nicanor had been assigned by Hito to the squad of the fire slaves, whose duty it was to tend the fires of the hypocausts which warmed the guest apartments, the rooms of the master's family, the banquet halls, and the baths. The great fireplaces, one for every hypocaust, built in arches under the outer walls of the villa, were approached from the outside by passages of rough masonry. From them the hot air was carried back through the hypocaust and led to the rooms above by means of an ingenious system of flue tiles. The fires, burning constantly from the first approach of the keen weather of Autumn, needed incessant attention. All day slaves went back and forth, carrying wood and buckets of mineral coal from the great mines near Uriconium, through the narrow alleys to the roaring furnaces, where the air, smoke-laden and acrid, was hot to suffocation. Here, panting, dripping with sweat, they fed the flaming mouths; then back again into the outer air, which by contrast struck knife-like to the very vitals. The colder the weather and the greater the necessity for fires, the more was the suffering of the slaves increased. The feeding and attendant cleaning of the furnaces was a task given usually either to none but the lowest menials or else as punishment. Hence Nicanor knew himself in Hito's black books, and obeyed his orders with an ill grace which did not tend to lighten his labors. Once that day already he had shirked his duty, driven by restless longing, to stand outside the door which for him hid all the enchantment of the world, until the coming of Marius had sent him about any task he could lay hand to. With what had followed, and with the knowledge that his fate was absolutely in the hands of Marius, he became impatient at the delay. The sword hung above him and would not fall. If he but knew what was to happen he fancied that he might have prepared himself in a measure to meet it. Nothing in the way of escape could be attempted until after nightfall; he was too much the object of Hito's malicious attention for that. And escape meant escape from Varia, from stolen, memory-haunting visits, from all that just then made life bearable. Suspense and his own powerlessness turned him sullen; he went about his tasks under Hito's eye with a dogged surliness at which his fellow-slaves laughed in private and dared not challenge him in good-natured raillery. Away from Hito, he straightway forgot what was in his hands, and remained deep in boding thought, his face lowering. He was on the edge of a precipice into whose depths no man dared look; into which Marius's hands might plunge him at will. Thoughts of Thorney, of the churned-up waters of the fords, of the camp-fires glowing through dusk, of the nervous press of men and beasts that lit upon the island like a swarm of bees, and, like a swarm, buzzed awhile and settled to brief rest, crowded upon him then. He would go back to Thorney--though never to the ivory workshop--and he would make enough to live on by telling tales to those who circled about the fires, even though these were not the worlds he had dreamed of conquering. And first of all, and somehow, he must free himself from the welded collar of brass about his throat. With this to brand him for what he was, the first man he met along the highway might return him to his master--if he could--and claim reward. The slaves' quarters, following the general plan of the house, were built around a square inner court, with a cryptoporticus, or covered gallery, at the northern and southern ends. But here were no polished floors of rich design and coloring; no soft couches and brilliant draperies, no marbles and paintings. There were no hypocausts beneath to warm the rooms to Summer heat; these, small and bare as cells, were always cold. On the eastern side of the court were housed the women slaves; on the western, the men. Between these, on the northern end, were the apartments of the freedmen and stewards and overseers, with their offices. On the southern side, to the right of the main entrance to the court, were the storerooms leading down to the dark coldness of the wine-cellars. To the left of the entrance were the kitchens, with stoves, and with hypocausts beneath them. Outside the walls, singly and in groups, were the wattled huts of the field-hands, who cared for the parks and immediate lands of the villa, and who came twice daily to the great house to be fed. In such a household, where economy was a lost word and extravagance the order of life, the stewards and overseers who managed it, being accountable only to their lord, were vested with much power, and made the most of it. Head and front of them all was Hito, fat and shining, with glinting pig's eyes. No detail of the great establishment was too trivial for his notice. Supposed to have general control over each division of slaves, which in turn was managed by its own headman, he yet had a finger in all businesses. Like all men of his stamp, he went in mortal fear of ridicule; thought to show his power by abuse of it. On his word alone a slave might be put to the rack; let an unfortunate incur his displeasure, and he had endless ways of revenge. His predominating characteristic was an oily sleekness; the very voice of him was smooth with unctuousness. Violent likes and dislikes he took, and was in a position to gratify both, a bad enemy and a worse friend. And his methods had but one trait in common,--an entire and often apparently irrational unexpectedness. It was the one thing which in him might be relied on; he would do the thing he was least expected to do. After the evening meal came a period of respite for those not on duty at the house. Much license was carried on at such times, at which Hito discreetly winked--unless he held a grudge against some luckless one. Even he had been known to take a hand himself in various affairs, using his official authority to gain his private ends. Dusk deepened, and night fell. Hito rolled to the door of his office and stood looking out into the court, picking his teeth with grunts of well-fed content. A slave was lighting a brazier of charcoal near the well in the centre of the court. The bit of blazing tinder, which he nursed carefully between his hands, threw its light up into his face and showed it in relief against the darkness, sombre, strongly marked, with a thatch of black bushy hair. Hito, recognizing him, scowled with an instantly aroused antagonism. "Nicanor!" he shouted. Nicanor lifted the brazier by its handle and came. When he reached Hito, he set it down, for it was heavy. Hito jerked his head at it. "Where are you taking that?" he demanded. If he had thought Nicanor had been trying to steal it, he could not have thrown more suspicion into his voice. "To the rooms of the Lady Varia," Nicanor answered. From his tone it was plain that the antagonism was mutual. "Who commanded it?" "Her nurse." Even Hito had nothing to say to this. But, bound to show his authority, he thought to have the last word. "Well, leave it, and I will send another. I have a thing for you to do." "No!" said Nicanor. Hito's little pig eyes glinted. "So be it! Take it, then," he said, and his voice was smooth as oil. "You can still do what I would have--perhaps even better. Now pay attention. When you go to our lady's apartments, look well around and see one of her women there. She is, I know, on duty at this time, but in what room I do not know. Speak with her, if you can, and say that I, Hito, am willing to see her to-night, and that I expect her. She will understand! Say that I wait for her,--she will know where,--and if she does not come, I will find out why." He crossed his arms on his fat chest. "If she is not in the outer room I cannot seek her. I am no eunuch," said Nicanor, shortly. "Maybe she will be there," Hito replied. "See, this is how you shall know her. Look for one with black hair, with dark brows and eyes blue, white in the face and somewhat lean, as though consumed by inward fires,--of passion, you understand! Be sure and say to her that if she doth not come, I will find out why." He hugged himself gently, leering at Nicanor. "And--Nicanor, I ask this as a friend, not require it as a service; wherefore--you understand?--nothing need be said about it. I would not get the poor girl into trouble, but seeing that she urgeth so--" Nicanor looked unmoved upon his fat smirk. "I will do as you command," he said, and picked up the brazier and turned to go. "Nay, never say command," Hito said in haste, and deigned to lay a hand on the slave's broad shoulder. "I do but ask it of you in all friendship. Therefore you should be grateful that I, Hito, admit you thus to confidence. For, look you, there be reasons; this, one might say, is--not official." Nicanor's grim lips relaxed to a half smile. "I will do it, then, since Hito craves it," he said, and went his way across the court. Hito shook his heavy jowls in rage. "Dog!" he muttered. "'Hito craves' forsooth! I'll have that up against you, mighty lordling, one of these fine days! In the name of the gods, what is one to do with a fellow who cares not the snap of his finger for any punishment I can devise?" Nicanor went along the covered gallery leading from the slaves' quarters to the mansion. At intervals he shifted the heavy brazier from hand to hand. The heat of the smouldering charcoal in it rose to his face, gratefully warm. When he reached the anteroom of Lady Varia's apartments, going by the rear passages, he found no one. The room, warmed to Summer heat, and filled with flowers, was empty. Perfumed lamps burned low, swinging from their bronze and silver standards; in a curtained recess in the wall a marble Minerva gleamed shadowed white, half concealed by curtains of dusky red. A silver jar of incense, burning before the shrine, tinged the air with faint fragrance. All was quiet and peaceful, a safe and sheltered nest. From the other inner rooms he could hear voices; a girl's voice steadily intoning sonorous blank verse; at intervals another voice, interrupting, slow and languid, that set his heart beating hard and his face flushing. He picked up a bell from the stand near the entrance and rang it. The recitative stopped; there was a murmur of mingled voices, and footsteps. A girl parted the curtains which hung between the rooms and came toward him. Her hair was black, fastened by long pins of bone; her face white and resentful; her brows were straight and dark, and the eyes beneath were shadowy. She was slim and moved swiftly, and her skin was white as milk. This, then, was the girl upon whom Hito had cast his evil glance. Nicanor kept his eyes on her as she came, and wondered if she was newly bought, that he had not seen her during the months he had been at the villa. "I bring the brazier Nerissa commanded," said Nicanor, and she nodded. "Nerissa is busy with our lady. I will take it in." "She is not ill?" he asked anxiously. "Nay, not ill," the girl answered. "It is but that she feels the cold. I will take the brazier." She looked at him with some surprise that he did not give it up. "It is heavy," he warned her. "Stay one moment, I pray you. Will you not tell me your name? I have been in this house these many months, and never before have I seen you." "I am called Eldris," she answered. "And I have been here also, but--it is true you have not seen me, although at times I have seen you. I have been seen by none save--" "Save one, perhaps," said Nicanor, and looked into her eyes. "I bring you word from Hito--if you are she he told me to seek out. He saith that he, Hito, is willing to see you to-night; that he expects you, and that you will understand. He saith that he awaits you--you will know where; and if you do not come, he will find out why. Also--" He stopped on the word. The girl had gone gray; and into her eyes there leaped a look of helpless terror, of dumb anguish and nameless fear. And at once, with the look, she became elusively familiar. A memory, half lost, beckoned to him, of a white and tortured face, of eyes which held the terror of a wounded animal at bay, of a long red welt across brown shoulders. His glance went to the girl's shoulders, white as milk, half hidden under her coarse white tunic. [Illustration: "'You sent for me, Lady Varia?'"] "Hito!" the girl exclaimed below her breath; and again--"Hito!" She flung out her hands with a movement of bitter despair and hid her face in them. "What can I do? Where can I go?" she cried hopelessly. "Since the first day he saw me this hath hung over me--and what can I do? O my God! what can I do against him?" "You do not go willingly?" Nicanor questioned, and took note of the exclamation she had used. "You will not force me to him!" she gasped in terror, misunderstanding, and shrank from him. "Not I! I am no man's procurer!" Nicanor said curtly. "I give his message; the rest lieth with you and him." "Never with me!" the girl exclaimed. She broke into hard dry sobs that racked her. Nicanor watched, quite at a loss what to say or do. "He hath--he hath threatened force and the rack if I refuse," she sobbed. "The rack is a bad thing to know!" said Nicanor, thinking of what he had seen in the room at the end of the passage. He spoke with all sincerity, being no better than his time. "Ay, but there is something worse!" Eldris flashed back. "I would rather face my lord in the torture-chamber; I would rather be broken on the wheel and die the death--" She shuddered, and again hid her face. "And there is no way out of it but death. What can I do, a slave?" The old bitter cry, wrung from the lips of many that the word of the Nations' Law might be fulfilled--wrung from the lips of Nicanor himself. He knew the full measure of its bitterness, and somewhere in him an answering chord stirred and woke to life. He put his hand on her shoulder. "See then, if that be thy feeling,--though them knowest not the rack!--I too am a slave, but it may be that I can help thee." The girl stilled her sobs to listen. "Hito is a fat swine. It would give me great joy to foil him." "I have tried to move him," she said, with a weary hopelessness more suggestive than many words. "It is because I struggle--" She stopped, biting her lips, her eyes dark with misery. "It is not me he would have now, but his way," she said forlornly. "For me to take thy refusal would do no good," said Nicanor, his voice reflective. "Tell thy lady; surely she will give thee protection." "Often I have tried to do that," Eldris answered. "Always Nerissa or other women are there to know what I would have with her; and always they say it is not for me to talk with her unless she gives command--that I am to tell them and they will carry the word to her. And when I tell,--" she faltered, with drooping head,--"they laugh, and call me fool, and ask why I should hold myself too good to do as others have done, and say our lady is not to be troubled with a thing such as this. That is what they say, and they are worse than he. And I fear him! Oh, I fear him!" She clenched her hands tightly across her breast and shivered with closed eyes. "By day I go in dread lest he give command to seize me; by night I start awake lest I see his face grinning in the dark, even though for weeks at a time he will give me peace and make no sign. When my service is done, I hide like a rat in its hole, wishing to be seen by none. But he never forgets, and he never forgives, and I have scorned him. Oh, I would to God that I were dead!" "Art thou Christian?" Nicanor asked curiously. "Ay," she answered, without spirit. "Once I was at a Christian church," said Nicanor. "Art thou of the faith?" she asked, quickly and eagerly. "Not I," said Nicanor. "What good may it do a man? And if it doeth no good, any faith will do to swear by. It hath not done thee much good, this faith of thine, since it leaves thee in this pass." "I trust it," she said quietly. "Nay," said Nicanor, in all seriousness. "It is I whom thou must trust. It is not thy faith will help thee here, but I, and the wit I have and the strength I have, because I am the only one near thee. How then, if it be I, can it be thy faith?" "I trust it," she repeated vaguely, as though she did not quite understand his meaning. He laughed shortly. "I had rather trust myself. See now, if the door were opened, couldst thou escape from here?" "I have no money--nowhere to go," she answered. Nicanor shook his head. "Money I have not, but I could see that friends received thee." She shrugged her shoulders, a gesture half resignation, half despair. And with the movement, the elusive familiarity returned; the flickering memory leaped to life. Black straight hair, framing a gray face and burning eyes; a girl, a lean wisp of a thing, with chained wrists and a ragged frock which only half concealed a long red welt on a brown shoulder--he had seen them all before. The memory grew and would not be denied; suddenly forced itself into words. "Art thou she who was bought at Thorney of a slave-driver by one Valerius, and claimed sanctuary of a Christian cross by the church of Saint Peter?" Her glance at him was startled. "Yea; but how dost thou know of it?" she asked in turn. "I saw thee sold," said Nicanor, and looked at her with new eyes. "When Valerius pursued thee to the foot of the cross, I ran also. It was I who went for the priest, and came back and found no one. Often since, I have wondered what became of thee and the folk who had gathered." He laughed. "But it made a good tale. More than once I have used it, and fitted to it endings of mine own." "While I lay grasping the cross, a man in the crowd cried out: 'Girl, the priest cometh! Run thou quickly to him!' And I, being well-nigh dazed with fear, had no better sense than to spring up, crying, 'Where?' And no priest was there at all; but the instant my hands were off the cross that man seized me and ran, and all the crowd ran after to see what might happen next, some saying it was not just, and others finding it rare good sport. At the river he thrust me into a boat and gave the man money to row quickly; and since their sport was over, the people went away. It did not take long." She looked at him with quickened interest, and in her face also there was new thought. "So--art thou, then, that teller of tales, whom men call Nicanor of the silver tongue?" Nicanor laughed again, but softly, all the hardness gone from his grim face, his eyes shining oddly. Did they indeed call him that? "I am Nicanor," he said. His quick ears caught a step approaching from the inner rooms. "Some one comes!" he said warningly, and added, "It is heavy; let me take it to the door." He picked up the brazier and carried it to the door. Eldris followed, her steps lagging. "I will wait near until thy duty here is ended," he said in a rapid undertone. "None shall touch thee this night, I promise thee. As for to-morrow--well, to-morrow is to-morrow, and there is small use in worrying to-day." She flashed a glance of gratitude at him and took the brazier. It was too heavy for her, but she staggered bravely with it across the threshold, and the curtains fell behind her. Nicanor heard Nerissa's sharp voice from within. "Why so long, girl? Bring it quickly--thy lady's feet are chilled." Nicanor lingered a moment, his eyes on the hidden entrance, and turned and went out with his long and cat-like stride. In the courtyard one ran against him in the darkness and cursed him soundly. Nicanor, recognizing the ring of Hito's eloquence, halted and waited for what might come. Hito, in his turn, recognized him, and changed his tone. "So, thou? In the dark I did not know thee. Didst find the girl?" "Ay, I found her," Nicanor answered with indifference. "But she is on duty to-night with our lady, and knows not when she can get away." He gave a short laugh. "Truly, Hito--since this is not official!--I had thought thee with an eye for woman-flesh as keen as the best. But that!--At first I doubted mine own eyes, that thou hadst singled out such an one for thy favor, when there be others whose better no man could wish. What one can see in long sulky eyes, a gray face that never smiles, hair like a mare's tail, a body gaunt and spare as a growing boy's--I cannot say I admire thy taste. Thou, who art so keen a judge of women's beauty, who can pick and choose from among the fairest--what hath bewitched thee, man?" "You do not know her!" Hito said sulkily, forced into a defence of his choice. "A creature all fire and ice--well, I know she hath no beauty, but--I'd not have thee believe it is because I am no judge. What do I care for the girl? Bah!" He snapped his fingers in contempt. "But she hath flouted me, defied me,--me, Hito, whose word could send her stripped to the torment,--and by my father's head I'll break her for it! When I approached her with soft words, these many weeks ago, she laughed,--mind you that!--and it is dangerous to laugh at Hito. But she will not laugh when I am through with her! Also she said that she would prefer the rack. A pity that in this world people cannot always have what they prefer. More than ever I desire her; I would break her, see her cringe and follow like a beaten hound; and the more she fights me, the more surely I shall win, and the more my victory shall cost her. That is my way--the way of Hito!" He licked his thick lips. "'And the lion said: "I find it rare good sport to hunt a mouse; it is most noble game!"'" Nicanor quoted. His voice held a taunt. "No insolence, sirrah!" Hito snarled, instantly suspicious of ridicule. "Because I held speech with thee to-night, it does not follow that thou art privileged to criticize!" "If I am insolent, why choose me for your messenger?" Nicanor asked boldly. Hito slipped an arm about the slave's broad shoulders and patted him. "Because thou art a man after mine own heart," he said smoothly. "Because I love thee and thy bold eyes and thy dare-devil recklessness, and would make a friend of thee. Why else? Now, then, to-morrow thou shalt bring the girl to me. I am minded for an hour's sport with the tiger-cat. My fingers itch for that lean throat of hers. After, I will give her to thee if it please thee--and then we'll see what the rack will leave of her beauty." His oily chuckle was diabolic. "And our lady?" Nicanor suggested. "What will she say when she knows how a handmaiden of hers hath been disposed of?" "How will she know," Hito retorted, "when there be a dozen and odd to take her place? A slave more or less is a small matter in this house." His tone was significant. "So bring her to-morrow at the noon hour, my friend. I think thou canst find a way! Till then, good-night. The gods have thee in their keeping!" "And thee!" Nicanor responded with a grin. Hito was absorbed into the darkness. Nicanor spat upon the ground where he had stood. "Rather the gods smite thee with death and ruin!" he muttered. "Now to wait for thy lady. How well he loves her, in truth!" He took to pacing up and down the gallery before the storerooms, for the night air was biting cold, noiseless, a blot of shadow in the darkness. His thoughts wandered from the black-haired slave girl to her whom they both served; to Marius; to his own plight. How long would it be before it pleased Marius to speak and snap the jaws of the trap upon him? Why did he hold his hand? Or had he perhaps already spoken? He knew that if he were to escape at all, the sooner he made the attempt, the better. His fingers went uncertainly to the collar at his throat. He could bribe no one to cut it for him; to do it himself would be more than difficult, even if he could steal the tools. He paused before a door that led into deeper blackness. At the far end of that passage was another door through which he must enter, where many another had entered before him, and where he had seen too much of what went on within to expect less for himself than had fallen to the lot of these. He shrugged his shoulders. "Even a trapped rat may fight," he muttered, and turned to continue his pacing. Then it was that he saw a light coming down the gallery, dancing upon the wall; and a group of three approaching, revealed by a torch in the hands of one. Wary as a buck which scents danger on every breeze, he drew back into the space between two pillars to wait and watch. And he saw that of the three, the middle one was Marcus, held fast and struggling, and whimpering like a dog dragged to a beating. In the first moment, Nicanor did not understand. Then it grew upon him that this had something to do with him, and it might be well to find out what. The three passed him and entered at that door before which Nicanor had paused. "So--they take him to the torture!" Nicanor muttered. "I think that I shall see the end of this." Lithe and noiseless as a cat he went after the three down the passage, keeping well out of range of the flaring torch. VI But when he reached the door at the end of the passage, it was closed, and he could only stand outside and listen. A lamp of pottery, burning wanly on a stone shelf jutting from the wall, showed the door, low, metal-bound, of tough black oak. He could see nothing, but his ears caught fragments of sound at intervals from within; a clank of chains, a scraping as of a heavy object dragged across the floor. He leaned against the wall of the passage, the lamplight on his face, his figure tense with expectation, his hands quite unconsciously hard clenched. Without warning there rose from inside a frantic gibbering, meaningless, bestial, horribly shrill. Nicanor smiled with narrowed eyes. "Well for me I drew thy sting, old man!" he muttered. The gibbering broke suddenly into a scream that rang for an instant and stopped short, leaving blank silence. Nicanor's face sharpened and grew pinched with eagerness; under scowling brows his eyes took on a strange glitter like the eyes of an animal in the dark. He crouched closer to the door, his body rigid with the strain of listening. Once more the cry of pain rose, this time sustained and savage with despair; it choked and gurgled horribly into silence; and rose again, more agonized, more bitter. "Perhaps he wishes now he had not entered that garden!" said Nicanor, and laughed low in triumph. Every nerve was thrilling to the savage lust of blood, half-lost instinct of old days when men lived and died by blood, when the battle was to the strongest, and life was a victim's forfeit. He longed to look through the iron-bound door, to see for himself Marcus paying the price for his temerity. Strangely, he could not bring himself to believe that Marcus was unable to betray him; it seemed to him as though the man's fearful straining after speech must have result of some sort. Even though he knew this idea to be absurd, he found himself on edge with suspense. The cries became long-drawn, agonized, unceasing. There is but one sound in the world as bad as the sound of a man's screaming, and that other is the scream of a wounded horse. Nicanor set his teeth. "Now they are twisting the cord about his head.... And yet, though they kill him, the poor fool cannot speak. I have well taken care of that, it appears.... They have him on the stone table, and his hands are bound. I can see it--oh, ay, I can see it well enough. I can see that he writhes in torment; and his face--what would his face be? Purple, perhaps; and the cord about his temples hath bitten through the flesh. There is blood upon his face, and it takes four men to hold him. Body of me! Who would have thought the old man to have such lungs!" A smothered exclamation from the semi-darkness beside him sent his hand leaping to the dagger concealed in his tunic. In the same instant he saw that it was Eldris. "Who is it?" she whispered fearfully. "Oh, why do they not kill him and have it over! I heard as I was passing--I had to come!" She clasped her hands over her ears and shuddered. Nicanor folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, looking down at her. When she lowered her hands, he said: "It may be that our lord hath not given command that he die." "Who is it?" she repeated. "Marcus," he answered, and saw her draw breath with a quick sob. "Ah, poor old man! What hath he done to deserve this?" "Rather it is because he will not--because he cannot do what they would have him," said Nicanor. His words were reckless, still more his tone; it was even as though he cared not enough about the matter to hide his knowledge from her. "Do you know what it is? Oh, if they would but kill him in very pity!" She wrung her hands. "Ay, I know," said Nicanor. "Was it his fault?" she asked eagerly. He hesitated, his bold eyes on her face. "No," he said. "It was not his fault. He was in the right." She turned on him in horror. "You know him innocent, and yet you stand here idle while he is done to death!" she cried. "Oh, go--go quickly and tell them he is not to blame! Make them set him free!" She caught his arm and he felt her fingers shake. "Are you a coward, that you will listen to his cries when a word of yours could release him? I had not thought it of you--oh, I had not thought it of you!" "Suppose a word of mine should set me in his place?" said Nicanor harshly. "Maybe I am coward; but calling me one will not make me one. Suppose I were in his place; suppose that in my fall I carried others with me,--others who at all costs must be shielded,--is it not better that one should suffer than that our world should crash about our ears? He is old and worthless--" "And you are young and worthy to have his blood spilled for you!" she taunted in a shaking voice. "I do not understand, it may be, but it seems that this frail old man must suffer that you, so brave, so powerful, whose life is of so great worth, may go unharmed. Why should you be set in his place? Is the fault yours? If it be, and you seek shelter behind his helplessness, you are lower than the cringing curs. Are you afraid, O great and worthy one, to stand forth and confess your wrong as any man would do?" She stopped breathless. He looked at her with eyes hot and sullen. "Now I should like to wring your neck for that!" he said. At the swift ruthless savagery in his tone the girl shrank back. Nicanor saw and laughed. "Since I may not, I'll take payment otherhow. As for the old man, let him squeal as best likes him. If they break him on the wheel, I shall go and tell them how to do it; if they boil him in oil, I shall go and stir the gravy. Your opinion of the cringing cur should not go unjustified." The screaming died suddenly into moaning. Eldris covered her face with her hands. "Oh, but that is worse, if worse can be! Why does he not tell them he knows nothing, has done nothing? Surely they would let him go! Is he trying, perhaps, to shield you?" Her voice, under all its fear and pity, was mocking. "Not he! He would be glad to see me in his place," Nicanor retorted. He laughed a little. "Strange, is it not, that he doth not tell?--since thumb-screws and argolins soon find a man's limit." She faced him, gathering all her courage. "Now do I believe you know more of this than you will say!" she cried. "Perhaps!" he said boldly. "It is not well to tell all one knows." "Not even to save a fellow-creature's life! Oh, what are you--brute or man? Man with the speech of angels--brute with the heart of hell!" "Perhaps!" said Nicanor again. "Why should I tell you what I am?" "Do you know, yourself?" she questioned. His eyes hardened. "Who can know himself?" he parried, with a shrug of his heavy shoulders. "This much I know--that I am brute and man, slave and king. At times I am lower than man, who can be lower than any crawling beast; at times I am more than god, with all the world beneath me. Why? How should I tell?" "You, who sing of birds and butterflies, of flowers in Summer, of sunshine and sweet love and the brightness of life!" she said bitterly and with reproach. "Indeed, you are two men, and I know not either. One, all men must hate and fear; the other--ah, the other is of the silver tongue. Why should this be? I can tell no more than you--I can but pray that that black beast may be tamed and stilled." "I say I do not know!" Nicanor said sullenly. "And speak we of something else. I am _one_ man, Nicanor, slave and teller of tales. That is all with which you have concern. And I do not need praying over." "Have you no gods?" she asked him, shocked. He looked rather blank at her attack. "Why, no," he said, and his voice held a faint tinge of surprise. "There are no gods in the bogs and fens and on the hills where I tended sheep. What gods with any sense would live in such parts as these? And I knew no need of them. Why should I have learned? When my mother would tell me of one God whom she worshipped, I would go and play. Is this your God?" "Ay," she answered, without hesitation. "I think your mother, too, was Christian." "Maybe," Nicanor answered with indifference. "But he is not the God of the mighty--of none but slaves and bondsmen and the humble, from all that hath been told to me." "Of those who are oppressed," she said softly. "Wilt let me tell thee of Him? Of how He was born in a stable, with wise men journeying from the East, bearing gifts of homage?" Nicanor looked at her with a gleam of quickening interest. "Why, that is a tale," he said. "Now I have never heard of this before. Why was he born in a stable, and what gifts did those wise men bring?" Within the room the sounds had died, leaving a heavy silence, and neither noticed. For of old Death young Life is ever heedless; ever the brazen fanfare of life's trumpets drowns the thin reed-plaint of death. In the passage their voices whispered guiltily. "Because His mother went to a place which was called Bethlehem, with Joseph her husband, to pay the taxes, and there was no room at the inn," said Eldris, explaining. "And the angel of the Lord had told Joseph that these things should be, and that he need not put away Mary as he was minded to do." She knew the facts of the story she would tell him; give it form and coherence she could not. "Who was Mary?" "The wife of Joseph." "Why put her away?" "Because the Child was to be born." Nicanor drew his heavy eyebrows to a scowl of intense perplexity. "Now why should he put her away for doing what all good wives should do?" "Because her child was the Son of God, and at first Joseph did not--" "And not the son of Joseph!" cut in Nicanor. His voice became all at once enlightened. "Now by my head, this is a quaint tale thou tellest! So the God you Christians worship was a--" "Oh!" cried Eldris; and the shock in her voice cut his words short. "Never say it! You do not understand! It was a miracle!" "A miracle--well, that is different," said Nicanor. "I have told tales of miracles, for such things may be. And so--?" "For it had been foretold that One should be born, of a pure virgin, who should redeem the world and take upon Himself the sins and sorrows of all men. So an angel told Mary that she was blessed among women--but I think that she was frightened." Nicanor nodded, as one in entire understanding. In place of the hard glitter of his eyes had come a certain luminosity as though from inner fires, an odd deep shining; his face was keen with a lively interest. "And so--what happened then?" he questioned her, even as men, so many times before, had questioned him. "Yet she was glad, for that she was chosen to bring peace into the world," recounted Eldris. "So they went into Bethlehem, and all the inns were full. But Mary could go no farther, and they went into a stable, where oxen and cattle were stalled. And there the Child was born; and men say that a great star in the sky guided shepherds who fed their flocks upon the moors to that stable where He lay. And it is told that three Kings came out of the East, laden with perfumes and gifts for him who was to be the Saviour of the world." "Kings," Nicanor repeated, musing. "Then would they be clothed bravely, with jewels and fine linen, and this would make good contrast with the stable. Go on. What did they when they came into the stable?" "They marvelled greatly that He whom they had journeyed to seek should be but a new-born babe, and they bowed down and worshipped." "Paid homage," said Nicanor, following out his own train of thought. "Ay, it is a good tale, but as I have heard it, it lacketh something--what? I must think of that. It hath no point, no pivot on which to hang the whole. For, look you, a tale is built as any other thing is built; it must have its parts balanced; it must have cause, and meaning, and effect. This hath a beginning, but it leads nowhere, without end." "But it hath no end," said Eldris, not understanding. "And it can have no end until the end of time. For it was but the beginning; and the little Jesus that lay in the manger is He who liveth and reigneth above all gods--" "Now I care not for the little Jesus!" said Nicanor, gruff with impatience. "It is the tale I would get at--the tale! Well, it will come, as always it hath come before. On a night I will wake to find it full-grown in my head and clamoring at my tongue. Now we will go, or that fat lover of thine will be upon us." Brought back to the present and its portents, Eldris bent her head, listening. "Why, the cries have ceased," she said. "Ay, this long time past," said Nicanor carelessly. "How much, think you, human flesh and blood can stand?" "Is he dead?" she asked, startled. "I hope so!" said Nicanor. "Nay then, I do not care, which is nearer truth. If I do not fear a fangless serpent in the grass, why should I fear him?" There was sudden movement behind the door; before either could think of flight it opened, showing the room within. A still figure on the raised slab of stone, for centre of the picture, with two half-stripped Africans beside it; three figures coming doorward: and these were Eudemius, and Marius, and the physician Claudius. Eudemius, his face pinched and gray, leaned tottering with weakness on the arms of the other two; behind them walked a slave with a great peacock fan, and another slave was waiting at the door. At once Nicanor clapped his hardened hand over the thin flame of the lamp on the shelf, and the passage where they stood was plunged in darkness. Before the three lords had reached the threshold, he had drawn the girl out of sight behind one of the squat pillars of the passage. Perhaps no harm would come to them, even were they discovered; but he had reasons for wishing to take no chances. The three passed by unheeding, Eudemius stumbling and cursing because the passage was dark. When they had gone, Nicanor went into the room, where the slaves were busy. Eldris stood hesitating on the threshold, afraid to enter, unwilling to go. "He is dead, is he?" Nicanor asked, and went and stood over the broken body on the stone slab. One of the Africans grinned, showing strong white teeth beneath his yellow turban. "Our lord was a devil to-night," he said. "The madness was on him, and he would have blood. But look you; here is a strange thing." With ungentle hands he forced open the dead jaws, not yet stiffened in the rigor of death. "Now sure this be a miracle, for mine own ears heard him speak but yesterday." "So?" said Nicanor, with lifted brows. "Now I should have said a week ago, or maybe two. Ay, if you heard him speak yesterday, it was sure a miracle. Likely he hath done something displeasing to his gods." The slaves carried the limp body away, and others came and resanded the floors. The chamber was circular, of rough blocks of stone, with two doors. Opposite the one where Eldris stood was a raised dais where were two chairs and a flaring cresset on a tall standard. Around the walls hung instruments of war, of torture, and of the chase; chains with heavy balls of iron attached; a stand of spears, and another of great bronze swords, leaf-shaped and burnished. A collection of daggers hung upon the walls, with the terrible short knives worn by the Saxons, each with the two nicks in the blade which would leave a ragged and dreadful wound. Here also were great six-foot bows, such as the Numidian archers used; and suits of armor in corium and in bronze, with shields and breastplates and crested helmets of brass and iron. Here was a narrow bed, of wood and iron, with bolts and screws for tearing muscle from muscle and joint from joint. Nicanor, with grim humor, had called this the bridal bed, and the name would stick to it forever. And here, higher than a man's height above the floor, was a leaden tank with a water-cock, from which would fall water, drop by drop, hour by hour, into a leaden basin with a drain-pipe sunk into the floor. Once Nicanor had seen a man sit screaming there for untold hours, chained to a stone bench, with water dripping, drop by drop, upon his shaven skull. He had used this upon a day, in a tale he had told in the wine-shop of Nicodemus; and men had shuddered and drawn back from him as from one possessed of unholy powers. And Nicanor, looking at this now, and with that terrible gift of his seeing himself chained and screaming in that other's place, set his teeth and muttered: "I shall leave this house this night." But he did not, for he was but mortal, and subject, like other mortals, to the decree of the goddess Fate. For as the slaves went out of the other door with their buckets of sand, Nicanor heard a cry from where the girl stood in the entrance to the passage; a cry sharp and quick, as he had heard a rabbit squeal in the trap. He wheeled and saw her shrinking inside the doorway, her hands before her face, and over her Hito standing, his little pig's eyes alight. Now the girl was nothing to Nicanor; he could have cursed her roundly for getting in his way and perplexing him with her troubles when he had need of all his wit to save himself. He would have vented his displeasure upon her as readily as upon Hito. He was not chivalrous; if she had pleased his fancy he would quite surely have pursued her as relentlessly as the steward. But he had said, "None shall touch thee this night"; and he would maintain his word not because he wanted to, but because he must. "Keep your hands off her!" he said savagely, as Hito stooped. His hands were clenched, his black brows lowering, his mood, plainly, was not to be trifled with. That he should pay for his temerity he knew as well as Hito; but since he was lost in any case, he considered that a little more or less would make small difference. "What have you to say about it?" Hito snarled. "Did I not send you for the girl? Quartus! Sporus! Come back, ye knaves, and bind me this fellow!" But Nicanor, with a bound like a tiger cat's, flung himself on the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. And he had need of all his quickness, for he was playing fast and loose with death. Hito yelled and started for the second door through which he had come and near which the girl was crouching. But again Nicanor was too quick. He got between Hito and the door and stood ready to shut it,--erect, defiant, every muscle tense to spring. He would die, that was certain, but he would give somebody trouble first. Now Hito was fat and scant of breath, and Hito was soft with good living and much ease; and when he was cornered, he turned not rat, but rabbit. Moreover, he had seen this lean devil of a slave in action before and he remembered it. So he stopped and merely yelled again for Quartus and Sporus. Without taking his eyes off the overseer, Nicanor put out his hand and pulled the girl to him. "If you swoon, I shall kill you!" he muttered, stooping until he could whisper in her ear. "Go to Thorney in the Fords, and find there Nicodemus the One-Eyed, who keeps a wine-shop. Tell him I sent you. I cannot hold our friend here for long, but it is all that I can do. You know what it will mean to be caught and brought back." He raised his voice somewhat, so that Hito should hear apparently without his meaning it. "Go to your room and lock yourself in. We shall see what our lord has to say to such doings!" He held the door ajar, and pushed the girl through, and closed it, but in the lock there was no key. Hito sneered. "Clever lad! 'Go to your room and lock yourself in!' Hast thought what will happen when she must come out? 'See what our lord has to say to such doings!' Hast thought that what he will say will be through me? What else didst tell the girl? Answer, son of an ill-famed mother, or the rack shall question for me!" Nicanor said nothing. His ears strained for approaching footsteps, but the walls were thick, and many had cried for help before and none had heard them. He had no plan; he had given the girl what chance he could, and it was all that he could do. If she could not help herself--well, there would be one more to cross the threshold of fate. His only thought was to give her what time he could. Let her once get away from the house, and over the frozen ground it would be hard to find her trail until morning. Hito took it in his head to make a dash. He started for the door, shouting at the top of his lungs for help. Nicanor barred his passage, silent and inexorable. He did not raise hand against Hito, but stood like a rock against the fat one's futile pummellings. For to strike a superior meant, for a slave, instant and lawful death. Hito would none the less maintain that he had been struck, but Nicanor could not help that. So that Hito battered until his fists were sore; and Nicanor stood and took it silently, with set jaws and eyes gleaming like a wolf's in his dark face. He could not hope to keep Hito there much longer. The latter, wearied at length and puffing, sat on the edge of that grim bridal bed and cursed Nicanor by all the evil gods. After this, when his invention gave out, he fell silent and sat and stared at the tall figure that guarded the door, with his little eyes half closed. But quite suddenly those eyes flew wide with astonishment. For the figure against the door had begun to sway from side to side, gently and rhythmically, with a low mutter of incoherent words. Hito looked again, somewhat startled. The slave's face was set and blank; his eyes stared straight ahead and were dull and without lustre. "The gods save us!" Hito muttered, watching uneasily. "Hath the man a fit?" "See them coming!" said Nicanor. His finger pointed here and there, and in spite of himself, Hito's eyes followed it. "Bright maidens, flower-crowned, robed in gauze. Ah, flee not, sweet ones!" He stretched his hands imploringly. "Whence come ye, from the mist? See the mist, how it rises, full of dreams which are to come to men. Are ye dreams, ye radiant ones? No, for ye do not vanish. Ha! I have thee, lovely nymph! and thou shalt find my arms as strong to hold as the gods' from whom thou camest. Unveil thyself, sweet, and let me see thy face. It should be fair, with so fair a form. So--thou thinkest to escape and fly from me?" He sprang forward, hands outstretched, almost upon Hito, who turned with a yelp of alarm, and dodged. Nicanor started back as one in sudden surprise. "Ha, Julia, sweet friend!" he cried. "Who sent thee here to me, with thy scarf of gold and pearl, thy raven locks and thy dewy lips, with bells upon thine ankles, and a tambour in thy hand? See, our lord cometh! Let us dance for him that perhaps we may find favor in his sight." Standing in front of Hito he began to dance, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his face utterly without expression. Hito gasped. "What hath come to thee?" he quavered. "Fool--come to thy senses before thou art flogged back to them." "Dance with me, sweet maiden!" said Nicanor; and suddenly caught Hito's fat and helpless hands in his lean brown ones and danced down the length of the room with him. Perforce, since he could not struggle free, Hito ran alongside, dragging back unwillingly, his face gray with fright. At the end of the room Nicanor turned and danced back again, dragging his captive. "Dance, fair Julia, dance!" he cried; and in his gyrations brought without warning his nail-spiked sandal down on Hito's foot. Hito bellowed and danced upon one foot with pain, and once dancing, found that he could not stop. "Let me go!" he panted, furious. "Slave--thou madman--let me go, I say! I do not wish to dance--I will not dance!" "Not when our lord commands it?" cried Nicanor, breathing hard himself. "Why, then, I do not wish to dance either. But since he saith 'Dance,' dance I must, and so must thou, sweet girl!" "I am no girl!" shrieked Hito, haled off down the room again. "I am Hito, and I command that you stop!" "Now why give me lies like that?" said Nicanor. "Have I not eyes which have long hungered for thy beauty? Do I not know thee, Julia the dancing girl?" "Thou art mad in very truth! Good Nicanor--sweet Nicanor--let me go, and I'll swear to keep between us this tale of thy doings!" Nicanor answered nothing. Always his face was blank, but his grip on Hito's wrists was iron. Up and down the room he went, leaping, dancing; and up and down went Hito after him, struggling, sobbing for breath, his unwieldy bulk trembling with fright and weariness. When his steps slackened, through sheer inability to keep up, Nicanor, with a bound forward, dragged him after, so that, to save himself from falling on his face, he bounded also, on his fat legs, with explosive grunts of breathlessness. Without warning Nicanor increased his speed and danced faster. He also was panting hard, the strain of towing two hundred odd pounds of unwilling flesh being great. His arms and shoulders shone with sweat; on his forehead his hair was plastered and damp. "Julia, Julia," he cried, "I pray you stop! I can dance no more. Thou art trained to this work, but I--I faint with weariness. Though our lord flay me, I can dance no more!"--and danced the faster. "Stop! I stop!" gasped Hito, purple in the face. "_Deae matres!_ Am I not trying to stop? Stop thyself, or I die! I am exhausted--I have no breath--have a little pity--Oh, nay, nay, I did not mean it! It is as thou sayest, of course! I--was wrong--to thwart thee! I will do whatever thou sayest, if thou wilt let me go! I--I do not think our lord--likes to see--such rapid motion. It maketh his head to swim. I, Julia, pray thee, not--quite--so fast!" He lurched and nearly fell, and Nicanor jerked him up again. There was the noise of a door being opened. Nicanor knew it must be the door leading to the passage, since the other was locked. He dropped Hito, who crumpled into an abject heap upon the floor, past speech or motion, and went on dancing by himself. From the tail of his eye he saw Wardo the Saxon and Quartus enter and stand gaping, dumb with amazement. Hito shook his fist at them from the floor and stuttered. When breath enough had entered into him, he screamed at them. "Bind me this madman! He hath a devil in him. Hold him, I say, until I can speak!" "Why, he's mad!" said Wardo, staring in awe at Nicanor, who, expressionless, danced invincibly. "Thou sayest!" Quartus agreed, and stared also. "What hath seized him? Here, lad, what means all this? Stop thy prancing and say what thou hast done to our lord Hito, here." But Nicanor answered nothing, and danced. "Chain him!" wheezed Hito. "Stop him, or I shall go mad, also, with looking at him! I'll have him strung by the thumbs for this!" And so it had been done, instantly, madness or no madness, since Hito's word was law, and Hito was very wrathful, but that interruption came from a quarter least expected. A tall figure blocked the open doorway, and a deep voice said: "What is the meaning of all this?" Every slave knew it for the voice of their lord's guest, and every slave wheeled and crossed his arms before his face, and wondered what their lord's guest should be doing there,--every slave except Nicanor, who still danced doggedly. It would have needed a quick eye to see that his step had faltered, if never so slightly. "This fellow hath a devil, lord!" said Hito, with an effort at coherency. "Me he did force to dance until I am no better than dead. He called me Julia and made me to dance with him so that my life fainted in me. He is mad--most mad--and I will have him strung--" Marius looked at Nicanor, and in his face was recognition and a merciless triumph. He broke Hito's speech midway. "Who is this fellow?" "Lord, he is called Nicanor," said Hito. "And he is mad--" Again Marius's face changed, back to its former haughty calm, in which was mingled a certain satisfaction. "So--Nicanor, is it? I have seen men seized this way before." He spoke to Hito, but his eyes were on Nicanor. "Most commonly it is the effect of over-severe discipline, but it may be that there are other causes. Then if he is mad, friend Hito, it might be better not to slay him lest the gods take vengeance for him upon you. Were it not best to take him to the dungeons? So, you may see how long this madness of his will last; and when it is past will be the time to punish." His tone assumed sudden authority. "Look to it that you harm him in no manner, but hold him fast where you may deliver him at your lord's word. It will be your life for his life--remember that." He gathered his cloak about him and strode away, and the three looked after him with wonder in their faces. Hito was first to voice it. "Our lives for his life, is it?" he grunted. "So, master slave, you would be important, it seems. What have you done now, that our lord's favorite should give such orders for you? You'll not cheat me for long--promise you that! A little while and he'll forget you; so my turn will come. Quartus, put the chains upon him and take him to the cells." "Please you, we are told to harm him in no manner," Wardo ventured. Nicanor had done many a good turn to the fair-haired Saxon, as one comrade to another, and Wardo was not one to forget it. "Were he in chains, he would soon fret himself into worse raving, and likely do himself harm." "Bring him without, then!" said Hito. The two seized Nicanor, and Wardo winked at him behind Hito's back, as the latter got painfully to his feet. Nicanor submitted, sullenly. He, who had trusted to no man save himself, was forced to pin what faith he might to the hint of succor that lay in Wardo's wink. And this was but a frail straw to trust. They took him along a side passage behind the storerooms, down damp and slippery steps to the depths of the cellars. Here were the dungeons, half of masonry, half of living rock, whose walls glistened with slime where the torchlight fell upon them. They thrust him into the smallest of the cells, and left him. The light of their torch was shut out with the slamming of the iron door; and darkness, dense and tangible, fell upon him in a reeking pall. Nicanor spoke aloud, with a laugh that jarred on the heavy stillness. "When friend Hito gains wind enough after his gambollings to remember that lean lady of his, she should be far enough away to snap her fingers at him. So, the rat is trapped at last. Now to see whether he can fight or no; for if he cannot, he'll have no chance to try again." Then silence fell; and other rats, boldened by the darkness, began to come forth to peer at the intruder in their midst. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE LORD'S DAUGHTER AND THE ONE WHO WENT IN CHAINS BOOK IV ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Book IV THE LORD'S DAUGHTER AND THE ONE WHO WENT IN CHAINS I Marius rejoined Eudemius in his library. "I have given command to have the slave Nicanor sent to the cells," he said. "It was he, as I have just found, of whom the Lady Varia spoke in the early evening. When we left the torture chamber, it is now two hours ago, I saw him in the passage outside, with another, a woman, I think. He put out the lamp in the passage, but I saw him first. It is as well to catch our bird before he flies, as without doubt he will now try to do, finding himself discovered, and keep him safely nested until we want him. He is a surly brute, but I know a way to get what we want out of him." "And that is?" said Eudemius. "Salt food and no water," said Marius curtly. "I have tried it before, in camp. We will let him recover from this so-called madness, first. But you said you would speak with me. I am at your command." Eudemius shook his head. "Not to-night," he said. "I am over tired, and it grows late. To-morrow, perhaps. Did the Africans tell me that the old man Marcus is dead?" "They did," Marius answered, somewhat surprised at the question. "Undoubtedly he was mad, for never did I see such actions in a sane man." "And you believe that the gods will take vengeance on me for having brought to pass the death of such a haunted one?" Eudemius asked unexpectedly. Marius shrugged. "I did not say that," he answered. "Maybe they will, maybe not. If you believe that they will, it is probable that they will do so." Eudemius laughed. As quickly he became grave once more. "I had not meant to kill him! I was fond of him--I was even going to give him gold and have put upon him the pileus of a freedman, for he hath served me well. He had belonged to Constantia, my wife. Perhaps it was I who was mad to-night. Sometimes I have thought--I must ask Claudius if there is prospect of that--" He broke off. "Pardon! I forgot, and thought aloud. To-morrow I shall be myself, but to-night I am shaken. If you will excuse me, I shall leave you. The house is at your service, if you do not choose to retire yet. Summon Mycon--he shall fill Marcus's place--and give what commands you will." "I think that I shall follow your example," Marius said, and stifled a yawn, "if you will tell me how to reach my rooms from here through these labyrinthine passages of yours. This part of the house I do not know well." Eudemius looked at him in silence a moment, so that Marius thought he had not heard his question. He was about to repeat it, when Eudemius said: "From this door go to your left, until you come to the gallery which runs along the northern, not the southern, end of the large court. Go down this to your right, and you will reach your own apartments. Vale!" Marius took his leave, wishing his host good rest. He strolled through halls on which looked numberless rooms, furnished richly, warm and silent, waiting for the guests who never came. Not a servant was in sight; the silence of midnight wrapped the place in slumber. Lamps, swinging from tall standards or from the ceilings, shed a mellow light around; his feet pressed rich woven rugs which hid the mosaic pavements beneath. Around him was a golden perfumed stillness. He went more slowly, steeping his senses in the aroma of luxury. "How a man might welcome his friends to such a house as this!" he muttered. "I can see them here around me--Fabian, Julius, Volux, all the rest. Ye gods, how the walls would echo! Now it all lies fallow, its wealth unknown, its treasures unseen. It should be used--ay, used to the very top notch of its value. Where is the use of paintings, marbles, rugs, halls, gardens, wealth such as this, with none to enjoy them all, save a dying man and a fair-faced fool?" His thin lips tightened. The seed Eudemius had planted was springing to lusty growth. "And they are mine, all mine, for the taking. By the soul of my mother, I will take them! I shall give feasts here such as Lucullus might have envied; I can win what legion and what station I will; whatever fields Rome hath left unconquered, I shall conquer for her. From the field I can reach the forum, with a name which without wealth I could never gain. The times are changing; it is time that men changed with them." The words died upon his lips. He had reached a glass door, leading into the small room formed by the angle of the north and east galleries which flanked the court. This room, screened like the gallery, by glass walls from the outer air, was filled with plants, answering in some sort to a conservatory. Such rooms, used for different purposes and varied as to furnishing, were at all the angles of the galleries. Marius, looking through the half-open door, thought that the place seemed unfamiliar, and began to fear he had taken the wrong way. Yet he had followed closely the directions of Eudemius. He was about to turn back when his eye fell on some one asleep close by the window which overlooked the court. "My lady herself, in very fact. This will be the second time I have waked her. Without doubt, Fate hath willed it so. What may she be doing here at this hour, without her women? Watched to see some one enter the court, perhaps, and dropped asleep. To see whom? Did she know, by chance, that I must pass this way from her father's rooms?" He opened the door softly and entered. But the slight noise aroused Varia. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Is it not late for such solitary communing, sweet friend?" Marius asked, approaching. He saw that she was in a plain robe of sheerest white, ungirdled; that her hair fell loose, undecked with jewels, that her feet were bare. "Perhaps you wait for some one?" She sat on the edge of the couch, her hands clasped in her lap, betraying no smallest consciousness of the unconventionality of her appearance. Her white feet against the deep crimson of the rug held his eyes. "Oh, no!" she said sweetly. "Besides, if I did, should I tell you?" He found himself again in the attitude of treating her as a child; felt again his baffled perplexity at her glance, veiled and sidelong, which was not a child's glance. He bent toward her. The time had come to crown his schemes of high ambition, and the gods had thrown opportunity in his way. "Was it for me you waited?" he asked boldly. He was prepared for indignation, repulsion, anything except what followed. She dropped her eyes, leaning a trifle away from him. "And--if it were?" she murmured. He stared an instant, and seized his chance. "I should thank the gods and you, sweet one, and do my best to show appreciation," he said; and sat down on the couch beside her. "But it was not!" she cried hastily, and moved farther away. In spite of himself Marius's lips twitched to a smile. As she retreated, he advanced. "No? But it was I who came!" he said, his keen eyes on her. But her look did not falter. "You waited because the gods willed that I should come to you," he said, speaking rapidly, since she showed signs of nervousness. "And I have come, to plead my love, and to ask yours in return. Once before were we interrupted when I tried to speak; now the chance is mine at last. You shall anoint my door with wolf's fat and rule at my hearth as wife. Your father wishes it--he would be glad to see our love blossom into flower. Say, wilt thou love me, sweet?" But Varia sprang to her feet, clasping her hands over her ears. "Love--love!" she cried fretfully. "Nay, I have had enough of love!" Marius laughed aloud. "So, thou strange beauty? Maybe, but I have not. And I think there is still something left for thee to learn. Dost remember a game I was to teach thee once--a game which two can play?" She interrupted him, standing poised as though for flight, her head on one side, a smile touching her crimson lips, her veiled eyes glancing sidewise into his. "Nay--I remember?" she said with a rippling laugh. "Why now, how should I remember, my lord? Am I not a fool?" His glance was somewhat taken aback. "Fool or not, I love thee, pretty witch, and thou shalt be my wife." She shook her head, and the laughter died from her face, leaving it startled. "Thy wife? Wife to thee? Oh, no! I cannot be that!" "Oh, yes! Thou canst and must and shalt be that! I'll not let thee go so lightly!" He advanced upon her, but she stretched out a white naked arm to full length, a finger pointing at him, and he stopped. Just why, he did not pause to think. "Nay, my lord!" she said, and her voice took on the haunting tones which had so perplexed her father. "That I am not as other girls I know right well. Why, then, should my lord desire me for wife? Thou dost not love me. Were I thy wife, I must love thee, and I do not wish to love thee. I could say,--what are the words?--always and ever they are ringing in my heart,--'Where thou art, Caius, there am I, Caia,' with my lips as well as with my heart, but not to thee--oh, not to thee!" She flung out her arms with a gesture of sudden wild abandonment, and clasped them over her eyes. Her voice broke in a storm of tears. "Now--woe is me!--all I can say is 'Where art thou, Caius?' I have waited so long--so long!" "But he is here at last," said Marius, and took her hand. She wept softly, with hanging head, making no effort to get away. "I will pray my lord father that he force me not to become wife to thee!" "Thy lord father gives command that thou shalt become wife to Marius since he desires thee, and to no other man!" said Eudemius's voice behind them. Marius wheeled, as Varia gave a startled cry and wrenched her hand free. Eudemius came into the room, his face changed as no living soul had seen it changed until then. "I feared that thou hadst not taken the right way back," he said to Marius, and there was a shade of significance in his tone. "Therefore--I came to see." "Father, say I need not be wife to him!" cried Varia, bold in her terror. "Why not?" Eudemius asked harshly. "What reason lies behind thy refusal?" "I do not know!" she stammered. "I know only that I would not wed with him. I love him not--" "Love! what hath love to do with it? And what know you of love, little fool?" said Eudemius, with impatience. Varia started forward, catching desperately at the straw. "Thou hast said it!" she cried stormily. "I am fool--fool--fool--fit wife for no man! Who wants to wed a fool?" "Be silent! I'll teach thee--" Eudemius exclaimed, but Marius interposed. "Pray thee--father--leave the taming of this wild bird to me!" he said, and emphasized the word, and watched. He had judged subtly. Eudemius turned to him, his hands out, his stern face broken up and working. He patted Marius's shoulders with shaking hands, and leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "My son--oh, my son, my son!" he cried. But Varia, unnoticed of either, cast herself upon the couch and wept, her face hidden in its silken cushions. Livinius came from his sickroom and joined them in a week, and was told the news. From his face it was apparent that he was pleased, and that in spite of all his words, the match would be very well to his liking. But when he got Marius alone, which was difficult, since Eudemius would scarce let his prospective son-in-law out of his sight, he spoke to him with all seriousness. "It will be a great thing for thee, my son; thou canst carve out for thyself what career thou wilt. I am pleased; thou art pleased; Eudemius--why, for Eudemius, he is a changed man utterly." "Truly, he is," Marius agreed. "Who could dream that behind that iron mask of his there dwelt such affection, such store of human kindness?" "All for thee, lad," said Livinius. His tone, with all its pride, held a tinge of sadness. "It brings the water to my eyes to watch the new nature struggling in him with the old. He hath pinned all his faith and hope to thee. Be thou worthy of the trust." "Ay, so I will," said Marius readily. He shook himself with a quick breath. "And the task will be no easy one, father mine. I do not feel myself at all a cuckoo stealing into a nest ready feathered. What I get I shall pay for, in degree, if not in kind. There will be three men's work in handling this estate." "And the one who is most nearly touched in this?" said Livinius. "She whose poor little hands are weighted with the gold of which she knows nothing, whose child's head is filled with dreams in which thou hast no part?" "Oh, Varia?" said his son. "I suppose it is no worse for her than for other women. She shall have all that I can give to content her. Father, it is a strange thing about that child. When I am away from her, I will own that her memory doth not linger over long with me. But when I am with her, she bewitches me. I know not what else to call it. Always I am trying to probe her; always I find myself foiled and baffled when I think that I have found the clew to her mystery. If ever she should waken from this state of hers.... At present she is angry, and I have not seen her for two days. That may be, but she forgets that soon it will not be for her to say whether I shall see her or whether not." His lips tightened; in his dark eyes a yellow spark flashed and died. Livinius glanced at him, smiled, and held his peace. It was even as Livinius had said. Eudemius was, if not a changed man, at least a changing one. Sombre his face would always be; Fate had bitten too deep for the scars ever to be smoothed away. But with the haunting fear removed that his name and fortune should fall into unworthy hands, he seemed to have shaken off ten years of nightmare trouble. His voice began to lose its bitter harshness; for the first time his slaves no longer trembled at his glance. His attitude toward Marius was curious--also, in view of his nature, touching. On Marius he lavished all the pride and tenderness of an adoring father to his son, and of both there was more than anyone had guessed. He worshipped Marius openly, gloried in him exultingly, and was fiercely and suppressedly jealous of Livinius's prior right. He hung on Marius's every word; shared his sports and hunting; tried to regain a moment of his lost youth that he might be a comrade as well as a father. At times a strange mood took him, when he, Eudemius the proud, became humbly grateful that Marius should be willing to mate with the ill-starred daughter of his house. In general they accepted each other on terms of complete equality. Each was receiving and conferring a favor; there was no debt on either side. Marius found himself not in the least embarrassed by his superfluity of parents. He adjusted himself to the circumstances with tact and a sympathetic consideration which would scarcely have been expected of him. He managed the two fathers with consummate skill, divided his attentions honorably between them, and played the role of demigod to perfection. When Livinius and Eudemius were together, he was circumspect, careful lest he arouse parental jealousy on either side; but when he and Eudemius were alone, he cast aside restraint and called him "father" to Eudemius's heart's content. More and more the two came to lean on the ready strength of him; since it is the law of life that the old, for all their wisdom and the experience of their years, shall inevitably come to look for support and guidance to the young, who enter the lists unproven in all but strength. Six months at least must elapse before Marius could lawfully claim what was already his in fullest measure. There were endless settlements to be made, for Eudemius was determined that nothing should be left undone which would assure the maintenance of his name and fortune. Marius's heirs must take the name, even as he himself must do; the gold and lands must be protected so far as human means might devise. Eudemius had lawyers from the famous law-school at Eboracum, and spent long hours in his library, poring over deeds and instruments. There must be an exact accounting of his estates in Britain and in Rome; houses, lands, personal effects, and slaves. Also, since an imperial alliance could have been effected with scarcely greater pomp and circumstance than Eudemius planned, six months was the shortest time in which the festivities could be arranged. "While I live," said Eudemius, in one of their daily talks together, "I shall retain nominal control as head of the family. When you write _Diis manibus_ over me, every denarius will belong to you and the heirs of your body forever. But should the gods of the shades claim me before you are legally my inheritor, all will revert to our lord the emperor as guardian of the girl, to be parcelled out among his minions, and there will be left nothing. Therefore my haste." With this, Marius had entire sympathy. He also welcomed the speed with which the business was being put through. If Eudemius had changed, Marius was changing also. For no man can look on power well-nigh as limitless as any man below a sovereign may wield, knowing that power between his own hands for good or ill, and not become either a despot or a chastened man. And there comes a moment in the transition when it is doubtful which role will fit. Marius, in the natural course of events, had reached this stage. He was sobered at the prospect opening before him; withal his ambition was mounting by leaps and bounds. There seemed nothing which he could not do. He thrilled at the contemplation of the position which would be his; for he was human and Roman, and power, and still more power, was as the breath of life to his nostrils. And he thrilled again at the absolute confidence placed in his integrity by Eudemius; for he was honorable, and that his honor should remain untarnished as his sword was the only law to which he owned. But since this would generally serve all other purposes, it sufficed. II Over the marshes twilight was falling. The sun had set; the western sky was tinged with cold pale lemon; further, where the color faded into the dusky dome of night, hung a wan evening star. The land was snow-bound and desolate as far as the eye could see. The marsh-ford was glazed with a thin sheet of ice, through which, by the banks, clumps of black frozen reeds protruded. Through this ice, much broken by wheels, dark shallow water showed. On the other side of Thorney the river flowed sluggish and sullen, ice-bound along its banks. Midstream, making slow way to the island, a round clumsy coracle, such as were used by fishermen, was paddling, the only vessel abroad. In it sat two persons, the boatman and Eldris. She sat huddled forlornly in the coracle's bottom, shivering in her long black cloak. Two carts creaked from the high-road down to the marsh-ford on the northern side of the island, and labored through, their drivers muffled to the eyes in cloaks with heavy hoods drawn close around their faces. On the island itself men appeared at intervals in the alleys between the houses. There were few camp-fires on the beach, showing that those who had come had nearly all found shelter within the houses. The air was keenly cold and very still, so that sounds carried clearly; but, unaccountably, there were few sounds. At this, the busiest time of the day, Thorney seemed strangely silent. The coracle grounded gently on the beach, almost at the moment that the carts entered the ford on the opposite side of the island. Eldris stepped ashore, gave a bit of money to the boatman, who spat on it and cursed. She asked faintly: "Canst tell me, friend, where might be the wine-shop of one Nicodemus?" But the man, plainly considering that he had given good measure for the wage he had received, was surly. "Near the end of this street that runs straight back from the beach to the other side," he answered briefly, and heaved his boat of bull's hide and wicker to his back, and went off, waiting for no further questioning. Eldris looked after him in half resentful reproach, and started up the street which cut across the island from ford to ford, walking slowly like one faint and weary from long continued exertion. In all the length of the street she saw no one who might direct her to the wine-shop. It was deserted, save for stray prowling dogs that nosed and shivered among heaps of refuse. Lights showed through chinks from behind closed doors of houses; there was a smell of cooking in the air; at times a low-pitched growl of talk or muffled boisterous laughter reached her. Dusk was deepening fast and the cold was bitter. Eldris stumbled on toward the end of the street, her eyes searching the houses on either hand. When but three remained between her and the open strip of beach on the marsh side, she paused irresolute. One was a low and vulgar place, its door fast closed, no light to be seen about it. The second was a half burnt ruin, where cattle had been stalled. The third seemed of somewhat better class. It presented a blank wall to the street, broken only by a low and narrow door with a wicket, betraying nothing. Eldris, still hesitating, saw two carts, growing out of the gloom ahead, coming toward her. She heard the thud of the horses' feet on the frozen ground, the creak of wheels and straps, finally the voices of the drivers. "Surely they will know this Nicodemus," she said, and started forward to hail them, when a word of one carter, shouted back to the other, a few yards to the rear, transfixed her where she stood and sent her shivering with fright as well as cold. "Quicker, man, or we'll get no bed this night. Hito will have something to say to us for the hours we've been away, I'm thinking." Swift terror seized on Eldris at the word. That there might be two Hitos in the country she never stopped to think. These were Eudemius's men; if they saw her, they would report to Hito at the house; she would be searched for, overtaken, and suffer the fate of captured runaway slaves. In a panic she fled back to the blank-walled house and beat upon the door. Instantly it was opened. In her excitement she had time for no surprise at this, no feeling but relief that no time was lost. As the carters drew abreast of the door, she slipped within and slammed it shut. "Well!" said the one who had opened. "What are you trying to do?" "Pardon!" Eldris stammered. "There were men passing--" At her voice the woman looked at her keenly. "Girl, you are frozen with cold! This is no night for you to be abroad." "I could not help it!" said Eldris with chattering teeth. Her voice failed her with her strength; before she had time to so much as see the woman's face all things grew dark before her eyes. The woman caught her as she fell. She awoke to life again with burning pains in her face and head, and found two women bending over her. One held a bowl, from which the other was rubbing Eldris's face with snow. Both were young; both were tawdrily dressed, with many strings of beads and rings on neck and fingers. Eldris, looking at them, raised her head, and asked the first question that came into her head. "Where am I?" The woman with the bowl smiled a little. She was a fair-haired creature, with eyes of Saxon blue, with hollow cheeks and scarlet lips. "Do you not know the house of Chloris?" she asked. Eldris shook her head. Her eyes asked a question which her lips had not strength to utter. The second woman spoke; a dark-haired beauty, she, with a profile of purest Grecian outline. "Cease thy chatter, Sada! Canst not see the girl is dead with cold and hunger? Leave me the bowl and go get food and wine." Sada put down the bowl and ran out of the room. "Your face was frozen," said the Greek. "It is well that you found help in time." "You are good," Eldris murmured with stiff lips. She was dropping to sleep again through sheer exhaustion in spite of pain, when Sada returned with a tray which held a bowl, smoking hot, an ampulla of wine, and a cheap brass cup. Between them the women roused Eldris and fed her carefully. As her strength began to return, she looked about her with quickening interest. But the room told her nothing. It was small and bare, furnished with but the bed on which she lay, a copper brazier of charcoal, and a couple of wooden stools. The women, over her head, talked in low voices. "She will sleep to-night, and to-morrow our mistress will see her," said Sada. "Where didst find her, Eunice?" "At the door," the Greek answered. "I was stationed there to let in you know who, and heard a knock. So this girl entered, crying out that men were after her, so far as I could understand, and slammed the door before I could say her nay. You told Chloris of her, then?" Sada nodded and laid a finger on her lips. "She sleeps," she whispered. "Let us go." But Eldris opened heavy eyes with effort. "Pray you tell me where is the wine-shop of Nicodemus!" she murmured, husky with drowsiness. "It is there that I must go and wait--" The tall Greek Eunice laid a hand on her aching head. "Sleep now," she said. "To-morrow will be time enough to know." And Eldris slept, as lost to the world behind the dead blank wall as Nicanor in his dungeon cell. It seemed to her, in her sleep, that she lay with body dead but soul alive and conscious. She dreamed confusedly, strange formless dreams, in which women dark and fair, Hito, Nicanor, and herself were involved inextricably. She dreamed of stealthy whisperings behind closed doors, of laughing faces which looked down upon her as she lay with body dead and soul conscious. With awakening came remembrance and a thrill of apprehension. She lifted herself on an elbow and saw the Saxon girl Sada sitting on the floor, regarding her steadfastly. "Have I slept long?" Eldris asked. "It is evening again," said Sada. "Then I must go at once!" Eldris exclaimed. She got out of bed, tottering a little, and shivering in the chilly air of the room. "If thanks be any payment for what you have done for me, you have all of mine. They are all I have to give." Sada answered nothing. She helped Eldris to dress, combed her hair, and brought her food. Then Eldris, in a fever to be at her journey's end and know what was in store for her, said again: "Pray you tell me where is the wine-shop of Nicodemus"--and thought the other smiled. But Sada, instead of answering, said only: "Before you go, our mistress would hold speech with you." "Your mistress? Are you, then, slaves?" Eldris ventured. A strange look crossed Sada's face. "Ay," she answered. "Slaves, who shall die in bondage." She led Eldris from the room across a small and ill-paved court to another door. "You will find her here," she said, and pushed Eldris gently across the threshold. The room was lighted by many lamps, some of pottery of the cheapest sort, others of wrought bronze, and was filled with a strange and subtle perfume. There was a confusion of furniture, and the walls were hung with curtains, which gave the place a bizarre and Eastern look. So much Eldris took in with her first step forward. Then she saw a figure seated upon a mattress on the floor, a fat and shapeless figure, bunched in many garments. Atop of the fat figure was a fat face, with thin hair whose natural gray showed through its ruddy dye, with flabby painted cheeks, and heavy-lidded eyes darkened beneath with antimony. A Greek might have called it the face of a Greek, and looked again to make sure; a Roman might have called it the face of a Roman. In it one seemed to catch a hint, mysterious and elusive, of all ages and all nations. Once it had been a fine face; even, in a time long past, it had been touched with beauty. Now it was at once a relic and a monument. The substance was the same, but transmuted into coarser mould. Where had been soft blue tracings were red and angry veins; where had been gracious roundness was gross fleshiness. Only the brow, God-made, the only feature which may be neither made nor marred by human means, remained the same, broad and white, and smooth as marble. The woman sat perfectly motionless, looking at nothing. On her fat hands, which rested on her knees, were rings set with blazing stones; on every finger a ring, and on every ring a slender chain which led back over the hand to a heavy wristlet of gold in which a great ruby burned. Her garments were held by fibulæ of iron and bone, cheaply made; around her neck were many strings of beads, some of carved jet, some of silver, some of colored glass. In her grotesqueness and impassivity she might have posed as a graven goddess of some unholy rite. In the sight of her, also, was something so unexpected that Eldris stopped and stared. "Will you close that door?" said the woman. Her voice was low-pitched and clear and very sweet, with no hint of coarseness in its modulations. Coming from such a bulk it was surprising--more, it was startling. Eldris obeyed, taken wholly aback. "Now come hither." Eldris came. The woman's heavy-lidded eyes settled on her as a vulture settles on its prey, devouring her, line by line, feature by feature, until, to her surprise and discomfort, Eldris felt herself flushing as though she had been under the eyes of a man. "Whence come you?" said the soft voice; so commonplace a question and so casually asked, that Eldris was nearly betrayed into indiscretion. She caught herself and said instead: "From Londinium." "And you are--" The woman looked her over again. "Perhaps a dancer, or maybe a mime, running away because your master misused you?" "A dancer--yes, that is it," said Eldris, catching at the invention. "And my master misused me, and I ran away. Now I seek the wine-shop--" The woman laughed, a silvery tinkle of mirth. "Child, spare your conscience!" she said lightly. "See, let me tell you how it lies with you. Whence come you? From a great house to the southward, where one Hito rules with a rod of fear. What are you? A slave, my dear, and a runaway, with your life, in consequence, forfeit and lying this moment in my hand. Some one helped you to get away, and bade you wait for him at the wine-shop of this master Nicodemus, for whom you clamor. How dare you put me and mine in jeopardy, girl, by thrusting yourself upon us? Know you not the penalty visited on those who harbor fugitive slaves?" Eldris started back from her, gray and pinched with fear. How did the woman know? Who had told her? Eldris could not guess; knew nothing but that her life indeed lay in the fat jewelled hands resting on the woman's knees. But the latter's tone changed. Perhaps there was in her something of the feline; the instinct of the cat to gambol with its prey. She laughed again. "Nay, child!" she said gently. "I did but sport with thee. And I am sorry, poor hunted rabbit. Never fear, my girl--Chloris has yet to turn distress from her door. How do I know these things? Why, that is easily answered, since all night long in sleep your tongue went over this and that--such a babble as was never heard. The tongue by day may lie, but the tongue by night speaks truth. My women who waited on you did piece its fragments, and came with the whole and told me. Now I have this to say: Stay in this house, and you shall be safer than in your father's. When search is made for you, be sure the searchers will come hither, and that is the best thing that could be. You will not be the first girl who has sought shelter with Chloris. And I dare take the risk of keeping you, because I am so very sure that you will not be found. If the house be searched, no one of your description would be found herein--and you yourself might tell the stationarii so without fear. Stay with me, and you shall have food and shelter and protection from the law." "And I--what wouldst have of me in return?" asked Eldris slowly. "Naught but what you would give willingly," said Chloris. "Mark you this, girl: Chloris forces no man nor woman to do her bidding. If one wishes to enter here, she may enter; if one wishes to leave, she may leave. I can but repeat what I have said. Come to me and you shall be safe--I'll lay my life on that. If you will not, well, go your way; you shall not be betrayed by me or mine." "If you would but let me be servant to you!" Eldris begged. "I am friendless and weary, and I dread to face the world again, for there is no rest nor safety for me at all. I would work in scullery or in kitchen, and serve you loyally and gladly; more than this I will not do. Once I fled to escape shame; shall I then seek that from which I fled?" "So be it, then," said Chloris. "I shall not compel you, for that is not the way of Chloris. You have told so much while no sense was in you that you might now straighten out the tale. I see your doubts; you do not know me, yet you have your opinion. That is right, child; better for one's own peace of mind to trust too little than too much. But you need fear nothing. I, too, was friendless once, and weary once, and found no rest nor safety. That was long and long ago; but sometimes I think of it, even these days. So, if you will, tell your tale; and if you will not, keep it. But remember, I have said that your secret shall not be betrayed by me or mine. Many things I have come to hold lightly, but my promise is not one of them." "I will tell," said Eldris. It was an impulse, born of she knew not what emotion. So she told, taking a fellow-mortal on trust for sake of the faith that was in her; and again the heavy-lidded eyes fastened on her, never wavering from her face as she told her tale. "I am slave to the lord Eudemius, him whom men call the Torturer. Hito, who is steward there, hath persecuted me for a year and more, so that I went in dread of him. Six nights ago I escaped from that house through the help of one therein, and was told by him to seek Thorney, and Nicodemus who kept a wine-shop there. But I dared not come here direct lest I be traced at once. I wandered, seeking what food I might, and then I lost my way. For five days did I toil on, but yesterday regained my road. I had strayed wrong many miles, but it may be that this was a good thing, if it would help to throw off those pursuing. For unless I can find hiding, I shall be lost." "And that one who aided your escape?" said Chloris. "I do not think it would be just to speak of him," Eldris answered, hesitating. "What I have told concerns myself. There is no need that another should be put in danger through me." "Is he your lover?" Under those changeless, boring eyes, dull color crept into Eldris's white face. "Nay," she answered. "Do you, then, love him?" "Nay," said Eldris again. "I think--" she spoke slowly, as though the words were impelled--"I think that no one loves him. Rather is he looked on with fear and hate." "Then must he rear his head in some fashion above the herd," said Chloris, and laughed at the uncomprehension in Eldris's eyes. But with the mention of Nicanor, remembrance of his direction returned anew to Eldris, seduced for a moment by sure promise of safety. "He bade me go to this Nicodemus, and I dare not do otherwise," she said distressfully. "Last night I was searching for the place. If he were to come and find me not there--" "So, he will be a runaway also?" said Chloris, lightly. And at Eldris's distress--"Fear not, foolish! Should not all slaves stand together? Body of Bacchus! Did they do so, there would shortly be no slaves! But that is as it must be. As for Nicodemus, know you what place his wine-shop is? A drinking den where violent men gather to brawl and gamble. No fit one, truly, for a maid! Rather, stay you here, and when this unloved comrade of yours arrives, why, I'll hear of it, and you shall know." Eldris hesitated and lost her game. Chloris clapped her hands. Sada entered, with a glance full of curiosity. "Take the girl to the kitchen," Chloris gave command. "Tell the cooks she will serve as scullery maid and naught else. And hark you, Sada girl! No word of last night's doings, or it will go hard with you. Now go, the two of you." She waved them away, and they went out and left her sitting there. "She is strange!" said Eldris, pondering deeply. "Ay, strange!" Sada echoed. "Us she rules with a rod of iron, and yet--we love her, every one." "I fear her," said Eldris, trying, after her nature, to analyze the emotions in her. "For she is old and very evil. And I was helpless, and she gave me help; homeless, and she took me in." III The Winter wore away and the great house hummed with preparation for the marriage festivities of Marius and Varia. All the friends of Eudemius and of Livinius and Marius were bidden; rich men and powerful, these, foremost of the circle of feudal lords whose power in Britain had become supreme, and whose allegiance to the Empire was long since merely nominal. Of them were Quintus Fabius, a senator in the curia, or governing body of Londinium; Caius Julius Valens, duumvir--chief magistrate, with rank corresponding in some sort to that of governor--of Isca Silurum, that great city which in the old days the Second Legion, the Augustan, had made famous. Also came the Comes Litoris Saxonici, Marcus Silenus Pomponius, Count of the Saxon Shore, in whose ward were the Eastern Marches and the Fens, of whose ancient power all the responsibilities and few of the prerogatives were left; Maximus Crispis, who owned the largest villa at the fashionable Aquæ Solis, and boasted his own private and complete system of mineral baths; and fifty others with names as great as these. Eudemius threw himself into the arrangements with an energy which made light of all obstacles. And of these there were many, since inevitably the disordered state of the country reacted on private concerns. From all the ends of the earth treasures were brought at his command. Swift-winged vessels, manned by tireless rowers whose one law of life was speed, came laden with rich stuffs and gems from the East; cups and dishes of virgin gold, crusted with uncut jewels; statuettes of Bacchus, the god of feasts, crowned with grapes of purple amethyst and leaves of emerald; of Fortuna, with the horn of Amalthea; of Hymen the torch-bearer, god of marriage; cups of figured and embossed glass, inscribed with sentiments such as "Bibe feliciter!" or "Ex hoc amici bibunt,"--all intended to be bestowed upon the guests as souvenirs during the feasts at which they were to be used. Lustrous silks came from far-away Serica; cloth of gold from Persian looms; glassware, fragile as tinted bubbles, from the great works near Lucrinum; spices and perfumes from Arabia, aloe, myrrh, and spikenard. To all that he owned he added tenfold more. Sometimes his ships were lost at sea; sometimes plundered by bands of pirates at his very doors. Then a messenger would be sent speeding by night and day to the agent from whom that ship had come, to return in a time incredibly short with an identical cargo--if by any means this could be duplicated. In this way he more than once sunk what was in truth a fortune without a denarius of profit in return. He wished to have tigers and lions brought from Africa, that his guests might hunt royal game, and spent many thousand aurei before he discovered that the cold invariably killed those of the animals which had survived the voyage. So he gave up that idea and stocked his parks and forests with wild boar,--the prime favorite for big game hunting,--with wolves, and lordly stags, and the wary, wild _bos longifrons_, which afforded as good sport as might be wished. Each day goods arrived, and messengers came with some rare thing brought by hand half across the world; each day bales and boxes were opened in rooms set apart for them; and each day Eudemius called his daughter and put into her careless hands some costly trifle which men had sweated and striven like overworked beasts of burden to lay before her. When Varia's last month of maidenhood was nearly gone, Eudemius called Hito to him, to give account of what was in his hands. In the house were so many services of gold and silver, so many of Samian ware from Aretium, costly enough for an emperor's table; in the cellars, so many amphoræ of Falernian wine and wines from Cyprus, so many ollæ of ale and beer. In the servants' quarters were so many slaves of the field and of the household, male and female; so many trained to trades, so many dancing boys, musicians, and dancing girls. There were so many coloni and casarii, who owned Eudemius as patronus and paid house and land rent yearly in money, produce, or service, who belonged to the estate and might not be sold without it. Of the slaves those who had died were accounted for; those who had been resold, or exchanged, or manumitted,--all save two. "These, lord," said Hito, without a change of face, "are two of whom I had it in mind to speak these many months ago. But when all things were to be prepared, there was no time. This woman, Eldris, did attempt escape; for what reason is not known. I gave command to pursue her. This was done. But when the men found her, she was dead; it is to be thought of cold and hunger. So she was put away. Let not my lord think that his servant was neglectful; we recaptured her, but she was dead. This one, Nicanor, was committed to the dungeons by order of our lord Marius; it is now nearly eight months ago. And for what reason is not known either. He is there still, since no further command hath been received regarding him. He was taken with a madness, and well-nigh killed my lord's slave. I would have put him to the rack, but my lord Marius said nay, that he was to be held until wanted. This was done." Lies and truth mingled on his tongue like oil and honey. Marius, sitting at Eudemius's elbow, looked up. "I remember the fellow," he said, searching his memory. "I meant to bring him to thy notice, that thou shouldst deal with him, and as I live, I forgot him. He it was who sought Lady Varia in her garden and was found by Marcus, whom you killed because he would not betray. But it appears, from what I could learn of Varia since then, that the man did no harm--was rather a poor fool telling crazy tales to which she listened as a child. It was a whim of Varia's, nothing more. And Nerissa doth swear that always she was within sight and hearing of the two,--though whether she says this to free her own skirts from blame, I know not,--and that all which was said and done was with her knowledge, for the humoring of her lady. So that the fellow hath done no actual wrong, it would seem." From the high pinnacle of his power he could afford to be indifferent--and he and Eudemius had weightier matters than a slave's fate to settle. "Hath he the privilege of trial?" Eudemius asked. "In what degree is he slave?" "Absolute!" said Hito, promptly. "Neither colonus nor casarius nor the son of such is he, nor even _esne_, whose trade might win him privileges." "Then send him to the mines," said Eudemius, with indifference. "If he hath done nothing, he cannot die, but his presumption deserves punishment, and this he shall have,"--and was deep in fresh papers before Hito had left the room. Hito summoned Wardo, upon whom of late days his favor had unexpectedly descended, and laid on him his commands. "Friend, there be a dozen and odd slaves marked for punishment, who are to be sent to the mines within the week. And among them is one black brute Nicanor; he goeth first of all. Thus our lord commands. Thou shalt go with them, with two men or three to aid thee, to receive their tally from the superintendent of the mines. Make arrangements so soon as may be, for I would be well rid of them. And if any seek escape by flight or mutiny--well, there is no need to be over easy with them. They will not be missed." But for one reason and another it was full two weeks before Wardo could get his people together; and by that time the festivities had begun, with the first of the arriving guests. First to come was Marcus Pomponius, Count of the Saxon Shore, with his wife Gratia, a woman whose beauty was famed throughout the island. He was a stately man, of the type which had made Rome what she would never be again,--mistress of the world. His face was pale, and high-bred, and graven deep with the chisel-lines of thought; his hair was hoary, a silver crown; his eyes, under black contrasting brows, were quick, keen, indomitable, as in his long-dead days of youth. Eudemius received his guests at the threshold of his house, attired royally, with a torques of gold about his neck and the great signet ring of his house upon his thumb. Gracious and commanding, he made his friends welcome with a courtly ease which no brooding years of solitude could rust. Beside him were Livinius and Marius; and to all who came Eudemius presented Marius as "my son." So shortly after the first guests came others, alone, or with their wives and daughters, until the great house was crowded full with busy life. The stately halls, warmed, perfumed with exotic plants, resounded with talk grave and gay, with songs and merriment and laughter. Musicians played on lyre and cithara, reed and tambour; there began an endless round of feasting, hunting, games, and sports. From the women's side of the house came floating breaths of perfume, suppressed laughter, a subtle emanation of aristocratic and luxurious femininity. And Varia, the pivotal point on which all hinged, the least considered of all of the household, was given neither peace nor solitude. From day till dark women fluttered around her, examining robes, jewels, head-dresses, shoes, with question and comment. She must try on this and try on that; she must be petted and caressed like a pampered plaything, and all with significant glances of pity and concern. Varia was very quiet these days. Childlike, she hid from Marius; childlike, sulked when he found her. Childlike, also, she hung in raptures over the gifts which were showered upon her, nor ever dreamed that they were the price with which she was bought. She hung aloof, shyly, from the invasion of her home; in her eyes a child's longing to join the merrymaking, mingled with all its dread of a rebuff. Marius, for his part, bore his honors easily. That he was popular among the guests went without saying. He hunted with the men and talked of state and war; he parried the agile thrusts of the women with laughing skill; he made persistent love to Varia. Nerissa, the old nurse who had brought up Varia from her forsaken childhood, going in to her charge to instruct her formally in the duties of wife and mother which lay before her, looked in at the door, smiled to herself, and went away. Half a dozen young beauties had taken possession before her, with chatter and laughter--slender Roman girls, of the haughtiest blood in Britain. Julia danced on the marble floor, in and out among the slender columns, in jewelled sandals of Varia's, her skirts held high; Nigidia and Valencia, between them, examined a peplus of white silk soft enough to be drawn through the hand, and woven with threads of gold. Gratia, named for her mother, and daughter of Count Pomponius of the Saxon Shore, sat on the couch beside Varia, slowly waving a new fan of peacock's feathers set in a handle of chased gold. Paula and Virginia were turning over an ivory casket of trinkets at a table near by. Varia sat with empty hands, watching and listening. For the first time in her darkened life she was knowing the companionship of her own age and kind, very shy, but longing greatly to be friendly, to talk and laugh as did these radiant others. "Tell us, Varia, what thy lover hath given thee?" Paula called gayly across the room. Julia, ceasing her dancing, put off the sandals, slipped on her own, and came to sit by Varia, on the other side. "Ay, tell us!" she cried, and slipped an arm around Varia's neck, girlwise. Varia flushed, half with pleasure at the embrace, half with confusion. "Many things, but I will have none of them," she answered. "Now but thou art a strange girl!" cried Paula. "Here thou hast a lover, on fire with love for thee, as all the world may see, and thou wilt avail thyself nothing of him. By the girdle of Venus! Had I such a lover pursuing me, I'd lead him such a dance that when I did yield he'd swear there was no goddess in heaven like me, and the beckon of my finger would be his command." "Thou, Paula!" Gratia scoffed, and shook the peacock fan at her. "Thou who hast more lovers than fingers on thy hands--" "Ay, but truly none quite like Varia's here. Whom can you name so strong, so masterful, so--well, so all that a girl would have? Varia, I am jealous! Why chose he thee instead of me?" "That were easy to tell," Nigidia murmured over the end of the peplus she held. But Varia did not hear. "I would that he had!" she said seriously, so that Gratia hugged her in a gale of laughter. "I do not wish to be pursued, as you say." "Now did ever woman wish that before!" cried Julia. "Even though we act perforce as though we did not. But I will say, cara, that thou hast succeeded very well with him. For it needs practice to treat a man with icy disdain when all the while thou art secretly longing that he will be bold and dare thy displeasure. When a girl knows how to tell a man that he must not, but he may if he will, her education is complete." "I do not understand," Varia said slowly, and flushed again. "I am very stupid; but--may, if he will, do what?" "Nay, never put such fancies in this innocent's head!" cried Gratia, in a protest only half serious. "She will learn soon enough without thy teaching." Nigidia left the ivory casket and came and sat on a footstool at Varia's feet, looking up at her with black eyes alight with raillery. "Tell us, cara," she said, "dost love him very much, this so masterful lover of thine?" "Nay," said Varia, in all seriousness. "I love him not at all." At once they fluttered around her, exchanging glances. "Why, how may that be? Tell us of it! How did he woo thee? What did he say and do?" Varia, laughing because they laughed, considered a moment, her head on one side. "As thou sayest, he is strong and very masterful," she said. "How did he woo me? Why, as ever a man wooes a maid, I suppose." "You suppose?" said Nigidia, sweetly, with a glance at the others. "Do you not know? Has none sought you in marriage before?" Varia shook her head. She knew not how to parry their curiosity; they, seeing this, were the more curious. "No," she confessed, low-voiced. They looked at her and at each other with round eyes of wonder in which laughter lurked. "Thy husband thy first lover!" Nigidia exclaimed, as one incredulous. "Poor little thing! Girls, is this not sad to hear? But then, poor child, how couldst thou help it, shut away in here where thou canst see never a man at all?" "Oh, I have seen a man!" Varia cried eagerly. "It is not quite so bad with me as that! A man like unto no other man in the world, I think!" Her face flushed, her eyes shone. Again a glance went round. "He, too, is strong and masterful, but tender--ah, so tender!" She clasped her hands; her lips trembled. "So, it is he whom thou lovest?" said Paula. Again the old pained bewilderment grew in Varia's eyes. "I--do not know," she faltered. "But I do!" said Paula. "See, then, is this how it is with thee?" She glanced at her companions with lowered lids; they drew closer, silent. "Night and day his voice, his eyes, are with thee. His name is a song which thy heart singeth dumbly; when it is spoken it makes thee quiver like a harp on which a certain note is touched. At the very thought of him, of his words, and his caresses, thou dost flush and tremble as though his hands had touched thee. (Girls, see the color burn!) A dear and tender pain is at thy heart; thou livest in dreams, and art possessed by aching unrest which yet is sweet. Is it not even thus with thee?" "Ay," said Varia, very low. "It is even thus." "Then thou dost love this man," said Paula. Her tone was final, admitting of no doubt. Varia, flushed from throat to brow, looked at her with shining eyes. "Ay, I love him--I know it now! For night and day his voice and eyes are with me, and his name and the words he hath said are a song to me. And night and day I hear him calling me, from far and far away, as so many times he hath called me to the garden. But now--woe is me! I may not come." "Get married, sweet, to him who loves thee, and then thou mayest have him whom thou dost love," said Nigidia. "If one has courage to do as one wills, and cleverness not to be found out, may not one do as one chooses? I know that Rubria, wife of Maximus Crispus, hath two lovers, and one of them is guest in this house. Who is thy lover, dear? What his name and station?" Varia hesitated. The impulse which kept her from revealing the truth was dumb and blind, but it was there, and it saved her. She bit her lip. "I will not tell!" she said in distress. "We promise not to take him from thee," said Nigidia, and laughed with the rest. "He sure must be the highest in the land, to win thy love," chimed in Paula, ready to carry on the game. "Perhaps it is Fabian, the friend of Marius, who hath the eyes of a god. Or perhaps it is old Aulus Plautus, of Gobannium. He is a widower these twenty years, and hath no teeth and but one eye--but his jewels sparkle enough for the other." But Varia's face changed, and her eyes grew dark and hunted. "Now you do make sport of me!" she cried. "What have I done that ye should bait me thus?" Before any girl could answer she faced them in a mist of quick, angry tears. "I am glad that my father's guests may be thus easily amused!" They started upon her, in a moment all contrition, ready to embrace her and make amends; but she jumped off the couch and fled from them into her bedchamber and closed the door. "We are as mean as we can be!" said Gratia, with reproach. "I think it great shame for us that we should not have remembered how it is with her. I am glad I was not first to start it!" Paula and Nigidia took fire. "What have we done save what we would do to any bride?" asked Paula. "Who could have thought she would take it so? But she is not so different from the rest of us, perhaps!" "Perhaps no better!" said Nigidia. "Then would she have thy teaching to thank for that!" Gratia flashed back. "And it is in my mind that the less she gets of it the better it will be for her." When Nerissa came again, shortly, it was to find her lady alone and weeping. But this was no new thing of late. Nerissa came prepared to speak solemnly, as was her duty; Varia turned a petulant shoulder to her. "Why will ye not let me be in peace?" she cried. "I do not wish to wed--I am happy as I am. I will _not_ be meek and obedient, and incline in all things unto my lord husband! I do not wish him for husband! I hate him. And oh, Nerissa, in three days--" She wept afresh. Nerissa stroked her hair. "There, then, lady-bird, never take it so! It is right that all maids should wed. The lord Marius will be kind to thee; he will give thee great affection. At least, the gods grant that he may! Thou wilt have jewels such as thou hast never dreamed of, and robes such as thou hast never seen. Thou wilt be a very great lady, little nursling o' mine. Ay me, but it is strange! These arms were the first to cradle thee; these hands dressed thee in the first little clothes of thy babyhood. Such _little_ clothes! Now they deck thee for thy bridal--and perhaps it may not be so long before they have other little clothes to handle. See, child of my heart, wouldst not be glad to have a tiny son of thine own, to love and play with? Wouldst not like to feel a round little head against thy heart, two so tiny hands opening the gates of all happiness before thee? Wouldst not see two baby eyes lulled into sleep by thy drowsy crooning? Say, sweet one, wouldst thou not like this?" Varia raised her face slowly, starry eyes wide and very sweet with awe, young lips parting in reverent wonder. "Ay," she breathed, and flushed and trembled. "I should like that. A little son, of all mine own! But I would not have it his son, O Nerissa! I would he might be son of a man such as I have dreamed of; a man brave, and rough, and tender--ay, all these! What should I care that he had no gold--have I found it such a blessing? For he would have more than gold--that which no man could give him, and no man take away. And his son should be like him; and the son of such a man I could love, and be proud that he was mine." Nerissa smiled, a tender hand on Varia's head. "Ay, I know, I know! Poor little one, we all have our dreams--even thou--and we all must wake from them. If this son of thine should be as the one who is to be his father, it will be very well. For the lord Marius is an honorable man, and strong." Varia made a gesture of fierce protest. "Bah! If he looked at me with those eyes, black and haughty, if his mouth was thin and his nose like an eagle's beak, and his hair stiff, so that I could not run it through my fingers, I should hate him even as I hate his father!" Nerissa laughed. "Sweet, my baby girl, it would be long or ever thou couldst see haughtiness in the eyes of that baby of thine, or thin lips; and as for the nose--! And I dare swear that when thou first dost look, thou wilt not find any hair at all, much less what is stiff. Come, cheer thee, my very dear! Believe that thy lord father knoweth what is best for thee. Thou art his own; he would never do thee wrong." "Now am I not so sure of that!" said Varia, and her voice changed and was strange. "Oh, Nerissa, it is not that I would not wed! I, too, would know what joy and fulness a woman's life may hold, and perhaps I am not too much fool to understand. But one cannot teach me from whom I shrink with every breath I draw. These things I cannot understand. When I would think and question, there is something just beyond me, which I cannot grasp,--" she raised a hand, groping,--"something which escapes me, and when I think I have it, lo! it vanishes, and I wander in the dark. Birds I can understand, and trees, and little flowers, and clouds, and sunlight, and rippling brooks; but men and women I cannot understand; they all are strange to me, and I do not at all know why. I fear them; I am restless and unhappy. One only in all the world have I seen who was not strange. Him I could understand; when he spoke, all my heart sang in answer; it was what I longed to say and could not, and I do not at all know why. There was that in him which was in me, and yet I am fool and he is not, and this also I cannot understand. Will it ever be that I shall understand, O Nerissa?" Nerissa sat on the couch beside her and drew her into her arms. "Some day, surely, my pet," she soothed. "Think of it no more--never fret thyself with foolish fancies. Now it groweth late and is time to sleep. Thou shalt be my baby once again, for this night is the last I shall have thee all mine own." She called slave women, and had them pack away the scattered silks and gauzes in the chests from which they had been taken, and make all ready for the night. Thereafter she sent them all away, even the body-slaves and tire-women, and herself waited upon her mistress. She freed Varia's hair from the jewelled pins which held it, combed its dusky length, and braided it in two long braids. She brought water in a great brazen jar, and filled the sunken marble bath in the red-tiled bathroom, and bathed her lady with scented soaps and perfumes. She cradled her in her arms, wrapped in warm rugs, and rocked and crooned old slumber songs as though her charge had been in fact a child again. The lamps burned low, the room was warm and still. Varia, nestled in the arms that had been to her a mother's arms, stirred drowsily once or twice, and each time Nerissa bent over her, and felt her feet beneath the rugs to see that they were warm, studying with tender care the soft outline of rounded cheek, the long lashes down-dropped to hide the starry eyes, the quiet rise and fall of breath. "She is but a child! She will forget!" she murmured. But Varia spoke, in a voice straight from the land of dreams, opening upon her eyes misty with sleep. "One does not forget!" she said drowsily. "One loses a thing, for a long time, it may be, but some shadow of that thing is always left, even to a fool. Is it not so?" "Ay, if thou sayest," said Nerissa, as readily as she would have agreed that pigs were butterflies if her lady had willed them so. But Varia was asleep before she spoke. All through that night Nerissa held her nursling in fond, anxious arms that knew no weariness, brooding over her as a mother with her child. Just as gray dawn came drifting in at the windows, the feast in the great house broke up, and the guests, most of them half drunken, sought their rooms. And just at dawn word began to pass from station to station, and from town to town, of a city set in flames--fair Anderida in the South, as the crow flies, sixty Roman miles away. But of this, and what it portended, the villa knew nothing. IV Many things happened that day which the villa and the world came to know too well. The sun was scarcely an hour high when mounted men rode to the villa, demanding to see its lord. Of these, one was Aurelius Menotus, one of the two duumviri or governors of Anderida; and with him was his son Felix, small and fair of skin, with weak eyes and a loose, stubborn mouth, who wore no sword and whose arm was in a sling. Slaves brought them to Eudemius, and he welcomed them, and they told their tale. Aurelius was a shrunken man, with a baboon face, straggling gray hair, and hands perfect as those of a god. He had ridden hard all night, and was pasty pale with fatigue and trouble; and his staff, mostly old men, were in hardly better plight. Two of the servants with them were wounded; it was told that a third had died on the road. They were cared for and given food and wine, and Eudemius sent for Marius to hear also what they had to tell. No other guests were stirring. "Two nights ago men came upon us," Aurelius said, in his thin and nervous voice. "They come, men say, from Gaul, driven thence by Attila the Hun, and seek safety among their kinsfolk who are already here. No man can tell how the trouble first began. The first that we in the palace knew, a soldier of the watch came and warned the guard that there was fighting in the lower quarters of the city. For long no one could tell what was the trouble; it was dark, and there was much confusion. I sent out milites stationarii to quell the tumult; these reported that the insurgents, who have given much trouble of late, had joined openly with the barbarians; had overthrown the temple of Jupiter and slain the Flamen Dialis. Two hours before midnight, that night, the public baths were blown up in their own steam, and fire broke out in various parts of the city. The barbarians, inflamed with wine and the example of the insurgents, began to plunder. Thou knowest my forces have been steadily diminished these last three years, and together the barbarians and the insurgents outnumbered the Augustans five to one. My colleague in office, Titus Honius the Abulcian, going out to pacify the people, was slain. I and my companions fled just before daybreak yesterday. Many people have taken to the forest. The city is now a very hell of drunkenness, rapine, fire, and smoke. And this, it seems to me, is but the beginning. Those barbarians who have long been settled here, upon the Eastern Shore, and those who still keep coming, will together outnumber us, insurgents and Augustans both. It is in my mind to propose that we, the lords of the cities, send again to Ætius, proconsul in Gaul, for help, even as we did two years ago." "I fear that is what it must come to," said Eudemius, thoughtfully. He turned to Marius. "Think you that Ætius can spare us a legion again?" Marius shrugged his shoulders. "It is hard to say," he answered. "I think it likely that he will, if he be not himself too hard pressed." "Marcus Pomponius and Quintus Fabius are here, with many others of the lords," said Eudemius. "We celebrate this day the betrothal feast of my daughter and Marius here,--" he laid a hand on the young tribune's shoulder,--"and in three days the marriage. If you will stay, we may talk of this together." "I feel scarce in humor for marriage feasts and gaiety," said Aurelius. "My people are dead, my city falling to ashes. But I will stay at least long enough to discuss what plans we may think of for relief. If aught is to be done it should be done quickly." "Rest now," Eudemius said, "and to-night, if you will, join us at the feasting." He clapped his hands, and when slaves came, ordered that his new guests be taken to rooms and baths prepared for them. They went away, a weary and dejected set of men. Eudemius and Marius paced the gallery together. "If Ætius cannot send help--" said Eudemius, following his own train of thought. "Have you arms in the house and slaves who can use them?" said Marius, following his. "Anderida is but sixty miles away, and if these barbarians be, as Aurelius thinks, inflamed with wine and blood, they will not stop to think whether or not they attack those who have attacked them." Eudemius stopped in his stride. "You think--that?" he said with worried brows. "It had not occurred to me. There have been uprisings, of course, but for the most part the Saxons have been peaceful. It is the insurgents who have given most trouble. But you are right; no man can foresee what may happen these days. I will call Hito and bid him number the slaves who are capable of bearing arms." Hito received his orders, and in turn called Wardo, and bade him release all prisoners sentenced to the mines save those suspected of anti-Augustan sympathies. These, it was considered, would be most likely to take sides with the barbarians, as the insurgents had done at Anderida, and it would be as well to get them out of the way. The villa, being some miles off both the Noviomagus road and the Bibracte road, might remain unmolested; the fury of barbarians and insurgents might spend itself on the towns nearer the coast,--Regnum, Portus Magnus, and the like. Still, their lord had decided that they must be prepared for whatever might come to pass, and prepared they must be. Wardo said little during Hito's peroration, smiled once or twice at its commencement, and at its close expressed his willingness to obey. He stated that he knew of but a half dozen of those sentenced to punishment who might be suspected of sympathy with the insurgents, and declared that two men would be quite sufficient to act as guard. He was given full permission to arrange the matter as he chose,--Hito stipulating only that he and his men should return as promptly as possible,--and went off whistling softly between his teeth. That day there was much activity in the armory and in the slaves' quarters; and rumors flew darkly, and men believed all that they were told. Toward evening, Aurelius, unable to rest for the burden of apprehension that was on him, begged that the lords might meet in council without delay, that measures should be taken for the relief of the harassed island. Therefore, while slaves were busy in the Hall of Columns, where the betrothal feast was to be held, while Varia, amid stormy tears, was arrayed by her servants for the ceremonies, and the women guests were absorbed in toilet mysteries, those of the men who were governors or who were possessed of greatest power in their own cities, were summoned to the library of their host. Eudemius spoke first, gravely, with Aurelius, pale and silent, on his right hand, and on his left Marius, thin-lipped and alert, all the soldier in him roused. And Marius, of all the men present, was the youngest. "Friends," said Eudemius, "I have gathered you here together on a matter of much moment. You all know Aurelius Menotus, governor of Anderida. He hath a tale to tell you, which I doubt not will prove startling. When it is told, we should take counsel together, those of us who are here, without waiting for the lords and governors who for one reason and another are not with us. With some of these we are, as you know, not on good terms. There hath been jealousy and strife, much rivalry and more ill-feeling, between the cities. Now, if we hope to save ourselves, all this must be forgotten. If we never agreed before, we must agree now, for a common foe threatens us, against whom nothing short of our united strength will avail." He ceased; and Aurelius rose and faced a silent room, standing beside the table, with nervous fingers feeling at a scroll which lay there. [Illustration: "Half a dozen young beauties had taken possession--girls of the haughtiest blood in Britain."] "Friends," he began, and cleared his throat and hesitated, "I am here before ye, a man without a home, a governor without a city. Two nights ago Saxons landed on our coasts, among the marshes, and entered Anderida. The details of the whole I have not yet learned; whether they assaulted first, or were provoked by some real or fancied injury of the citizens. However this may be, they set upon us, and slew us, and were joined by certain of the insurgents, who, it seems, have only awaited a chance to rise in open revolt against the Empire, as represented in us. United, they outnumbered those who were loyal to me by ten to one, and I and mine, being all unprepared, were forced to flee. We fought our way out of the city, and fled with others into the forest, leaving the barbarians and the insurgents in possession. The temple of Jupiter is destroyed and his priests are killed; the statues of the Emperor in the Forum are wantonly shattered. One of the flamens who escaped joined our party as we fled, and said that those who have committed these outrages are not Goths nor Vandals, nor yet Saxons in revolt, but Romans, men of our own blood, who should be of our religion. They it was who destroyed, and incited the barbarians to greater excesses. Now I am come to you to plead for help. We stand on the brink of great danger, and we are in no position to help ourselves. It is to others that we must look. Where are our troops? We have none, or next to none. Daily these barbarians encroach upon us; our seas swarm with pirates, and we cannot resist." Marcus Pomponius, the Count of the Saxon Shore, raised his head and looked at him. "You are right, but you have not told all,--not so much as the half of it," he said. His voice was low and deep, and resonant as a trumpet. "You, living here in the South, in Britannia Prima, can have no idea of how things are in Maxima Cæsariensis, in Flavia Cæsariensis, or on the Eastern Shore. One month ago, Constantine, my son, came from Deva. He says that these provinces are no longer Roman, but Saxon, and that for the most part without force or bloodshed. As for me and those who were before me, year by year we have seen our power weakening, our troops drawn off, cohort by cohort, until our ward of the Eastern Marches is but an empty mockery. It is simply that, as we have retreated, Saxons have advanced, inch by inch, until now they have gained a foothold from which I believe no power that we may bring can dislodge them. They have settled in our towns, mingled with us, married our women, obeyed our laws--but they are here; and they are not of us, but alien, and they will stay. I hold that this, the beginning of the end, began twenty-seven years ago, when Fabian Procinus, the consul, abandoned Eboracum and moved to the southern provinces with his forces. We can all remember that day, I think. What happened? Saxons entered that deserted city and established themselves there. When they became crowded, they moved, not back to their northern fastnesses, but down to other cities and towns of ours. And they are there still. The towns which we destroyed, hoping thus to stay them, they rebuilt. It is true that for the most part they have been peaceable and orderly; but it is also true that when fresh bands have come upon us, these settled ones have sided with them against us. This is where blood is spilled. They may be trying to find peace for themselves, and a land to rest in, but slowly and surely they are either absorbing us or driving us into the sea. This is what we must face to-day." Two or three nodded, half reluctantly, as though they recognized a fact long known, and held aloof so far as might be. Pomponius glanced from grave face to grave face. His voice dropped a note lower. Not for nothing had he been trained to speak in the Forum before men. "Friends, the fault of the whole matter lieth with us, in Roman hands. If Romans lose Britain, and if Saxons win it, it will be the fault of none but Romans." A murmur went through the room, wordless, speaking more plainly than words. Pomponius raised his hand. "Have patience, I pray you, and hear me! What I shall say is, in a manner, treason against our divinity, our lord Emperor, yet before now truth hath been found in treason. The crux of the whole matter lieth in the fact that we, Romans, lords paramount of Britain, have divided ourselves into two sects--religious, if you will; but when was not religion used for State purposes, or State purposes for religion? You cannot divide the two. We are polytheists, worshipping the ancient gods of our fathers, or we are Augustans, worshipping the divinity of our lord Emperor. And of the two, which is the true faith hath nothing at all to do with the matter. The point lieth in the fact that there are two. Beset as we are by outer dangers, it needs small wit to see that our sole hope is in unity of thought and purpose. This division, for ourselves, was bad enough. It was worse when we found pitted against us two other religions, of two separate peoples here with whom we had to deal. One, the religion of the ancient Gaels, which we found here, and which was druidical and wholly abhorrent in our eyes; the other, the religion of the Goths and Saxons, which, like our own elder faith, was polytheistic. "You know that Rome's policy hath ever been to absorb, to make bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh what she hath taken for her own. And herein lies her true greatness. But Gaelic or British gods would never unite with Roman gods; it was an alien creed, with no single point in common. Gothic gods would so unite,--mark you that,--for Gothic religion differed from Roman only in the names of its gods and in a coarser fibre which with us had been refined away. What did we, therefore,--we, that is the Romans our fathers,--for the furthering of our purposes and for the glory which was Rome's? We took the Goths unto ourselves and gave them our religion. We taught them that their Hesus was none but Bacchus, their Freya our Venus, their Thor our Jupiter Tonans. But could we do this with the Gaels, who had nothing in common with us, whose meaningless rites could have no part in the beliefs of the commonwealth? No. Did we therefore give them the privileges of citizenship, the right to hold offices of priesthood and State, which we gave to those Goths and Saxons who came among us peaceably? No. We made Saxons our allies against alien gods, and we did wisely. They fought side by side with us, they tilled our lands, and were our equals. And so long as the old faith was among us, all was well. For to my mind, what I shall tell you, and nothing else, is the secret of Rome's power. Armies alone can hold a captive people for no longer than steel is bared, and Rome knew this. But her religion took up the work where her armies had left it. Being eclectic, it embraced all gods,--although this is not to say that every Roman worshipped all of these,--and those peoples whom she conquered were not ravished with violence from their creeds and forced to kneel at unlike altars. Each nation might find a parallel for its gods in Rome's pantheon, and so might be brought without shock into Rome's fold. For, take a man's gods from him, whatsoever they may be that he worships, and give him nothing in return to which he can hold, and at once you take from him all that anchors him to the rationalities of life. "Therefore I say that so long as the old faith endured, it was well with us. But the worship of the Emperor's divinity was instituted; and it was something in which these people could find no parallel to their own gods. They said: 'Why should we worship one of whose powers we know nothing? Your gods, which it seems after all are our gods under new names, are well enough. We want no other, who is no god of ours. How may this Emperor of yours be god as well as man?' But we Romans upheld this new religion, with powers of government, with grants of land, with the erection of new temples, with all manner of benefices, for those who would think as we thought. To those who would not, we said: 'Worship as we worship, or it will be the worse for you.' Who reaped the benefits of this change? We, the Augustans, who had conformed to it. Who paid the penalty? Those who clung to the old order, and so defied us, becoming insurgent. Romans became divided even as Goths, taking part with them against their own people. And herein were we in grave error, for we needed all our strength, not to fight each other, but to fight our common foes. Now it is our turn to pay the penalty for this, and it shall be a heavy one. "The insurgents, few in number as they were, and not powerful, bribed the Saxon chieftains, who would else have lived peaceably enough among us, by promises of plunder if they would join with them. And the chieftains were the more readily persuaded to this, since it was a righteous thing to uphold the old gods, and if there was reward for doing it, in the way of booty, so much the better. The Romans who set them on were pleased; the gods were pleased; the chieftains were pleased. So here you have it, friends, the prime cause of our undoing. It is our own people, of our blood and our speech, who, rebelling against law and order, are stirring these Saxons against us. It is they who have razed Augustan temples, destroyed holy relics, and slain Augustan priests--they, and not the Saxons. I say again: when Britain passes from our hands, it will not be by Saxon means, but primarily by Roman treachery. And Saxons, profiting by our internal strife and their own position, will reap the benefits." He ceased; and his words hung in the silence of the room. They looked at him, grave bearded men; and the truth of what he said was in their faces. "You speak as though we were in fault," said an old man, querulously, far down the room. "Our fathers, not we, have done these things." "Our fathers were Romans, and we are Romans, and their mistakes are our heritage," said Pomponius, sternly. "Let us have care that we leave no such heritage to those who shall call us fathers." "Britain is not out of our hands yet," said Aurelius. "And it is for us to keep her there.--How?" Again there fell a silence. Out of it a musing voice spoke. "No troops in Britain; Gaul, our nearest help, beset by Huns.... But Gaul is our only hope. We must ask Ætius for a legion as we did two years ago." A shrug went around the assembly. Plainly it said: "There is no other thing to do." "If we could but agree to act together in this!" said the old man. Men called him Paulus Atropus, and bore with his senility for sake of what he had been. "It would seem that in this matter there can be no room for argument; we all must think alike for once. But should we not wait to hear from those of our colleagues who are absent, before we move?" "What need?" Aurelius asked feverishly. "As you say, they can but think as we do. There is nothing else to be done; and if we wait to hear from them, and to discuss pro and con, we shall gain nothing and lose time. It is for their safety, as well as ours." "I think we should wait until they can join with us," said Paulus stubbornly. The talk eddied over his head. "Who will go?" said Caius Valens; and men turned their eyes to Marius. He was the only man in active service there, though not the only one who had seen it. "It needs one swift and sure." "Why not Marius?" Pomponius said, with a friendly glance at Marius. "Once before he hath come from Gaul to our aid; he can win to Ætius quicker than any of us; he is a soldier, and knows conditions, and what to ask for." Eudemius made a gesture of protest. "Friends, believe that I, too, have the best interests of our country at heart," he said quickly. "But Marius, who shortly becomes my son, is the one hope of my old age. I would not call him back from what is his duty; if this mission falls to him I shall be the first to speed him. But what need is there for such frantic haste? There have been attacks before, as severe as this one. Also this is not the first time we have thought of appealing for help. The need is no more imperative now than many times before. Therefore, if he be chosen, I pray you a little time. To-day is his betrothal; in three days his marriage. Until then, leave him to me!" Few of the lords present but knew Eudemius's story and the conditions under which his daughter's marriage would take place; and none who knew did not sympathize. "A week would be time," said Pomponius, and one or two nodded. But Aurelius struck his clenched fist upon the table. "Nay!" he shouted. "I say that he should start this day! It is _my_ city that burns!" "I am ready," said Marius. "You all know that I shall start this night if you will it so. But I promise you that this delay shall harm us nothing, since I shall send ahead at once to post relays to the coast, and give command for a vessel to be in waiting at Rutupiæ. As to whether I shall be successful, that is another question. It seems to me that Ætius will have need of all his men for himself. They are none too many." "Do the best you can, and it will be all we ask," said Pomponius. Old Paulus, at his end of the table, leaned his face forward upon his hand. "Friends, this is the first time in the history of the world that Rome hath withheld aid from her sons who needed it, and cast them off to shift as best they could. And I have lived to see it! I have indeed lived too long!" Again heads nodded, gravely and sombrely. Paulus was not alone in his bitterness. For the first time in the history of the world men stood aside and watched their country falling into ruins before their eyes with a swiftness greater in proportion to its mighty length of life than ever country had fallen before; and it was a bitter sight. Pomponius, courtly, ever mindful of others, was first to shake off the gloom to which Paulus had given voice. "Friends, we must not make this a solemn betrothal feast!" he said. "We have agreed--the most of us--that the danger is not over pressing. Let us then set aside care while we may, for these few days, at least. Our host did not bring us together to see long faces. While we live, let us live!" He turned to Marius. "For sake of thee and thy bride, friend, we will forget as we may the clouds which threaten us. Look to it that when shortly we call on you, we find no cause to regret it." "You shall find no cause," said Marius. That afternoon Aurelius departed with his people. He would see for himself what damage had been wrought upon his city, and whether or not it was still in the hands of the insurgents and barbarians. He was in no humor for betrothal feasts and merrymaking when his city was lost. He had come there hoping to obtain help and prompt concerted action on the part of his colleagues. He could not get it; so he would go away again. But he left behind him Felix, his pale-eyed son, who was wounded and wore his arm in a sling, and for doing so gave no man his reasons. V Wardo, the tall Saxon, sword-girt and muffled in his cloak, lighted his torch at the cresset which burned at the head of the passage behind the storerooms, and started down the slimy steps leading to the dungeon levels. Evening had fallen, fragrant with warm earth-scents and the odors of flowers; a silent night of Spring, when Earth slept and gathered strength for the new life she should bring forth. All that could be heard of the high feasting going on in the great house was a haunting snatch of music drifting now and again into the night on the soft air. Yet Wardo knew that in the Hall of Columns, with its rare frescoes, its lights and perfumes and flowers, men and women, robed in the splendor of their wealth and station, were drinking the health of the betrothed pair from cups which each had cost ten times its weight in gold; that wrestlers, brought from the arena at Uriconium, were striving with sweat and strain for the purse of twenty sestertii offered to the winner; and dancing girls from far Arabia were posing to the plaintive wail of reeds and the thin tinkle of cymbals. But of all this the rear courts knew nothing. Here was only hurrying to and fro of jaded slaves laden with amphoræ of wine and oil and honey; the smell of roasting meats, the clash of pots and kettles. Here, behind the scenes, were the ropes and pulleys which set the stage that the actors might strut through their lordly parts; here was no relaxation and luxurious ease, but labor stern and unremitting, since always pleasure must be paid for by toil. But Wardo, on his special mission, was exempt from menial tasks. He descended the steps, from level to level, in a stone-bound stillness, the nails in his sandals striking at times faint sparks of light from the uneven flagging he trod. Near the door of Nicanor's cell he paused. His light, flung upon rough-hewn walls, showed down three steps the grated doors of the wine-cellars. Away to his right, down a narrow pitch-black tunnel, were the walls of the hypocausts behind which fires roared and ravened. Through these tunnels, in Summer, the furnaces were approached to be repaired and cleaned. "If the light fall upon him too suddenly, it may blind him," said Wardo. "And perhaps he sleeps. I will go softly and make sure." He thrust his torch into an iron socket in the wall, and went to the door of Nicanor's prison hole. Here he felt with stealthy hands for the small wicket, to be shut or opened only from the outside, built in every cell-door that a warder might hear or see what his prisoner did within. This he pushed back an inch, carefully, without noise, and bent his ear to the opening. So he heard a voice issuing out of the eternal darkness within; a voice steady and resonant, and sustained as though it had been speaking for some time. Out of the darkness it reached his ears as a thing disembodied, seeming scarcely of the earth or of human lips. In it was a thrill born of the pure joy of creation; prisoned, it yet was free with a freedom whose limits were the limits of earth and sky and thought, unchained, recking not of dripping walls nor aching darkness, for these things were nothing. "Out of the East three Kings came riding, on padded camels with harness of gold. One was lord of the kingdom of life, and one of the kingdom of love, and one of the kingdom of death, and each one had said: 'Behold me! I am supreme.' But they heard that there lived one mightier than they; and first they scoffed, and next they marvelled, and then they came to see. People ran to watch them as they passed upon their journey, and called them great and mighty; and to himself each said: 'They speak of me.' Each wore about his neck a torques of gold; and in the first was set a diamond, and in the second was set a ruby, hot as passion, and in the third was set a pearl. Slaves walked behind them, bearing hampers filled with gifts for that one who was mightier than they; forty and four were the slaves that walked behind them, and the hampers were covered with cloth of gold. "So came they to their journey's end at nightfall, when the weary earth was sinking into rest; and they looked about them for a palace more splendid than their own, fitting for that one who was mightier than they. But there were only the houses of the town, and stables. They asked of strangers where such a palace might be, and none could tell them. Then asked they if a very great and mighty king had been there, and folk shook their heads and answered nay. There were many strangers, and all the inns were full, but there was no mighty king that they had seen. One said: 'It may be that he goeth in disguise,' and the others answered: 'That may be so.' So they alighted and went into an inn; and across the courtyard of the inn, in the stalls under the house where cattle stood, they saw a group of people, three or four. "And in the centre of the group a bearded man was kneeling, and beside him, upon clean straw, lay a Woman and her Child. The Kings stood within the stable, and their greatness was as a glory of light upon the place. Chains of gold they wore upon their necks, and rings upon their hands, and the crowns upon their heads were bright with jewels. They looked at the Woman that lay upon the straw against her man's knees; and she was fair and young and tender, and her eyes were full of joy and pain. And one whispered to them: 'Behold, but now she hath brought a man-child into the world, here in this place, among sweet-breathing oxen and lowing kine.' So they looked upon the Child that lay on his Mother's arm." The voice stopped short, and silence reeled down upon the world once more. Before Wardo could move or speak it came again, changed this time and strained, all the thrill gone out of it and only weariness left, the voice of one again in chains. "Eh, thou little Christus, thou hast been brother and comrade both to me in this my loneliness! But now am I indeed fast stuck in a quagmire of uncertainty. Wherein did lie thy power? This I must know or ever the tale can end. I have the Kings, their might and majesty, their robes, and the gifts they bring. I have thy Mother, young and fair and tender, with holy eyes. I have her man, who was not sire to thee, his care for her, his human doubt and questionings. I have the servants of the inn, the shepherds.--Thou great bully Rag, thou hast stood model more often than thou knowest!--I have the cattle dozing in the stalls, the tumult and the shouting of the inn. All this I can paint so that it shall stand forth quick with life; for give me a word, a thought, an action, and I can find the tale in it. But on my life I cannot find why men should worship thee, thou little helpless Child. And until I can, I have no motive for my tale; a thing eludes me which I cannot catch. What power didst hold over men that they should bow to thee? Wherein did lie thy strength? For men will worship only that which is stronger than they--and how wert thou stronger? Was it through fear?--who would fear a babe?--A child, little and ugly and very red, as I have seen babes in the arms of slave-women in the mart at Londinium, with a crumpled mouth wet with his mother's milk--in the name of the high gods, what should men see in such a thing to worship? Thus ever do I question, and until I find my answer the tale is not complete." There was a restless movement in the dark, a soft shuffle of sandalled feet pacing up and down, endlessly up and down. The voice dropped to a broken mutter in which but a word now and then was to be caught. "Oh, for a ray of sun or moon to tell if it be day or night! The darkness beats upon mine eyelids like a thousand hammers, until my brain is sick and reeling.... Hath one ever made of this a tale before me, I wonder? The girl did not say. Where is she now, that black-haired love of Hito's? Is she caught and brought back like a rabbit to the kennels of the hounds? That is quite likely, and will be no fault of mine." Again the voice stopped, and with it the pacing footsteps. "Thou here, Momus?" Nicanor said suddenly. "So then; it must be time for food. Thou canst tell that, graybeard; if thou couldst tell whether day or night time, I'd carve an ivory figure of thee and hold all thy kind in honor. Maybe they will forget us again, as they have forgot us before. If so, soon I must eat thee, friend, and this will grieve me, less for thy sake than for mine own." "Who hath he here?" Wardo muttered in perplexity. He placed his lips to the slit and spoke aloud. "Nicanor!" Instant silence fell, while one might have counted ten. Then Nicanor's voice, keen and quiet, said: "Who calls?" "I, Wardo," answered Wardo, feeling for his eight-inch-long key. "I will get my light and enter, for I have news for thee." He got his torch, unlocked the door, and entered, locking it behind him, for his orders were strict. The light fell upon Nicanor, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, hands clasping his knees, and glistened in his eyes, untamed beneath their shaggy thatch of brow. He was leaner than ever, and his face was gaunt. He blinked uncertainly at the flare and turned his head from it. "I begged Hito that he let me be the one to bring thy food," said Wardo, and spoke as one in self-excuse. "But not until to-day could I win him to it. Now I have come to tell thee--" He hesitated; started again with a rush of words. "Thou art sentenced to the mines, with certain others, and I am ordered to convey thee thither." "So?" said Nicanor. "It seems to hold scant interest for thee!" said Wardo curiously, half piqued. "At this moment, little man, bread and a bone hold more of interest for me than all the mines in Britain," said Nicanor, with a laugh. "Give me these, and I'll show thee how much I have of interest." Wardo found himself falling into the half ironic raillery of his prisoner's mood. "There should be plenty of both when this night's feasting is over. I'll see thou hast thy share--" "What feasting? Is it night?" Nicanor asked. "True; I forgot thou couldst not know," said Wardo. "To-night is held the betrothal feast of our lady and the lord Marius." The careless figure on the floor stiffened, as it seemed, into stone as it sat. Nicanor turned his head, slowly, and looked up at his gaoler. The movement had in it something of the stealthiness of an animal crouching to spring. "Betrothed--to-night?" he muttered. The hands about his knees tightened until their muscles strained under the brown skin; but the light was bad, and Wardo's eyes were not over keen to see what he was not looking for. "Why, yes," said Wardo. "It is held in the Hall of Columns. By this time, without doubt, the kiss is given and taken, the pledge is passed, and our little lady by rights is in another's keeping. It wants only the marriage three days hence." Nicanor rose lithely to his feet, pressing back his mane of hair with both hands. "Wardo, we two have been friends, have we not, ever since we put each the other to sleep with blows over the baker's black-eyed daughter?" Wardo looked at him. "Ay, that is so," he said sincerely. "Then I shall ask of thee a thing which will put all thy friendship to the test," said Nicanor. His voice was rapid and tense, and Wardo began to look at him in surprise. "Let me go free and unhindered from here for two hours. I give my word that when that time is over I will be at any place thou shalt name, to go with thee willingly thy prisoner. If aught untoward befall, no blame shall come to thee. It will be easily done; the stewards are busy, and I shall have care not to be seen." "But--body of me!--this is impossible!" Wardo cried, confounded. "I am friend to thee, but I am my lord's gaoler, for the time, and it would betray my lord for me to do this. Wherefore dost desire it? What will it avail thee--freedom for two hours?" "It will avail me much," Nicanor answered. "Have I ever broken faith with thee or any man?" "Nay," said Wardo. "Thou wilt steal, as I have known, but thou wilt not lie, and I would have thy word as soon as another's bond. Sure never was there such a strange fellow--" "Then believe that I will not break faith now. How may our lord be the worse for it? Thou hast ever been friend to me, man; we have drunk together and feasted together and starved together; we have fought together and clasped hands together. Dost remember a day of freedom we two spent together, in the wine-shop to which I took thee, on the island in the fords, when we and the five drunken gladiators fought until the watch fell upon us, and how we escaped, both battered and bloody, and left the gladiators in their hands?" Wardo grinned regretfully. "Eh, that was a great day! I have the scars yet. We have seen good days together, thou and I." "And they are gone over now, and done with. Here we part, I to the mines, thou to the arms of thy fat Hito, I wish thee joy of him! Comrade, dost remember that when we say farewell here it will not be for to-day, nor to-morrow, but for all long time to come? I to the mines, and who enters there comes not forth again." Wardo clenched his fists. "I know--I know! I'd give a finger if it had not to be!" He stood a moment, his flaxen head bent, lost in troubled thought. Quite suddenly he turned upon Nicanor, who, lynx-eyed, watched. "See then; I owe fealty to my lord, but thou art my friend, and this thing I cannot do. We have starved together and fought together, thou and I! The gods judge me, but thou art my friend! I have money--not much, but more than nothing. Take thou it--I'll leave the way open--and escape. Or, if thou wilt, overpower me on the road to Gobannium--there'll be but two men with me, and I'll see to them. Save thyself, and leave the rest to me." Nicanor laid his left hand on Wardo's shoulder. Their eyes were on a level; tall men they were, both, one dark, lean, steel-muscled as a great cat; the other fair, more fully fleshed, massive in bulk as a tawny bull. "Leave thee to face double punishment, mine as a runaway slave, and thine as his abettor?" said Nicanor, and laughed softly. "Nay, thou art _my_ friend, and the gods judge me if I put thee in this plight. I did not know I had such a friend in the world. Many things have I learned in this time of darkness, and this have I also found." Wardo hung his head, without speech. He thrust out his hand abruptly, and Nicanor's hand closed over it. They stood a moment, in a silence which needed no words from either. "By the soul of my mother, I shall do it!" Wardo said then, huskily. "By the soul of my mother, thou shalt not!" said Nicanor. "When I escape, it shall be when thou canst not be brought to task for it. But if thou wouldst prove true friend, leave the way open for two hours. More will not help me now." "So be it," said Wardo. "Here is the key. When we go, let us lock the door behind us. Return here, then, and await me within. But, Nicanor, if thou art not here, I shall make no search." "I shall be here," said Nicanor, briefly. Wardo took his torch; they left the cell. Nicanor locked the door, thrust the key into his belt, and without a word started up the passage into the darkness. Two hours speed swiftly when they hold life and death and all that lies between. VI Nicanor gained the passage behind the storerooms, at the head of which the cresset flared, and reached the court, meeting no one. The cool air flooded him, and he raised his head and breathed it deeply. For eight long months his lips had panted for it. As he had foreseen, the court was deserted; all the household slaves were busy in this way and that about the feast. He cast a calculating glance upward at the crescent moon, struggling through banking clouds. "Till she touches the top of the stunted lime," he muttered, and crossed the court with his long noiseless stride. A distant strain of music wandered out across the night; and at all it whispered of that which was not for him he set his teeth with a smothered groan. Past silent courts he went, avoiding the teeming kitchens, and through narrow passages and empty rooms. A slave boy with a trayful of broken meats passed him where he hung concealed in the deep shadow of one court. He made a motion forward, his hungry eyes gleaming; drew back in silence and let the boy pass on. It was many hours since he had tasted food, but he dared not risk betrayal. So he gained a certain small doorway in one of the lesser courts, a deep recess, merely, in the wall, which led to no room. Just inside it steep steps showed in the moonlight, leading upward. Nicanor listened a moment to make certain that all was still, and, as one sure of himself and what he meant to do, ran up them,--past where a landing opened on the stairs, with glimpses of a pillared gallery beyond; and still up, until the flight ended in a long and bare passage. Here it was very dark, with only the moonlight coming through narrow windows of thick and muddy glass. Nicanor looked about him as one who would know if all was as he had left it last. A ladder lay upon the floor beneath the square of an opening in the roof. This he leaned against the wall, mounted it, and slid back the hatch, which ran in wooden grooves. The ladder creaked beneath him as he swung his long body forward and gripped the edges of the opening. Until he had made sure of his hold he did not leave the ladder; then swung clear, shifting his hands one by one into better position, and raised himself slowly, by sheer practised strength of wrist and arm, until his head and shoulders rose above the opening. With quick effort, then, he flung himself forward upon the roof, writhed himself through, and stood erect. Around him were the roofs of the separate apartments of the villa, silvered gray where moonlight touched them. Flat and sloping and towered were these, and broken by the intervals of the courts, where was massed the heavy blackness of foliage. The night air swept cool around him; above him was the high vault of heaven, cloudless now, where a young moon rode in the loneliness of space. To his left as he stood was the squat dome of the Hall of Columns, with light showing through the series of narrow windows which encircled it. And these windows were barely four feet above the level of the roof from which the dome sprang. Nicanor started across the tiles, black against the moonlight, clawing his way along steep and treacherous slopes and gliding along the leads, sure-footed as a cat, toward the nearest window in the dome which would look down into the hall below. This he gained in safety, and found that it had been left half open, for ventilation. He leaned over the ledge, gazing downward; and a ripple of music from hidden players rose to him above a humming undercurrent of sound. Below him, the great hall was a riot of color. On its hundred columns of polished marble, veined in green and rose, light played in sliding gleams from great lamps of wrought bronze hung by chains around the dome and between the pillars, each with many lights floating in cups of perfumed oil. The floors, of white marble, were overlaid with silken rugs of glowing colors, with silver matting and with tawny skins of beasts. The walls were wide panels of mosaics set in stucco, vivid with red and blue, green and azure, picturing scenes of hunting and carousal. Perfumes burned in silver jars set on pedestals of black marble at intervals along the walls, sending forth faint spirals of smoke on the heated air. The long table, lined on either side with men and women, was directly beneath the dome. Looking down upon it Nicanor saw only a confusion of gold and silver dishes, with the ruby glow of Samian plates and cups, gleaming among strewn leaves and blossoms. The garments of the guests were as a fringe of color about the table's edge; purple, saffron, and gold, crimson, green, and white. At the head of the board, raised somewhat above the other seats, three figures had risen,--one, in the centre, tall, spare, stooping somewhat, in spite of his brave attire; at his left, another as tall as he, but broader, more compactly built, with the square shoulders of a military man, richly dressed also in a scarlet tunic embroidered in gold, with heavy bands of gold about his arms. And at the right of the central figure, the third, young and slender and all in white, with a head-dress of gold in which two poppies flamed upon either temple, and from which long jewelled ends hung to her knees. A veil fell behind her, over her dark hair, of Persian gauze, filmy as mist, in which threads of gold like prisoned sunbeams were woven. Her face, upheld proudly as though she scorned to give way before the eyes upon her, was white, but her lips were scarlet as the flowers she wore. A jewelled girdle fell about her hips, but on her bare arms were neither gems nor gold. The central figure was speaking, but his words could not be heard. He took the girl's hand, and laid it in the man's hand, and held them so; and the tones of the man's voice repeating after him rose to Nicanor's eyrie, although the words were lost. There followed a pause, in which the girl drooped her head, but all faces were turned toward her, and Nicanor knew that her lips were whispering the solemn "Where thou art, Caius, there am I, Caia"; and he clenched his teeth, and for a moment the scene below him swam in blood-red mist. She was lost to him,--always he had known it, known the hopelessness of his passion, all the sweeter for the bitterness which was in it,--but never until then had the knowledge so come home to him. He would have liked to force his way in among them, these smirking, soft patricians, and tear her away from them by right of his savage strength; in his hot eyes was murder, and in his heart raging hate and a love as raging. He could have killed her, even; if she might not be his, he would have her no man's. His hand shot out as though in fact the knife were in it; in fancy he saw himself driving it home straight and true above the heart whose throbbing he had watched--the heart that had throbbed for him only, the slave, out of all the world of men. He could feel his dagger bite through her white breast as he had felt the soft slice of flesh under his blade before; he could see the blood well up around the knife, slowly at first, with a quick, hot spurt when the steel was withdrawn. So she would remain all his, and none might take her from him. His thoughts maddened him. He groaned aloud and dropped his face in his hands on the stone ledge of the window, and the moonlight touched him, a strange figure of desperate longings, desperate bewilderment and rebellion and pain. He shook to the primal passions of love and hate that tore him,--love for one, hate for all that had gone to make the conditions of his life what they must be; according to the measure of his untamed strength he suffered, in fierce revolt against the mocking Fates who were stronger than he. A clapping of hands, sharp and crackling, roused him. He brushed the hair from his eyes, and again looked down upon them, so far below, so far above him. The central figure had withdrawn, but the betrothed couple, hand clasped in hand, still stood together. The table was in commotion; women pelted the two with flowers, and men were on their feet and shouting. Nicanor saw Marius bend his head and kiss Varia upon the lips. So was their covenant sealed before the law; in sight of all the world her lord had claimed her, and she was no longer all her own. High in his eyrie Nicanor laughed, with a flash of his old lawless triumph. "Thy lips are not the first on hers, sir bridegroom! Her head hath lain on another breast than thine; other arms than thine have held her, O my lord! What if this also were to be known? Where then would be thy triumph?" He raised his clenched hands fiercely, sending forth his empty challenge to the heedless stars. "Thy wife is not all thine, my lord! Her body thou mayst purchase and possess, but her soul is mine, mine, mine, for all time and all eternity! I, who waked it from its empty sleep--I, who taught it first to live and love--I am her soul's lord even as thou art her body's master--I, the slave!" His voice stopped on the words, changed, and grew strained with infinite love and longing, all its fierce triumph gone. "Eh, thou very sweet, we dreamed awhile, and the dream was sweeter than ever was dream before, and it is over! The wound in thy child's heart will heal, for thy love is a child's love, and when it may grow no more will fade and die. Yet it may be that it shall be never quite forgotten; that in after days a word, a song, the fragrance of a flower, will bring to thee dim memories of what is gone. But my love must last, to burn and sear since it may not bless me, for it is not a child's love, beloved! We had no right to happiness, thou and I. But wherefore not? And who decreed it so? I may not have one last look from thee, one touch of thy tender hands,--O little hands that have clung to mine!--and all my heart is a tomb where my love lies buried. Long months have I lain in darkness, but in my heart was light, for I dreamed of the time when I should come to thee. Now all is dark, and my strength hath gone from me; I am a child that cries for a stronger hand to lean on and can find none. The dreams which I had are gone from me, and my tongue is lead. In all the earth is none so lonely as am I!" Again he buried his face in his hands, crouching against the wall beneath the window. The music rose to him like a breath from that scarcely vanished past, playing upon him,--calloused body and sensitive tortured soul,--conjuring forth visions of dead golden hours, weaving its own poignant spell. Voices from the hall mingled with it, in talk and heedless laughter; healths were drunk and speeches made. When life was gay and careless, when wine was red and eyes were bright and faces fair, who would pause to give a thought to sorrow? Minutes dropped away, link by link, from the golden chain of Time. All at once Nicanor raised his head, slowly, like one unwilling to meet once more what must be met. The loneliness of the moonlight revealed the scarring passion in his face, signs visible of the chaos of inward tumult which tore him, of the slow forces gathering for the inevitable battle waged somewhen, somehow, by every mortal soul. And that face, gaunt, with haunted, shadowed eyes, looked all at once strangely purged of the heat of its lawlessness, for on it was the first presage of the fierce slow travail of spirit rending flesh. "What is this that I have done!" he said unsteadily. "I have boasted unworthily, ravening like a brute beast in my triumph over thee, and by my boasting have I shamed thee, thou lily among women. Was I blind, that I could not see that thine is the triumph, over my passion and over me? Thou art another's, O my Lady whom I love so well; and every thought I hold of thy caresses doeth thee dishonor. For thou art pure and holy, and though it puts all worlds between us, yet I would not have thee otherhow. Yet I cannot but remember thy voice, thine eyes, thy little clinging hands, the perfume of thy hair; they are all that is left to me--dear memories, bitter sweet! But I may not boast of them, for thy fair fame, which thou first didst teach me to honor, is thus much in my hands, and I, even the outcast and despised, have it still to guard thee in this little thing. Once was I filled with base pride for that I had made thee love me in answer to my love; and oh, a blind, blind fool was I, not knowing that my love for thee was then no love at all! But thou, in thy white innocence, didst place thine hands upon mine eyes, and the scales fell from them, and I saw thee and myself, and was humbled. Now never while I live shall thy dear name pass my lips, lest through me one breath of evil blow upon thee. I cannot die for thee, beloved, since that were a fate too easy for the sport of thy high gods; I may not even live for thee. This is all that I can do! This is what we have done, each for the other: thy soul I wakened; thou in turn didst give to me a soul within my soul, wakening it to what it never knew before,--new dreams, new ambitions, new desires. For I saw through thee the great world which is thy world, wherein lieth all for which men long and strive. One glimpse I had; and now the gates are closed, and the light is gone, and I am thrust back into outer darkness. And it all is finished!" A peal of laughter rose to him; a burst of music; a half-hundred voices shouting _Vivas_ to Marius and his bride. He looked down once more into the light and color of the great hall, seeing one there, only, out of all the brilliant throng,--one fair and drooping, with scarlet poppies framing her white face. Long and long he looked, as though he would burn her image upon his heart and mind forever, his lady whom he had lost and who was never his. So he turned away, back into the outer darkness, and crossed the roofs again, and the blackness of the manhole swallowed him. * * * * * Wardo, cloaked and spurred and ready for the start, opened the cell door and thrust his torch within. The light fell upon a bowed figure sitting on the floor, motionless, with face hidden in its folded arms, and nothing showing save a crown of rough black hair. "Thou here?" said Wardo. "Well, I am sorry." Nicanor looked up. His face, white with more than its prison pallor, was drawn as though by bodily pain. "Ay," he said dully, "I am here." "I would thou wert not," Wardo muttered. "Come, then." "I have a friend here, whom I would take with me," Nicanor said, without rising. "Stand still, and I will call him." He whistled softly through his teeth, a gentle hissing, until a shadow seemed to stir from the far corner of the cell where the torchlight did not fall. Forth into the light hobbled a great gray rat, gaunt, and scarred, and lame. At sight of Wardo it whisked back into the gloom; again Nicanor whistled; again it appeared, and again vanished. A third time, emboldened, it essayed, and came to Nicanor warily, dazed in the unwonted light. Nicanor threw a bit of cloth torn from his tunic over its head, fastening it so that the beast could neither bite nor see, tied its forelegs together, and without more ado thrust it inside his tunic. Wardo gaped. "Well, of all playmates! Will he not scratch thee?" "Not while the cloth is about his head," Nicanor answered. There came an odd note of pride into his voice. "Momus and I are old friends. I maimed him; he hath bitten me. Now we understand each other. I have taught him to fight,--he is quite as intelligent as Hito,--and there is not a rat in the dungeons that can beat him. Man, you should see him fight!" "I'd like to!" quoth Wardo, promptly. "Maybe, at Cunetio or Corinium we shall find some trainer to try a main with thee. Now come; we have tarried long enough." In the slaves' court Hito was fuming over the departure of his deputy and the half dozen prisoners. As Wardo and Nicanor approached he leered upon them balefully. "So, white-face!" he taunted. "Art recovered from thy madness?" "Ha, fair Julia, how art thou?" Nicanor greeted him imperturbably, so that Hito cursed him. For word of Hito's dance had spread, and even his lords had laughed at him. "Oh, ay, I remember!" he snarled. "This is to teach thee not to call thy betters names. Were it not for thy insubordination, I should have cancelled thy sentence to the mines. It is not well to laugh at Hito! I have a doubt in my mind that thou wert not so mad as it seemed." "I have no doubt in mine that I was not so mad as thou," said Nicanor, with all cheerfulness. Hito glared, and Wardo mounted and made haste to get his party under way. His assistant snapped the chains on Nicanor's wrists which bound him to his fellows, and got on his own horse. They went out through the gate, opened by a sleepy porter, and took the road. All through that night they plodded steadily. Once a horseman overtook them, riding furiously; shouted something which none could catch, and was gone in darkness. Their road led them over the downs and through the heather by the little station of Bibracte to Calleva, where four roads joined; and on through the level and open country around Corinium, where, to south and west, among shaded groves, they caught glimpses of palaces and stately homes. So, in time, they came to the scarred hills of the great iron district of the west. At each station where they stopped for rest and refreshment on their three days' journey, Wardo was taken aside by strangers, who talked earnestly. "The state of the country," he told his men, with his tongue in his cheek. Most of these strangers were fair-skinned Saxons, like himself; indeed, the number of these was significant. Wardo, coming from the south, had to tell what he knew of recent happenings there. This was not much; his interlocutors, it would seem, knew more than he. Especially did they inquire to whom he belonged, and what he was doing with his charges. They crossed the Sabrina in a flat-bottomed barge, and were in Britannia Secunda, the ancient country of the Silures. Here, from Uriconium to Glevum on the Sabrina, and south to Leucarum on the Via Julia, were scattered the iron mines from which their owners drew inexhaustible wealth. The one controlled by Eudemius lay five Roman miles west of the river, and was reckoned one of the largest and richest in the section. In it were said to be employed over five hundred men, mostly prisoners from the various estates of Eudemius, and overseers. VII The gallery, pitch-black and narrow, was dotted with moving lights which wandered here and there, each a restless will-o'-the-wisp. It was very damp, and from somewhere came a monotonous drip of water. The tapping of picks sounded incessantly out of the darkness, and occasionally there were hoarse voices raised in wanton curses or harsh commands. Shores of heavy timbers supported the sides and roof of the tunnel, looming grotesquely gigantic as some passing light touched them; this was the newest of the workings, and so far the richest. A light and a clanking of chains drew near down the tunnel; and eight men, chained like mules, and loaded with baskets of ore, came painfully over the uneven ground to the chamber of the main shaft, where a second gang waited to unload them. Each party was in charge of its own overseer, who carried a whip and went armed to the teeth. It was easier to use men than to lower animals into the galleries for the work; besides, the superintendent wished to save his horses. The shaft, through which men ascended and descended by means of long series of ladders, opened out into a chamber, roughly circular in shape, from which the galleries branched off in all directions. It ran through four different levels, the top one, and the oldest, something over fifteen feet underground, the lowest not quite seventy. On each level the ore was handled in the same way; brought to the central shaft in baskets by men, and carried to the surface by other men who spent their lives toiling up and down the endless ladders, with baskets strapped upon their backs. It was primitive work, and barbarous, but it at least served the purpose of getting rid, in short order, of insubordinate slaves. Earth from the tunnellings was treated in like fashion; and every timber used for building up the walls was lowered from level to level by ropes. Accidents were many and appalling. Sometimes a huge stick slipped from its lashings and crashed downward into the bowels of the earth, knocking men off the ladders in its course as though they had been flies. Sometimes a ladder gave way, hurling screaming wretches into eternity; sometimes men were buried in sudden falls of earth. Also the ladder men, who necessarily went unchained, died like rats from heart trouble brought on by their constant climbing; and others were to be driven into their places. The overseer of the second gang watched the loading of the baskets strapped to his men's backs, noted the time on his clepsydra, which stood on a near-by ledge, and started the men one by one, in quick succession. He knew to a fraction of time how long the trip to the surface should take, but to make assurance more sure, each carrier, on his return, brought a check stamped with the exact minute of arrival by the overseer who had received the ore above. If this check showed that more time had been consumed than was necessary for the ascent and descent, there was punishment swift and sure for that luckless one who had lingered. The chained slaves, with their empty baskets, filed off again into the gallery from which they had come. The shaft chamber, the centre of its floor pierced by the black hole leading down to the next and lowest level, was lighted dimly by lamps and candles standing upon shelves which jutted from the earthen walls. From all the galleries radiating from it, files of men, staggering under weighted baskets, kept coming to be relieved of their loads by their unchained fellow-workers. Every moment a man started up the ladder, clawing his way at top speed out of sight in the darkness of the shaft, like a grotesque, huge monkey. No lashing, no punishment, could get more than four such round trips out of a man without a period of rest equal to at least two trips. When it came to this point, he would merely lose his hold from sheer exhaustion and fall from the ladder. And when picked up by the crew at the bottom of the shaft, he was fit for nothing but to be thrown like carrion into the nearest unused pit, walled in with a half-dozen shovelfuls of earth, and left at last to rest. The overseer by the shaft glanced at his water-clock, raised a reed to his lips, and blew a shrill whistle. From level to level and from gallery to gallery this was taken up and repeated in fainter cadences, and with it the insistent tapping of the picks ceased. One by one men began to hurry forth from the galleries, making for the ladders which led to the world of air and sunlight. Nicanor came from one of the branching tunnels, a pick over his shoulder, stripped to the waist and grimed with sweat and dirt, his lean chest and arms thrown out against the murky candle-light. He was all bone and skin and muscle, hard as nails; but it was the dead, springless hardness which comes to an athlete badly overtrained, not the resilient firmness which denotes good condition. He laid his pick on the ground near the entrance of the tunnel and went to the ladder. Even his tread had lost something of its cat-like lightness; he walked wearily, his shoulders bowed. He gave his number to the overseer, who barely waited to record it in his tablet, with the time he had stopped work, before starting up the ladder for his half-hour's intermission. Nicanor, suddenly alert, ran back into the tunnel, reappeared with a bag, which he held carefully, and started up the ladder also. But at the next level, thirty feet above, he stopped, instead of keeping on to the surface. In the shaft-chamber here were a dozen and odd men gathered, but there seemed to be no overseer among them. A ring had formed about a space on the floor under one of the lamps; men craned over the shoulders of those in front of them. One saw Nicanor and shouted at him. "Well come, friend! We wait for you and that pretty pet of yours!" He was a short man who spoke, with arms immensely long and hairy, and a seamed face of a shortness out of all proportion to its width, as though crown of head and chin had been pressed together in a vise. Of the others, all were more or less as black as Ethiopians with grime; many were shaven and mutilated, with lips slit or an ear gone. Some were branded; and the backs of many were scored with the marks of floggings, some long healed, others red and raw. No fouler-mouthed crew of desperadoes might be found within the island; doomed here for many offences, they still committed the offence of living. Nicanor was greeted with a chorus of jests and exclamations. "Hurry, son, our time is not so long as thy legs." "Where's thy plaything? Balbus here is ready with his toy to make ribbons of that ugly beast of thine." "Let us see now whose boasts will stand repeating." "I have two asses on thee, Balbus!" one cried, and jingled two copper coins in his horny palms. Coins were produced from rags by those lucky enough to own them; others wagered their picks or spades. One bet his sandals on Nicanor's chances against a man who was willing to lose his shirt. Nicanor pushed his way into the ring, where Balbus, grasping a large black rat, knelt on one knee, ready to loose the strip of cloth that bound its muzzle. Nicanor shook his gray rat out of the bag, and untied it. Men had found such contests cheap as well as exciting, since rats were over plentiful, and when pitted against their own kind would fight to the death. This form of amusement was widespread among soldiers and the lower classes; and there were men who made a business of training rats and selling them or matching them against all comers. These beasts were carefully bred from approved fighting stock, and often brought sums preposterously large. Balbus let go his black with a yell as Nicanor released the gray, and the two beasts leaped at each other and closed in the middle of the ring, rolling over. Men clawed over one another's shoulders to see better; at opposite sides of the ring the owners squatted, each urging on his animal with hisses and clapping hands. The light from the smoking lamps and candles fell upon the crowd, throwing into relief brutal faces, and eyes gleaming wolfishly, savagely eager for blood. "The black is on top, the black wins!" one cried, hot-eyed with excitement, and leaned further and still further into the ring. Another pulled him back. "Nay, fool--the gray--look at him, holy gods! My money on the gray! See, the black bleeds--the gray hath bit him in the throat. Macte! At him again, graybeard! Lad, a brand-new knife is thine if thou'lt win for me those sandals of Chilo's! Ah--habet!" The ring tossed with excitement. Bets were roared from brazen throats; those on the outskirts of the crowd fought to get a look. And in the open centre of the tumult a furry ball rolled and bit and squealed and made bloody sport for those who gloated over it. A yell, half exultation, half anger, broke from a dozen throats. The black rat tore himself loose and fled back toward Balbus; the gray stood in the middle of the ring, triumphant. Both were badly mangled and drenched with blood, but the black was craven. The followers of the gray roared their triumph. Balbus seized his rat and flung him back into the fight, almost on top of the gray, which instantly fastened on him. But, plainly, the black had had enough. It could be seen that he no longer attacked; was all on the defensive, trying only to escape. Again he broke away and crawled toward safety. The ring howled with mingled derision and delight. Balbus, cursing, his face congested with rage, again threw him back, and again the vicious gray fell upon him with teeth and claws. "Give thy sandals quickly, Chilo!" a voice shouted above the racket. "The black is down!" He was, and the gray on top of him, bloodily victorious. "_Peractum est!_" Nicanor shouted, in the language of the arena; and sprang to his feet and caught up his bloody pet and held him high in triumph. But Balbus, his face aflame with fury, strode to where the black rat lay still twitching, and stamped the heel of his iron-shod sandal upon its head with such force that its brains and blood were spattered. "It was no fair fight!" he cried, turning on those who jeered him. "That gray beast wrought by magic. Thou hast played a trick!" He shook his fist in Nicanor's face, glaring. Nicanor backed away with a laugh. It taunted Balbus beyond endurance; he lunged forward, his fists clenched. In an instant there had been battle, on which men would have bet as eagerly as on the combat ended. But there was a sudden clamor of guards' whistles; a rush from the ladders, and overseers fell upon the crowd with hissing lashes that left their marks on backs and thighs. The ring broke up, as men fled like sheep and were whipped back to their posts. Soon there was nothing heard but the endless tapping of picks, the thud of falling earth, and the voices of overseers and the foremen of the gangs. But Balbus, each time he passed with laden basket the spot where Nicanor stood tirelessly wielding his heavy pick, scowled at him blackly and muttered oaths of vengeance. For he was of those who must be taught, by many ungentle lessons, that one must know how to lose as well as how to win. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- THE NIGHT AND THE DAWNING BOOK V ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Book V THE NIGHT AND THE DAWNING I When Wardo had delivered his charges to the superintendent of the mine and received a receipt for them from him, he started back, with his assistants, on his homeward journey. But at Bibracte, where they would leave the main road and turn due south toward the villa, ten Roman miles away, he bade his men wait for him at the station until his return. Instead of striking across country for the villa, he kept along the main road, riding swiftly and steadily, as one who pursues a definite plan. He crossed the Tamesis at Pontes, after a night's rest, and at evening of the next day rode through the marsh-ford at Thorney. Here he met with one who also was on horseback, splashed to the waist with mud, for even the high-roads were heavy with the springtime thawing out of the frost. He was muffled in a cloak, and his spurs were bloodstained. He hailed Wardo in Latin tinged strongly with a foreign accent. "Can you tell me, friend, if there be an inn in this place where soft beds and good food may be found?" Wardo was moved to curiosity. "For yourself?" he asked, spurring up to the stranger's side. "Nay, for my lord and his wife and daughter. I am sent ahead to find lodging for them. They are on the road to Rutupiæ, to take ship for Gaul, and travel by way of Londinium, where my lord hath affairs to settle; but the women have given out and vow that they will go no farther. So do the chickens break for cover when the hawk swoops." His voice was slightly contemptuous. He turned his face, covered with a wiry red beard, upon Wardo. His eyes, small and light, glinted from a network of wrinkles under reddish brows. "You are no Roman," he said abruptly. "Why, no," said Wardo, somewhat surprised, "I am Saxon." "Like myself," said the stranger, grandly. "Men call me Wulf, the son of Wulf." "There is an inn here," said Wardo, without returning information. "I will show you, if you like. It is kept by Christians, and it is clean." "Then it will be poor," Wulf grumbled, "and the wine will not be fit for decent men." "There you are wrong," said Wardo. "It is where my lord Eudemius stops with his train when he passeth through here." "So!" Wulf's glance held awakening curiosity. "The lord Eudemius of the white villa south of Bibracte?" "That same," said Wardo, with the pride of a servant in a well-known master. "One hears tales of that house these days," said Wulf, casually. "See, friend, when I have made arrangement for my lords and brought them hither, is there not a place where we might find a mouthful of good Saxon ale?" Wardo hesitated. "I fear my time is too short," he answered. "Even now I am late--" "For the maid who awaits thee?" said Wulf, with a chuckle. "Well, I'll not keep thee then. But this much I'll tell thee now. When my lord sails with his familia from Rutupiæ, it will be without Wulf, the son of Wulf. I have it in mind to stay here longer; there will be fat pickings for Saxons by and by, when these Roman lords are crowded out. Hast heard that?" "Ay," said Wardo. "I have heard it." "And it is in my mind also to try for some of these same fat pickings," said Wulf, and laughed. "Why not I, as well as any man?" "If you wait for these Roman lords to be crowded out, as you have it," said Wardo, "it will be some time before these fat pickings fall to your lot." "Perhaps not so long time as one might think," Wulf retorted. "Hast heard of what happened at Anderida?" "Oh, ay," said Wardo. "The lord governor of Anderida fled to the house of my lord." Wulf's glance became all at once as keen as a gaze-hound which sights its prey. "Had he his son, called Felix, with him, a cat-eyed rascal, who was wounded?" "Yes," said Wardo, quite proud to tell his news. "And on the evening of the feast the lord governor and his men rode away again. But he left his son behind him." A gleam shot into Wulf's light eyes. "So?" he said pleasantly. "Perhaps, then, this son Felix is still a guest of your lord?" "Ay, so he is," Wardo returned. "Which is to say that he was there when I rode away, and that is now six days ago." In his turn he shot a glance at the red-beard from his steely eyes. "Now why should you ask these things, friend gossip? What concern is this son Felix of yours?" "Merely that all men like to know what is happening these days. What else? But know you how the man got his wound? Nay, I thought not. Perhaps you know that the leader of that band of Saxons and those insurgent Romans, called Evor, was slain in that affair at Anderida?" "No," said Wardo. "I did not know that. Who slew him?" "Felix," answered Wulf. Wardo looked somewhat startled. "Then this is why he remained behind!" he exclaimed. His face awoke to a new thought. "Why, death of a dog! if this Evor's men pass through the Silva Anderida and hear that this lord Felix is at the villa, there may be trouble for my lord." "Ay," said Wulf. There was a certain grimness in his tone. "The son of Evor hath sworn to have the blood of his father's slayer; therefore it is quite likely." "How come you to know these things?" Wardo demanded. The stranger's manner was always casual to indifference, and Wardo was not over keen to see what he was not looking for. His question came more from curiosity than from suspicion, although of this there was something also. "News travels fast these days," Wulf said briefly. "I got it from a carter who saw something of the business. I hope you do not think that I was there? Now where is this inn of yours? I must find it and hasten back to my lord." By now they had reached a cobbled street no wider than an alley, running at right angles to the main street, which led from ford to ford. Down this they rode abreast, and there was room for no other horseman to pass them. Bare-shouldered girls laughed down at them from upper windows; bent crones hobbled from door to door with baskets of fish or produce; children and dogs scampered from under their horses' feet. The evening sunshine fell in long slanting shadows down the dusty street, stabbing shafts of golden light into dark doorways. Wardo saw Wulf to the door of the "cleanest inn on Thorney," watched him enter, and wheeled his horse. Back again then he rode, with no more than a glance for the long-haired girls who leaned to him from windows, and with a recklessness which sent the dogs and children flying. He turned into the main street, back toward the marsh-ford, and galloped the length of it until he reached a house which stood the third from the end, next to a half-burnt ruin where cattle had been stalled, with a narrow door in a blank wall which betrayed nothing. Before this he flung his horse back upon its haunches, leaped lightfoot to the ground, and hammered on the door. The wicket was opened a space and closed; then the door was opened. He entered, and it closed after him. Two hours later Wulf, the son of Wulf, came down the street in the dim twilight, on foot, walking with a swagger. Out of the saddle he was seen to be short and stunted, with legs badly bowed. His breath proclaimed loudly that he had stopped at sundry wine-shops on the way. He was passing unconcernedly, when a whinny from a horse standing before a door caught his ear, and he stopped. "Light of my eyes, I've seen this beast before," he muttered, going closer to look. "Why, sure, he's the horse of that long-legged yellow-head of mine. Ay, here's the brand I noted on the shoulder. So--we shall see what we shall see." He knocked boldly upon the door. The wicket opened. "What will you?" a woman's voice asked from within. "A friend of mine entered here a little time ago," Wulf began glibly. "Many have entered here," said the voice. "Who is your friend?" Wulf's laugh covered a moment of embarrassment. "Why, in truth, I do not care to name his name aloud," he said. "If you will let me in, I will see if he be still here." The door opened. Wulf stepped inside, confronting a tall girl, full-throated, long-limbed, with face of purest Grecian outline. Wulf's single keen glance took in the girl, her attire, and the room behind her. His manner changed at once. "Your friend may not be here," said the girl. Wulf advanced. "In truth, I shall not miss him overmuch. Might a weary man purchase food, and a drop of wine, and perhaps a lodging for the night?" He jingled coins in the pouch which hung at his leathern belt. The girl eyed him. "You know that you may," she said, very wearily, and crossed the room and opened a door into an inner chamber. Here the air was heavy with the smell of food and the fumes of wine. There were many people in the room,--men and women; yet in the first glance he cast around Wulf saw his long-legged yellow-head reclining at ease upon a couch, his arm around a slim golden beauty who sat beside him. In his free hand Wardo clutched a brazen beaker, which the girl filled constantly from a fat-sided ampulla on her knee. From time to time she stroked back the fair hair on his temples, and each time he raised his half-drunken head to kiss her shapely arm. Wulf nodded to one or two men in the room, his face betraying no surprise that he found them there. He bade the dark-haired Greek girl bring wine and two cups. While she was gone a man and a woman slipped away through one of the several side doors, leaving vacant the place next to Wardo. At once Wulf possessed himself of it, without glancing at his neighbor. The Greek returned, and he pulled her down beside him, had her drink with him, kissed her arms and hands with his red-bearded mouth, made love to her with jests and laughter unnecessarily loud. Soon Wardo's attention was caught. He sat upright, steadying himself on the girl's arm, and looked across at Wulf. "Not too drunk to talk, I hope!" Wulf muttered. "Holla, Wulf, son of Wulf!" Wardo called, in a voice somewhat thickened by wine. "How didst find the way to Chloris?" "Who but knows the house of Chloris?" said Wulf, pleasantly. "I did not look to find thee here." "I? Oh, I am always here. Is it not so, Sada? Am I not always with thee, girl of my heart?" "Ah, not always!" said the golden-haired girl. "Not so often as I would have thee." "Drink with us, thou and thy lady," Wulf invited. The golden-haired girl leaned over. "Nay, Wardo, thou hast drunk enough. Already the wine is in thy head," she murmured; and Wulf, keen-eared, caught the words. But Wardo was already holding out his beaker, which the Greek filled at a sign from Wulf. "Nay, sweet, my head is iron," said Wardo, half indulgent, half in scorn. "Here I pledge thee, friend Wulf, the son of Wulf: 'A long life and a rousing one, a quick death and a merry one!'" He drank deeply. "That is the motto of my lord master," quoth Wulf. "And light of my eyes, but he lives up to it! There is a man who spends gold as wine floweth through a _colum_." "Ay, but promise you my lord spends faster!" said Wardo, with great pride. "So?" said Wulf. He gave the Greek a sign to keep the wine-cups filled. "Then must he indeed be wealthy. In truth, I have heard something of a feast he gives at his villa even now." "The marriage feast of our lady Varia and the lord Marius," said Wardo. "Men say that the gifts are of a richness beyond all counting," said Wulf. "Of course, being there, thou couldst see it all, and judge." "Ay," said Wardo. "I saw it all." With the wine, his tongue began to wag. His eyes sparkled; he drained his cup and set it down with a thump. "In that house is the ransom of an emperor, ay, of forty emperors!" he cried. "No lord in the island could gather such hoard of treasure, not even yours, Wulf the son of Wulf, and I shall fight you if you say so! No man hath seen such jewels, such vessels of gold and silver. There be a million golden cups set about with rubies; an hundred thousand vases of silver; and every woman hath a fan of gold, set with gems. And the jewels he hath loaded on our lady--man, thine eyes have never seen the like! She wears a girdle that blazes like that pharos at Dubræ, which I have seen; she goes belted with flame that dazzles the eyes. On her arms are an hundred bracelets--" "Of a truth, I do think the wine is in thine eyes, Wardo mine," said Wulf. His laugh was careless, but his eyes were keen. Wardo flushed angrily. "Not so!" he cried. "For these six months and more have not goods been coming to us from all the world?" He boasted vaingloriously. Wulf nodded. "I have heard that that is so. There must indeed be great store of plunder--of wealth within thy master's house." "Verily!" said Wardo, somewhat appeased. He told all that he knew, and much that he did not know, fired with eagerness to impress upon this casual stranger the magnificence of the lord whom he served. From mere loquacity he became argumentative, finally quarrelsome. But Sada wound white arms about his neck and soothed him. But by now the wine was reaching Wulf's head also, although compared to Wardo he was sober. "That house of thy lord's will be fat pickings for the men of Evor when they come to claim the blood of Felix for the blood which he hath shed. Light of my eyes! it would be worth--" "What is this thou sayest?" Wardo demanded. He strove to sit upright, but fell back against Sada in drunken laxity. "Speak louder, thou! There be a million bees that buzz within my head." Wulf waved the women away. "Leave us, pretty ones, awhile. Is it the first time men have left your arms to discuss affairs?" Eunice, the tall Greek, went willingly, but Sada clung to her lover and would not go. "Nay, I'll not leave thee. Speak as ye will--what is it to me? I have no call to remember." "See, friend, I like thee, and I see no reason why we should not be comrades, for the better gain of both," said Wulf, with all frankness. "We be of one nation, as against these haughty Roman lords who soon must yield to us the field. Oh, but I long for a half-hundred kindred souls to take with me this chance! What chance, say you?--the chance of gain, of wealth and fortune past all dreams. Why should they have all, these haughty lords, while we have nothing? Why should not something of their wealth profit us?" Wardo shook his muddled head solemnly over this problem old as the ages. "They have gained it," he muttered, with an air of profound wisdom. "They have gained it, quotha! Ay, truly, but how? By rapine, taxation, wars, plunder! Therefore why shall not others use like means? If it be fair for them, I say it is fair for us!" Wulf brought down his fist upon the table with a blow that made the cups rattle. "Therefore now is our chance, say I! All is confusion; the lords fight amongst themselves; we are slowly gaining the ground they lose--let us also gain wealth with it!" He discoursed at great length, repeating himself incessantly, losing himself in endless trains of argument which nobody contradicted. It was not very clear what he wanted, even to himself, it would seem. But he was quite convinced that existing conditions were altogether wrong and something should at once be done about it. What the something should be he did not take the trouble to state. Wardo dozed peacefully, his head on Sada's breast. No one in the room paid the least attention to them. Wardo roused, in time, reaching out blindly for his cup, and caught a word of Wulf's oration: "... Gold for the taking. Had I but a half hundred--" "Gold! That is a good thing to have!" Wardo muttered. He pulled Sada's head down to him. "When I have gold, I shall buy thee from thy mistress. Wilt go with me?" The girl's fair face flushed. "Ay, thou knowest I will go," she answered. "Wheresoever thou wilt take me." "If thou wouldst have gold, my friend, come with me, and it shall be thine in plenty," Wulf cried eagerly. Wardo looked at him with awakening interest. "How so?" "Thus," said Wulf. "We shall take for ourselves what should be ours by right, what is wrung from us by infamous greed. What would suffice us would not be missed by those who have more than plenty, yet even this they will not give us. We must get it for ourselves." Wardo nodded. "That will be a good thing to do. Where shall we find it?" "Why should we show mercy to them?" Wulf declaimed. "What mercy have they shown us? Do they not grind us into the earth; do we not pay in sweat and blood for their idle pleasures? And with all of this, have they not sought to force us to our knees before any new god they choose to perch upon a pedestal? I, for one, will not worship because one man says 'Bow down!' And I do not care who knows it. I am as good as the next man, and I will have my rights." Wardo, who had never heard anything like this before, was impressed deeply. "I say so too," he exclaimed with great earnestness. "Let us take what is our own. Then if thou hast rights, _I_ have rights also. And I will have my rights!" "Of course! I see thou art a clever fellow, and a man after mine own heart. Drink more wine. See, then, I will tell thee a thing. This lord of thine, who oppresses thee and vouchsafes thee no rights, who wrings from thee what should be thine--thou hast him in thy hand. He hath committed a grievous crime in giving shelter to a murderer. Does he think that his guest will not be demanded of him by those whom that guest hath wronged? For this does he not deserve punishment?" Wardo nodded, much bewildered at the rapid changes of subject he was called upon to follow. Gods, gold, oppression, murderers, and all at once--and his mind was taxed with one thing at a time. "Then I see plainly that thou art chosen to execute justice and to claim thy full reward!" cried Wulf, in sonorous prophecy. "Oh, no--not on my lord!" said Wardo, firmly. "Or, look you, it would be I who should be executed." And chuckled at his cleverness in discovering this point. "You do not understand," Wulf assured him, patiently. "There is no danger in it for you--none at all. All you will do is to answer these questions I shall ask you now. Tell me then, first, how many men can your lord summon to--let us say, protect this lord Felix when his enemies find him out?" "With his familia, and the coloni and casarii who own him lord, he can call out near a thousand; though it would take time to gather all of these from his estates. But, my friend, how may the enemies of this lord Felix find him out when they know not where he is?" Again he chuckled at the point which he had made. "True," Wulf admitted smoothly. "I but suppose the case. For they are roaming far and wide, and if they find him not, it will not be for lack of searching." "Now I must tell my lord of this, that he may be prepared," Wardo muttered. He pressed his hands to his temples. "My head is buzzing with your questions, and I am weary, for I have ridden far. Pray you, let me sleep." "Not yet!" Wulf said hastily, in alarm, as Wardo's head sank lower. "See, friend, you are trusted in your lord's household, I doubt not. Is there a rear door, even a very little one, of which you know where the key is hung?" Wardo jerked his head upright, his eyes half closed. "What is this you say?" he asked angrily. "What would you with a--a--little key?" "Give me a key, and I will give you as much gold as you can carry on your back," said Wulf, low and eagerly, his caution forgotten in the fever of his greed. Wardo opened his eyes with effort to their fullest extent and stared at him. His voice was thick and stuttering. "A key? to my lord's house? _Deae matres!_ What should I do that for? I am my lord's man!" "You shall come to no harm!" Wulf urged desperately, fearful lest the man fall asleep before he could gain what he would. But at last Wardo understood. He staggered off the couch, clutching at Sada's shoulder for support, reeling and blind with drink, and towered over Wulf. "Look you, sirrah!" he shouted, so that men turned to look at him in surprise, "I am no traitor to my lord! I am his man, blood and body, and his will is my law and his faith is my faith. I have served him loyally, and so shall I continue to serve. What is this you would have me do? Turn rascal, even as you? Holy gods, I'll show you, knave and varlet--" Unexpectedly he stooped, and caught Wulf by the collar of his tunic. Wulf struggled, but Wardo dragged him across the floor, shook him, and flung him outside the door and slammed it. He turned to Sada, demanding her applause with drunken self-satisfaction at his prowess, dropped on the nearest couch in abject prostration, and was instantly asleep. After uncounted hours he roused, to find Sada dashing cold water in his face and calling his name in great distress. They were alone in the room, and the sun was shining through the window. "What hast thou?" Wardo grumbled. "Let me sleep!" She shook his shoulder. "Hasten, Wardo, and undo the mischief thou hast done while there may yet be time. For hours I have tried to wake thee!" "Harm? What harm?" "Thou hast told that evil man all he would know of thy lord's defences, of the treasures within his house, and of the lord called Felix who is there. And when thou wert asleep he, being drunken also, did tell Eunice, who bade him render payment for his wine, that it would not take long to send word to these men who search for this lord Felix, and that then he would give her gold and jewels in plenty. Hasten, Wardo, and warn thy lord, or it will be too late!" She wrung her hands. "_I_ have done this thing?" Wardo exclaimed, pointing a finger at his own broad chest. "Nay, girl, thou'rt joking!" "Never that!" cried Sada, with impatience. "Thou wert drunk, I tell thee, and he got out of thee what he would. Thy lord is betrayed, and through thee!" "Betrayed!" The word stabbed through his dull sodden wits and sent him starting from the couch, his face gray with horror. He sank back with a groan of sheer physical sickness, and tried again, his teeth set, the sweat starting on his forehead. His legs trembled under him, and his eyes were dazed, but he got to the door and leaned against it, his hands over his face. "If I have done this thing thou sayest," he said hoarsely, "my life is rightly forfeit, and I shall give it into my lord's hand. I do not understand--I am my lord's man, and loyal." He turned to her in stunned appeal. "Sada girl, am I drunk, that thou shouldst fill me with this madness?" Her eyes filled with tears. "Nay," she answered sadly. "Thou art sober now." The fresh air aided what the shock of her words had begun. He mounted, heavily, yet in feverish desperate haste, whirled his horse about with scarcely a word of farewell to her, and struck the heavy spurs deep. The beast sprang forward, with a shower of sparks from the cobbles. Sada, returning from the door, ran into the arms of a thin slip of a girl, white-faced and with burning eyes, who caught her and cried desperately: "What said he of Nicanor? What have they done to him? Does he live still?" "Peace, child!" said Sada. "Now he hath thought for nothing but this thing which he hath done, and I with him. But last night he did tell me that this friend of his, thy lover, hath been sent to the mines, and that he had been of the guard." "And I not to know!" cried Eldris, bitterly. "He might have told me how he looked and what he said; and now he hath gone, and I may not ask him--" "Ay, and I think that I shall never see him more. For surely his lord will slay him when he knows what he hath done," said Sada. Suddenly she put her head on Eldris's shoulder and wept; and Eldris, by way of showing sympathy, having love sorrows of her own, put her arms about her and wept also. II The lord Eudemius laid himself upon his couch of ebon and carved ivory with the air of a man whose work has been well done. Midnight was long gone, the great house was quiet, and the desire of his heart stood forth in fulfilment. He had a son; his dying house was propped with fresh strength and vigor, and the gods of the shades might claim him when they would. One week ago had the marriage been celebrated. Each night since there had been feasts, with at every feast new dishes contrived, new sports and entertainments offered, new souvenirs of price distributed, to provide the jaded senses of his guests with fresh gratification. Now the festivities were nearly over; already some of the lords had gone. Among them was Count Pomponius, with his Wardens of the Eastern Marches, for it was reported that Saxons were again harrying and burning along the coast. In the mellow light of the bronze lamps the face of Eudemius showed softer, less inscrutable, with eyes more kindly. On it was great weariness, but also a great content. He put forth a hand and touched the bell on the stand beside his couch. The strain under which he had labored was lifting; he could afford to relax. The silvery tinkle of sound had scarcely fallen into the quiet of the room when Mycon, chief of the eunuchs, entered, parting the curtains, with his arms crossed before his face. "Bid Cyrrus bring hither his lyre," said Eudemius. Many and many a day had gone since their dark lord had given such command; the cries and groans of his slaves had been music enough for him. Mycon bowed in silence and went. Before five minutes had fled, word of the miracle had gone from end to end of the ranks of those whose duty it was to watch the house by night; and weary men and women smiled and blessed their little lady, who perhaps had bought for them the dawn of a happier day. Cyrrus the musician entered, a slender Greek boy; and the low light was caught by the silver frame of the lyre he bore, and rippled on its strings. He put himself where he should not be too much under his lord's eyes, and played; and as though the instinct of his art had taught him what to do, the music he played was plaintive and low and soothing. Eudemius lay with arms behind his head and stared at the painted ceiling where naked nereids sported. By slow degrees, still more his hard face softened; under the spell of the music and of his thoughts his thin lips parted to a smile. Slow and soft the melody rippled into the quiet room, singing of placid waters smiling in the sun, with lilies floating on their bosom, of young fleecy clouds and tender shadows. Again it changed, with dropping notes like tears, and whispered of the yearning hopes of men, of world pain and heart's peace, of longings unfulfilled and prayers unanswered. Two tears, the slow and difficult tears of age, stole down Eudemius's gray furrowed cheeks and lost themselves in his silken pillow. "My child!" he whispered. "My little, little child!" In that moment the pathetic unloved beauty of her came nearer to touching him than ever before. He forgot that he had sold her into bondage; forgot that her happiness might not lie along the road of his. She had done what he would have her do; she had been a dutiful daughter, and at the last he rejoiced in her. Varia, at that hour, sat alone in her chamber, awaiting the coming of her lord. There were traces of tears upon her cheeks; her lids drooped with weariness and sleep. They had taken away her robes of state, in which she had sat by Marius's side through interminable hours of merrymaking, when a thousand eyes had stared at her from a swimming sea of lights, and she had shrunk and trembled beneath their glances. They had put upon her a thin robe of Seres silk of rose, with no ornament or jewel upon it. With bare neck and arms, and warm white throat bending with the drooping flower of her head, she looked more than ever a child. To all that they had done to her throughout the endless days of festival, she had submitted docilely, dazed, if she could have told it, by the excitement of those around her. Faces, scenes, events, had passed before her in a blurred confusion, in which she could neither think nor see clearly. She had repeated words of whose meaning she had no knowledge; she had drunk wine and only been distressed that a drop had fallen upon her royal robe; she had broken a cake of bread and only wondered why her little black slave was not there to gather up the crumbs. Of her lord she had seen little, save upon one fearful night of which the memory still sent burning shudders through her frightened heart. She drifted upon a gray sea of loneliness, torn from her old shelters, given nothing to which she might turn and cling. She got up from the chair covered with rugs of white fur, in which she had been nestling like a great rose, and went to the window which looked upon the garden, all her movements restless, like some shy creature caged. Now the garden lay deserted, desolate in the mistiness of the moonlight. She held her arms out to it in vague yearning. "I would I were out there now!" she cried softly. "Where the trees whisper and the lake sleeps, and none but may hear the music of one voice. He is gone--he is gone from me, and I know not where they have taken him. And I long for him; I would I could creep into his arms and rest upon his breast forever, for then I should not be frightened. Now I am left alone--I know not where to turn for very fear--my head it burneth and my hands are cold. And I fear to be alone--and the night is dark--so dark!" A gust of wind rose slowly through the trees, like the flapping of unseen wings, and Varia shivered. The moon was now and again obscured under vast driving clouds; through the gloom trees massed themselves into blots of sinister shadow. When the wind's voice died, the earth hung silent, in suspense, so that Varia held her breath in sheer unconscious attunement to it. In the garden she saw a black shape flying with quick darting swoops. She knew it for a bat, but her eyes dilated with nervous fright. It was so very still--in all the world there was no sound at all. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder. Even the lighted room was not reassuring; it also held the same waiting stillness which she dared not break by so much as a sigh. Only the flame from the perfumed lamps flickered wanly in the draught. Her wide eyes fixed themselves upon the window, striving to pierce the mystery of the dark without; she yielded helplessly to the sway of the vast unnamed forces around her, a child frightened in the night. She sank upon the floor by the window, hiding her face. "Nerissa!" she called in a small and shaken voice, and wept, more frightened at the little cry drowned in the tense stillness. Never had she been so alone in her life; never so frightened. She clung to the window, crouched as small as possible, not daring to look up. And across the night a sound grew out of the void and came to her, and her face blanched, and she caught at her throat with shaking hands. Faint, elusive, coming from very far away, to be felt rather than heard, it was now like the distant trampling of the feet of many men, now like the rush of water over stones, now like the whisper of the wind in trees, scarcely a thing apart from the silence which enfolded and engulfed it. It was a voice from nowhere, warning her straining senses of unknown and sinister things to come. "Why, sweetheart, art hiding from me?" a voice said almost at her ear, and Varia, taken unawares and startled out of all control, screamed aloud and shrank lower into her corner, sobbing violently. Marius stooped over her and took her hands away from her face. "What is wrong?" he demanded. "Why these tears, little wife?" "It was so dark!" Varia wailed. "And there was no sound at all, and then there was a sound--" She wept again, her fresh terrors submerging even her fear of him. Marius picked her up in his arms, carried her to the couch, and laid her there, and a moment she clung to his hand desperately. He was something human to hold to; so she would have clung to Nerissa, or even to Mycon. "Afraid of the dark!" Marius scoffed gently. "Well, I am here now, and there is nothing shall harm thee. Of a truth, I did begin to think the feast would never have an end. The more I burned to be done with it and come to thee, the more the minutes dragged. I pictured thee, awaiting me here in thy secret bower; thy flushing face and the veiling shadow of thy hair, thy denying hands and averted glances--and thy father's guests might well have thought me a love-sick fool, thinking of nothing but his secret hope that his mistress might prove kind." Varia sat upright on the couch and put her feet upon the floor, and his eyes followed the gracious outlines of her form beneath its drapery of rose. She pushed her hair back from her eyes and looked at him. Slow crimson spread from throat to brow; her glance wavered and fell. Quite suddenly she put both hands to her face, hiding her eyes from his, and turned her face away. It was a gesture of a child, infinitely touching, all-betraying in its pure artlessness. He started toward her, his dark eyes keen; and she sat quite still, passive to this fate of hers from which flight no longer might avail her. But with the touch of his hand upon her shoulder there came a soft insistent knocking at the door. Marius smothered a curse and strode to open it. Mycon stood upon the threshold, and in the lamplight his face showed gray. He stammered like one caught in guilt. "Lord, thy pardon! There is trouble without, and the master sends to ask my lord's presence. We be encompassed by barbarians who have crept upon us." "Tell thy lord I come," said Marius. Varia was forgotten; scarcely had the slave vanished down the corridor when Marius was after him, leaving his bride alone. Now in the villa were to be heard the first sounds of people aroused from sleep to find themselves in the midst of unknown dangers. Voices, frightened and impatient, echoed back and forth along the corridors; lights gleamed across the courts. Men and women, half dressed, began to appear, questioning feverishly, delivering themselves of theories to any who would listen. "They say that if he will surrender Felix they will depart at once in peace." "How came they to know that he was here? Who told them?" "He will not surrender Felix--" "If he does not--holy gods!--we shall all be slain and plundered." And above all, a woman's voice: "I will not stay to be robbed! I shall leave this house at once!" In the great court men had gathered about Eudemius and Marius, who held hasty consultation. Felix, pale, nursing carefully his wounded arm, was on the outskirts of the group. His face all unconsciously betrayed his state of mind. It was white and flaccid; and at every yelp of the hounds outside who clamored for his life, he cringed and quivered. But he was very quiet, and the talk surged over his head as though he had not been there. Men cast glances of scorn unveiled upon him, but he was long past caring what they thought. He wanted his life; his eyes craved protection. In his face was a desperate dumb reliance on the pride and honor of Eudemius, which would not allow him to surrender one who had claimed his hospitality; craven himself, he yet recognized and centred all his faith upon this stern and scornful pride which must uphold its traditions at whatever cost. Several of the younger lords who had been or were then in military service came forth, offering themselves, not at all averse, it would seem, to such variation in the entertainment. A handful of drunken barbarians--what were these? Upon them and upon Marius the defence of the villa devolved. Marius gave his orders swiftly, and one by one his lieutenants sped away. All slaves capable of bearing arms were to be equipped at once from the armory. Men were already stationed at intervals along the outer walls to guard against surprise. The house seethed with uproar, which no efforts of discipline could quench. Women wept and clung together, terrified each by the others' terror. They huddled in bunches around the walls, catching at every man who would pause to speak with them. Yes, there had been a barbarian even within the hall, a great fellow, tall as the house, who spat fire and spoke Latin as no Roman had ever heard Latin spoken before. Ay, truly, all the gods might witness that he had spat fire. And then he had left, taking back to his dogs of comrades their lord's refusal to yield up his guest. So there would be an attack, and men had many other things to do than to be stopped and chattered to by foolish women. Mingled always with the lamentations of these was men's shouting, a trampling of many feet, a swift confusion. The lights, continually fanned by the passing of people, began to take on a lurid glare. In the wind which blew about the crowded court, cressets flared horribly, with very evil-smelling smoke. Their light fell waveringly on jewels and golden collars and rich robes, and on burnished weapons in the hands of slaves. Long since had the porter fled from his lodge, and his place was taken by a score of eager defenders. Marius snatched a moment from the importunities of those who would know the precise state of their danger, and exactly how long it must be before they should all be slain, and ran up the stairs which led to the upper rooms. He felt his way through the darkness until he came upon a window, very narrow and small, so high that he could overlook the rest of the house and by leaning out see something of what went on in front. And at what he saw he gave an exclamation, sharp and low, and his eyes glittered like those of a warhorse which scents battle. For all below him were lights which glinted in and out across the night; and to his trained ears rose the stamp and snort of stallions held in check, and the stir and rustle of many men. How many he could not tell, for the moon, fighting her way through a smother of clouds, gave scarce light to see, and in the trees the shadows were delusive. A man's voice shouted; other voices took it up, until a seething bubble of sound, hoarse and significant, eddied around the house and lost itself in distance. A stealthy stir and movement heaved itself from among the shadows; there was the clank of a weapon against an iron stirrup; vague forms seemed to circle more closely about the house. The voice shouted again and was answered by a scurry of horses' feet. "There be more than I had thought," Marius muttered, and turned to go. "And they are not all mounted. Also I think that they will try to take the door by storm. Well, they can try! More than two may play at that game!" In time, those without began an attempt to batter their way in, so that Marius proclaimed them very drunk and more foolish. He said nothing of his suspicion that this was merely intended to mask an attack in some other quarter, and was inclined to be scornful of this untried foe. So that some of the old men, taking no consideration of the fact that although his words were light his actions were prompt and well-planned, became timid, and the shrieks of the women redoubled at every assault upon the door. He strove to assure them that if their besiegers did break in, they could get no further for the bristling hedge of swords and spears which waited. But to this the timid ones replied with reason that they did not want them in at all. Various guests began to take it in their heads that this was not the entertainment they had come for; and in an access of the strange panic which is liable to plunge even the most sober crowd into blind folly, if nothing worse, collected their valuables and their attendants and prepared incontinently to fly from the house. Greatly their wrath raged when Marius refused to let them out. They muttered that the heads of upstarts were easily turned by a little power, and they had rather be slain in the open than butchered like rats in their hole. And at this, the first hint of insubordination among his forces, Marius became no longer the easy-going gallant whom most of them had known, but a being new and strange. He sprang to the mastery of the situation by, as it were, divine right, a right which was his by grace of the power that had trained him to face and control crises such as these. He treated these high-born lords and ladies as though they had been squads of mutinous recruits; he lashed them with his glance; he no longer requested, he ordered. His voice held a rasp which none had ever heard, and which brought them from displeased dignity to instant and abject obedience. He spared none,--faded voluptuary, whining graybeard, nor restive youth; in an hour he had bullied and frightened them into working like galley-slaves, and all the house was under the iron discipline of his camp. * * * * * In her chamber, Varia, in all her terror and loneliness, was forgotten. About her was an insistent clamor of confusion; she stood in the middle of the room, dazed and overwhelmed by it, the light flowing softly over her. Now and again a shouted order was flung across the tumult; with this there began presently to mingle sounds from without. In the corridor words flew by her, whose meaning she scarcely comprehended. "They have taken a tree to batter down the door--" "My lord Marius saith we are _not_ to use the boiling pitch until he gives command." "He was crossing the court and an arrow fell from heaven and smote him." "Thou liest, fool! It came in at a window!" And almost in her ears, so close it seemed, a masterful voice shouted: "Where is that fat beast Hito who hath the keys?" and was gone like smoke. And Hito's name was taken up and tossed from hall to hall; she heard it now near, now far, in the midst of the rush of hasty footsteps and the tangle of voices. A scream pierced through the clamor and hung a moment above all other sounds; someone was wounded. She had a vision of Claudius the physician brushing by her half-open door. As from a mist of terror she saw the flying of his skirt and the gleam of his silver beard. The actual point of attack was too far away for her to know what went on. She began to draw her breath in small gasping sobs, glancing this way and that, as one who longs to flee and dares not. A sound in the garden caught her ears; from where she stood she strained her eyes to see. Only the armed man on guard behind the little narrow door, vine-hung, which led to the outer world. The man, though she could not see him for the darkness, was short and fat, and his little pig's eyes were glazed with fear. But there came other sounds; and a black figure heaved itself above the wall, on the outer side, against the starlight, and tottered insecurely there. And then that armed man squealed, and cast his weapon on the ground, and knelt; and this also she could not see. Nor could she hear the words which the black figure on the wall flung down, nor what was answered, abjectly, with prayers and promises. She did not see the dark bulk slide scrambling down the wall, landing cat-like on its feet; she did not see it struggle a moment with the kneeling man who tried to rise and flee, and thrust him forward on his face. Again new sounds reached her out of all the uproar on the other side of the house; the grating of a key, the thud of feet upon the sward. Black figures came headlong out of the night; there was a clash of spurs on the marble steps; and one man, and another, and a third, leaped into the lighted room. First of them all was a short man, bowed in the legs, with a red scrub of beard and yellow eyes which gleamed at her. And those behind him were great and blond and bearded, with drawn daggers, and round shields of bull's hide on their left arms. They crowded on the heels of the foremost, and stopped short, staring in the brilliant light at the palpitating figure of rose. Until then Varia had shrunk and wept and trembled, a terrified child, alone, with no hand to cling to. But as the first barbarian crossed her threshold, she faced him, a desperate, tender thing at bay. Unknown, unreckoned with, there lurked within her the strange race-instinct, born of blood in which was no drop of craven blood, and of caste which was greater than that of kings. She was the product of her day and her environment; but she was the product also of her mighty past, of great men who had fought and ruled their world, and great women who had ruled with them. It was instinct, dumb and blind, but it held her on her feet, facing them, though her eyes were frozen with terror; and she obeyed it because she had no sense or will to disobey. For one heart-beat there was no sound but the heavy panting of men's breath. Then a man snatched a golden cup rimmed with rubies, which stood on a stand near the window, and thrust it into his breast. With his first motion the two others started upon Varia where she stood, rose and white, in the middle of the chamber. Midway, the larger man pushed the smaller red-bearded one aside; he recovered, with a vicious pass of his knife, which the other gave aside to parry. "I entered first!" the red one shouted. "Hands off, thou son of swine! Said we not that I, Wulf, who brought thee hither, should have first choice? Call you the others; thus we shall catch them front and rear." "Call yourself!" said the other. He sprang forward, clutching at Varia, slipped on the polished floor, and plunged headlong at her feet. Varia screamed in terror; and as Wulf overleaped his prostrate comrade and caught her in his arms, screamed again. Her head was crushed against Wulf's leather-clad breast, but she struggled and cried aloud as a hare cries when the hounds have brought it down. There was a rush from the corridor outside, a long-drawn shout of warning and triumph, answered by yells from the garden, where more black figures came leaping. Wardo, grimed from head to foot, dashed into the room at the head of his men as a crowd of invaders surged through the long window. He lunged at Wulf with the short broad sword he carried, and the point came away red. Wulf gurgled and fell, dragging Varia with him; and the fight closed over them both as water closes over a cast stone. And as Life had entered the garden by that little narrow door, so Death also entered, bringing with it what Death must bring. III When dawn washed the first faint streak of gray across the night sky, the barbarians, beaten back and baffled, retreated to the great Wood from which they had come, and lurked darkly there. "I think we are not yet through with them," said Marius. He had seen Saxons fight before. With dawn, also, Eudemius sent forth a trusty slave westward to seek aid from the civil authorities and from his own people at the mine, the nearest point at which it might be obtained, and with the dawn was found the body of Hito, stabbed in the back, lying near the little garden door which led to the outer world. Many of the guests chose to take their chances of attack, and left the villa hurriedly while yet the day was young. Eudemius could not hold them prisoners, and would not if he could. His own was enough to guard. But Felix did not go, and Eudemius could not order him forth. He dared not leave the villa, where he felt a measure of security; were he to do so, he knew that it would be his fate to be captured and killed before he could win to safety. So they shrugged their shoulders and left him. That day the villa, unmolested and with half its inmates gone, seemed to sink into a calm of exhaustion, which, after the night that had passed, was like the calm of death. Marius and Eudemius themselves superintended the cleaning up of the house, the strengthening of barricades, the muster of the slaves for what further service might be needed. "I trust the messengers whom I sent forth have not been waylaid," Eudemius said. "Help could not come before to-morrow night," Marius answered. "It will go hard with us if we cannot hold out that long. This time it may be that we shall fare better; there will be no Hito to betray us." "I shall have him buried at the crossroads with a stake through his evil heart!" said Eudemius. "There be eleven dead awaiting burial. This we shall do to-night. And Varia, my son, how fares she?" "She is unhurt, but exhausted, and the old woman watches her," said Marius. "Sleep thou also, and I shall see to setting a watch about the house, and that those may take rest who can be spared." Mycon entered, his arms before his face. "Lords, there be a slave, Wardo the Saxon, who insists that he hath grave matters for thine ears. He is in very evil plight--" "Let him stand forth," said Eudemius. Wardo came, tall, grim, very dirty. A bloody rag bound his head; he limped, and one of his sandals was stained with blood. He crossed his arms before his face, and waited. "Speak!" Eudemius commanded. And Wardo spoke, standing erect, his blue eyes on his lord's face. "Lord, it was not Hito who betrayed the household, as I hear men say. It was I. There is a little man, red like a fox, who came to a house on Thorney where was I. He also is Saxon. And I, being drunken with much wine, did boast to this one of my lord's greatness, and of the feasts which were made within this house, and the wealth which was herein. And when I was sober, after many hours, one told me of what I had done, and of how this red Saxon was gone to set his fellows upon my lord. So I rode until my horse fell with me and died, but I was too late to bring warning to my lord. When I reached this house last night, it was surrounded, with the door beaten down and men swarming within. So I, being Saxon, and not suspected in the dark, entered, shouting, with others. And in my lady's chamber found I that red Wulf, who is no wolf, but a sly thieving fox, and tried to slay him. But he got away. I am my lord's man." "It is well that you have told me this," said Eudemius. "At sunset you shall be crucified. Go." Wardo crossed his arms before his face and went. When his work about the house was done, Marius entered softly the room where Varia lay, tended by Nerissa. The old woman slipped away, and Varia held out a slim hand to him in one of her sudden and unaccountable moods of coquetry. He kissed it gallantly. "How fares my lady?" Varia shivered. "I do not wish to think of it! Were it not for Wardo--" "Ay, that is true," said Marius, misunderstanding. "Well, by this night his fault will be punished. But how know you of what Wardo hath done?" "How?" she echoed in surprise. "Was it not my life he saved? And what is he to be punished for? What hath he done?" "Naught that in the least would interest thee," he told her. "He shall not be harmed," she said firmly. "He saved me from two great men and one little one who would have slain me, and he is not to suffer for it." "Now this is something new. Dost know, sweeting, that had it not been for this knave Wardo, no great men nor little would have come upon thee? It was he who betrayed us, and it is right that he should suffer for it." Her eyes filled with tears. "He saved my life, and I will not have him suffer! What is to be done to him this night?" He tried to put her off. "Never mind him, sweet one. Think of him no more." But she repeated stubbornly: "What is to be done to him this night?" She glanced at him, one of her strange and sidelong glances. "Is he to be--crucified?" Marius started in spite of himself. "Who told thee?" he demanded. "None told me," she answered. She raised her hands to her temples. "I felt it--here. So, I say that he shall _not_ be crucified, nor harmed in any way at all. And thou must see to it!" She was like an imperious young empress, commanding her meanest slave. "And if I will not?" said the slave, perversely. Her child's mouth quivered. "But thou wilt!" she pleaded. She laid a hand upon his bare sinewy arm, fingering the heavy golden armlet on it, and for a fleeting instant raised her eyes to his. "Thou wilt?" she repeated sweetly. His dark face hardened against her wiles. "The man hath played the traitor. He also is Saxon. Who knows but that he may set his fellows on again? Nay, lady wife; I fear thy man must die." "Ah, no!" she begged. "It is the first request I make of thee--thou'lt not refuse it if I ask thee?" "Ask it then," said Marius, his eyes on her, "in the right and proper way that a wife should ask her husband." Rose-leaf color flushed her cheeks; she raised herself to her knees amid the draperies of the couch, and clasped her folded hands upon her breast, and closed her eyes, devout and meek and holy. "Pray thee, let Wardo go, my lord!" she said softly, and opened her eyes quickly to see how he might take it. "Is it thus thou wouldst have me ask?" He bent his head, sudden laughter in his eyes, and kissed her pleading lips. "Who could resist thee, lady mine?" he cried gayly. "Sure never did unworthy man have so fair a lawyer. Ay, child, if he saved thy life--and thy account and his do tally--he shall go free." Varia slipped out of his arms and clapped her hands. "Go then--go quickly and tell my lord father so! He will do it for thee, as thou hast done it for me. Is it not so?" So it came to pass that evening that the cross in the chamber of fate knew not its victim; and for this there were more reasons than a girl's tender wiles. For while the flame of sunset again stabbed the dusk of night, came men out from the Wood of Anderida, fifteen miles away, some on foot and some on horseback, with at their head the red Wulf, astride a great bay horse. Wardo, from his station on the roofs, saw them from far off; saw also that many as they had been the night before, they were now fivefold more, an army bent on plunder, captained by lawlessness. And still no aid had come. Wardo told Marius, and Marius went up on the roofs to see, and came back square of jaw and with moody eyes. He sought out Eudemius, where the latter was going the rounds of their makeshift defences, and said: "This red hound of hell hath come back upon us and brought his pack, five times as many as before. Thou knowest I am not one to turn tail when there is fighting to be done, but I can see what is to be seen. And we have women and children with us." "You think, then, that we should fly from here?" Eudemius asked with sombre eyes. "I think we are lucky to have the chance to attempt it," said Marius, curtly. "Were it not better to lose half rather than all? For an hour we might stand against them, scarcely more. Thy familia numbers five hundred souls; of these some are wounded and more are but incumbrances. If it pleaseth thee to stay, thou knowest that nothing will suit me better. A good fight against odds is worth risking much for. I but state the case as I have seen it." "My fighting days are over," said Eudemius. "But I am not too old to run. And there are the women and the children. Be it as thou sayest, lad. This work is thy work--" he broke off to chuckle grimly--"and thou'rt a clever workman! We have chariots and horses, and I will give command to pack what papers and things of value I may." Again the villa was in uproar. Chests were strapped on sumpter mules; chariots with pawing horses stood in the main courtyard, ready to be gone. Slaves ran here and there with scrolls and bundles in their arms; cooks left the meat turning on the spits; dancing girls, wrapped in cloaks and clinging to their treasures, huddled together, waiting for the start. The gates were opened, and all but certain of the stewards and body-slaves were permitted to depart. They swarmed from the villa like ants when their hill is crushed, and spread off to the west, away from the direction of the enemy. And always the slave stationed on watch cried down to those below the approach, near and ever nearer, of that enemy; and at every cry a spasm of increased activity shuddered through the house. It was each one for himself, and the hindmost would surely rue it. "Should we be separated in the night, let us plan to meet at one spot," said Marius. He was strapping a bundle of food and a flask of wine to his saddle-bow, in the hurrying confusion of the courtyard, too old a campaigner to face a march without supplies. Eudemius nodded, his arms full of papers, which a slave was placing in a box. "At Londinium, then, whence I shall sail for Gaul as soon as may be. We will wait there, each for the other. If the barbarians sweep the country widely, we may not at first be able to reach there." "That is true," said Marius. "I have thought of that. Our best plan will be to hold west from here, make a half circle and gain the Bibracte road, and when the brutes are worrying the carcass here, return eastward, passing them by the road, and so reach Londinium. The gods grant that Ætius can spare me a legion!" In the end they barely escaped. The slave on watch shouted warning; the stewards flung themselves on their horses and made off. Varia ran into the court, crying for Nerissa; without ado Marius lifted her into the chariot, of which Wardo held the reins. The chariot of Eudemius, driven by himself, was already rumbling through the gateway. There was a terrified scurry of slaves from under his horses' feet. He swung into the road and lashed the stallions to a gallop. Close at his heels Wardo followed, his grays leaping in the traces, with Varia, white-faced, crouched low in front of him. The hollow thunder of the wheels mingled with the pounding of hoofs as they dashed into the oak-bordered road. Marius swung himself to his horse's back as the beast reared with excitement, found his stirrups, and galloped hard after, his sword clapping against his greave. He did not see who followed through the gate, for as he caught up with the flying chariots, the first of the pursuers mounted the brow of the hill to the east of the house, not a quarter of a mile away. Some of them rode their horses into the courtyard; others took up the trail of the fleeing Romans. But they were there for plunder; soon they gave up the chase and galloped back to strive for their share with the others. Those slaves who had been left behind or who were overtaken on the road were slain; as the sun went down there began in the stately halls an orgy which sounded to high heaven. So when they had eaten and drunk until they could eat and drink no more, they fought among themselves over the division of the spoils; and between them all they killed their leader, Wulf the red son of Wulf. Also, in their drunken frenzy, they tried to set the villa on fire. In the midst of this, while they swept ravening through the rooms like devouring flame, while every court held its knot of drunken brawlers, who cursed and fought in darkness or under the flaring light of cressets, a detachment of milites stationarii, or military police, in whose hands was the maintenance of law and public order, rode over the western hills, coming hotfoot from Calleva, thirty miles away. They fell upon the barbarians, taking them by surprise; these forgot their quarrels and made common cause against this sudden foe. At once bloody battle was waged beneath the stars; the pillared halls rang to the clang of weapons and the thud of armed feet. Men in armor of bronze came crashing to the ground with their blood spreading from them darkly over the marble floors; in the courtyards men at every moment stumbled over bodies of the dead and dying. And an hour before dawn there arrived from the west a body of footsore miners, armed for the most part with picks, which it appeared they were skilled in using in a variety of ways. These combined with the stationarii; for an hour red death swept through hall and court and chamber, to the tune of the yelling of the human wolf-pack loosed for blood. At the end of it the barbarians, harried before and behind, unable to rally, fell into panic and started to flee, laden with what spoil they could bear away. By dawn what was left of the villa was again in Roman hands, a wreck mighty in its desolation, epitome of the splendor that had been and the tragedy that was to come. The pendulum of Time had started on its inevitable downward course, and where had been power and grandeur were but the ashes of pomp and pride. IV Now, four days after that night when Wardo had betrayed his lord in the house of Chloris, men coming up from the mine, at sunset when the day's work was done, were herded by their overseers and guards into the bare open space at the mouth of the mine. The superintendent came among them, a grizzled man, hard-faced, as became his lot, and spoke. Beside him was a slave whom some there recognized as from the villa, travel-stained and dropping with fatigue, just arrived with letters from his lord. "An attack hath been made upon the house of our lord by barbarians and insurgents," said the superintendent, glancing over the tablets he held. "It was repulsed, but with loss upon both sides. The barbarians came from the Silva Anderida, and it is thought that they are being reinforced by others, and will try again. My lord is hard pressed, for the house is crowded with guests gathered for the marriage feast of our lady. The attack hath been stubborn beyond belief; the barbarians demand that one lord Felix, who slew their chief at Anderida, be given up to them, and this my lord will not do. Also my lord saith that knowledge of the rich treasure in the house was betrayed to the barbarians by a drunken slave, and they are hot for plunder. Therefore he hath sent to me, as the nearest one to afford him help, commanding that I say to you in his name: Those of you whose crimes are not murder or against religion shall be returned to the house to take part in its defence, as many as can be singled out by to-morrow's dawn. For loyal service and obedience to orders, ye shall receive the freedom of _casarii_ and your sentence here shall be cancelled. To-night your records shall be looked up, and to-morrow those of you whose names and numbers are called will be sent forward as quickly as may be." Half a hundred voices raised a tired cheer, not so much because their lord was in danger, as because there was prospect of release. The nightly rations of black bread and beans were served out. Some men took their portion to the huts where they slept, as beasts carry food to their lair; but these were for the most part condemned for murders and religious crimes and knew that they had no hope of freedom. The majority gathered in discussion about the fires, always with alert sentries hovering near at hand. All that night the air throbbed with expectation. In the first dark hours of morning the blast of a brazen trumpet brought five hundred men into the open, eager to know their fate. The superintendent and his assistants appeared with lists of names which they had worked all night to complete. Men pressed close around him, eager not to lose a word; the overseers, whips in hand, mingled with the crowd to check incipient disturbances. A score of mounted guards were drawn up near by, waiting to escort the detail. Lanterns shone here and there through the thin gray mist which hung over the broken land. Nicanor woke at the first brassy blare of the trumpet. His face was keen with his first conscious thought; there was no doubt that he would be of those chosen. He made his toilet with a shake of his tunic, and went outside. Around him, in the semi-darkness, figures were hurrying to where the superintendent, mounted on a keg, was calling the roll by the light of a lantern, with his hood pulled well over his face against the keen air of morning. His harsh voice, shouting names and numbers, rose above the stir and rustle of excited men. Three rods from his hut, Nicanor was jostled violently by one who wheeled with an oath to see who had run against him. "Have a care, Balbus!" Nicanor said shortly. "What is thy haste? Dost hope that thou wilt be chosen, man-killer? What wouldst give to be in my place? For I shall go, having neither religion nor blood upon my head." Balbus snarled at the taunt. It had been flung at him before, with variations, until his temper was frayed to breaking-point. From Nicanor it was not to be endured; for since the day of the rat-fight encounters between the two had been frequent and bloody, in spite of the guards' whips. Now jealousy was added to the wrath of Balbus, and with this the devil in him broke its chains. But after his nature, he was treacherous. He said nothing, nor gave warning that his anger was more than skin-deep; and made as though to pass Nicanor and go his way. Nicanor went on, laughing carelessly. But he was scarcely past when Balbus wheeled around and struck. There was the glimmer of a blade, a smothered oath, and that was all. Nicanor turned as though to attack his assailant, who had sprung back, staggered, pitched forward, and fell, rolling down the slight declivity. He struggled a moment to rise, and lay down again, very quiet, and the slope of ground hid him from casual observation in the camp. Balbus drove his weapon into the earth to clean it, hid it in his shirt, and hurried into the crowd of miners, who, as the roll-call progressed, were being divided into two groups. "Nimus!" the superintendent called, and a man stepped forward and joined the smaller group. "Nico! Niger! Nicanor!" And at this Balbus pressed forward, elbowing to the superintendent's side. "Master, the man Nicanor hath been fighting, it would seem, although with whom I do not know. When I came by, I saw him lying dead upon the ground by the huts." "Nonius! Ollus!" cried the overseer, and in the same breath--"When I have started these I will send men to bury him.--Ossian!" Shortly after sunrise three hundred and fifty men were started under escort to their lord's assistance, equipped as well as might be with the means at hand. When Nicanor struggled back to consciousness, after unmarked hours, the noise of the tramping of men had ceased, and again the world was dark. He tried to move, and a twinge of agony hot as flame shot through him, shocking him into full wakefulness. He sat upright, wincing with pain, and slowly felt himself all over. There was blood upon his head, where he had struck it against a stone in falling, but it was caked and dried. And his tunic was torn, on the left side, just behind and under the shoulder. It took him some time to reach around and find the place, for every movement was slow torture. The cloth at this place was stiff with what he knew was blood. So, then, this was where the knife of Balbus had gone home. He wondered if the wound were serious. The stars danced dizzily before his eyes, and he was faint from loss of blood. But there was a thing he had to do, a thing which all through unconsciousness had given him no rest. Across the deeps of night and of oblivion a voice was calling, and he must follow it while he had life to stand. He got to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly. By sheer force of will he steadied himself, and turning his back on the silent settlement, started walking across the rough and broken country straight eastward toward the road which led to his heart's desire. Sometimes he walked; sometimes he fell and lay staring at the high sky and the wheeling stars, waiting without sound or motion until he could gather strength to rise. Sometimes he felt his tunic wet with fresh blood, and could not get at the wound to stanch it, and did not try; sometimes iron hammers, red-hot, beat upon his temples and left him blind and reeling with pain. Always one idea possessed him; he must get to her who called him. She was in danger; he cursed the gods who had held him back from starting to her rescue with his mates. Time lost--his chance gone--though he died for it, he would not let himself be beaten in this by Fate. Every ounce of the dogged sullen strength of him gathered itself to meet the demands of his stubborn will. And always, whether he walked in reason or in delirium, his course held eastward, straight as a homing pigeon for its loft. In time, when the sun was high, he reached the road which crossed the Sabrina and led to the moor towns beyond. Here he entered the barge of a waterman about to leave the bank, and sat waiting to be ferried across, staring straight before him, with never an answer to the boatman's idle talk. The boat's nose poked into the further bank, and the boatman demanded his fare. Nicanor looked at him with eyes glittering with fever beneath his shaggy thatch of hair, and shook his head mutely, as at one who spoke an unknown tongue. He got out of the boat and walked up the road, and the man crossed his fingers in superstitious fright, muttered a prayer to the river-gods against ill luck, and let him go. Once started again, Nicanor walked all that day, and at nightfall reached Corinium, five and twenty miles away. Here his overwrought strength gave out, and he slept as the dead sleep, in the fields outside the town. Hours before dawn he woke, haunted by the demon of unrest which rode him, begged food and a cup of milk at a farmhouse by the road, and started on again. All that day he walked, a mere machine dominated by a force which would drive it forward to the very verge of dissolution; and in the late evening he reached Cunetio. Here he did not know when he stopped, for he went to sleep on his feet, and woke and found himself on his back by the roadside, with the sun at high noon. Desperate for the time he had lost, he hastened on, and in an hour came upon one of the small stations threaded along the high-roads between towns which were more than ten Roman miles apart, kept as taverns by _diversores_ for the entertainment of travellers. There were folk stopping here, for outside the inn door stood horses, saddled and tethered. Nicanor selected the animal which best pleased him,--a tall roan,--mounted, and rode away without so much as a glance behind him for pursuit. After that his way was easier. He met people, who stared at him and sometimes asked questions which he heard himself answering. Dimly, without at all taking it in, he understood that they were vastly excited about something, but it was not worth while to ask questions on his own account. They were mere shadows, without substance, which drifted by and were forgotten; only he and his desire in all the world were real. So he reached Calleva, in the open country amid the heather, where he stopped for an hour for food and to rest his horse. On again then for fifteen miles, and he rode through the station of Bibracte, and turned aside into the oak-lined by-road for the last ten miles of his journey--miles which stretched before him as the most endless of all. Again excitement burned in his veins like fever; he kicked his horse into a gallop which more than once threatened life and limb. They pounded up the last slope which hid the villa from view, spent horse and exhausted man, and gained the rise. And Nicanor flung the roan back upon its haunches with a jerk which all but broke its jaw. "Holy gods!" he muttered; and then--"Holy gods! Am I mad--or do I dream again?" The sight burst upon him in all its blinding suddenness and appalling hideousness,--a smoking ruin where had been the stately mansion of his lord; blank windows grinning at him like dead, open eyes; the garden of his dreams desecrated, its wall shattered, lying open, naked and despoiled, before the world. At the tinge of smoke which hovered like the breath of death above the place, his horse flung up its head and snorted. Nicanor lifted his arms to the high heaven which for him was empty, and brought them slowly down before his face. "Oh, thou heedless god, whoever thou mayest be that hast done this thing!" he cried into the bitterness of the desolation before him, "smite thou me also, for there is naught left for me! The stars fight against me; I am cursed with unending bitterness, and all that I can do is of no avail." The shock was as great as though he saw her whom he sought lying dead before him. For the first time he faltered, not knowing whither to go or what to do, not daring to search for what he feared to find. His horse, standing with legs spread wide and drooping head, heaved a great sob of exhaustion from its panting flanks. Nicanor, staring ahead of him with gloomy eyes, roused, picked up his loose reins, and rode down the hill. At the yawning doorway, where no porter challenged, he swung himself from the saddle and went into the great central court. Here was grass uprooted, a fountain wrecked; marble walks were stained with blood and the marks of feet; plants were torn up and broken. Through empty room after empty room he hurried,--to hers, his lady's, first of all. And at the threshold of her bedchamber he stumbled over a body,--Nerissa's, the old nurse; and behind her lay Mycon, chief of the eunuchs. The room was in confusion; chests were torn open and their contents rifled; furniture was upset and hacked. In the bathroom near by, the marble bath, sunken in the floor, was filled with water, and there were towels and unguents and perfumes ready at hand. A bronze strigil lay across the threshold, where it had been dropped in someone's hasty flight. On from here he went, sick with fear of what might have been, and passed through other rooms. Here were the same signs of wanton destruction; mosaic floors cracked and defaced, statues overthrown, hangings torn down and swaying to the wind in rags. He found other bodies; Hito's huddled in the violated garden, amid the tangle of wrecked vines and trampled shrubbery; and those of many slaves. The storerooms had been looted, and broken amphoræ and the remains of food showed where drunken orgies had been held. In the Hall of Columns every article of gold or silver had been carried off. Priceless vessels in embossed and enamelled glass lay shattered into fragments; even some of the bronze lamps were gone. Velvet covers had been stripped from the couches; the table was drenched in spilled wine. A bust of the Emperor which had stood on its marble pedestal at the end of the hall lay upon the floor, mutilated almost beyond recognition--work of Romans, this, of the insurgents who refused to acknowledge the divinity of their temporal lord and sovereign. Nicanor stood in the doorway, the lone living figure in a great desolation. All his fears and uncertainties were written in his face. When had this thing happened? What had become of his lord and his lord's guests? And his lady, what of her? Had the relief from the mine been in time, and why were there no signs of them? What had become of the invaders, and why had all living things so completely disappeared? And where were the stationarii, that they had not taken possession of the place in the name of the law? He went back to those rooms which had been his lady's, torn with bitter doubt and dread. He walked reverently among the things which had been hers, as one who treads on holy ground, touching with his hands a chair over which was flung a rug of snowy furs, as though she had just left it--a table covered with bottles and perfume pots. And beside the couch where she had lain he dropped upon his knees and hid his face in the silken covers. Heavy footsteps echoed outside in the empty corridor, and Nicanor started to his feet, a hand on his knife. A man entered, stepping over Nerissa's body, and stopped short. By his dress, his iron helmet, and short sword, Nicanor knew him for a stationarius. This one, recovering from his surprise, advanced quickly. "So, fellow, I've caught you red-handed!" he cried, and grasped Nicanor's shoulder. Nicanor winced at the touch, but made no effort to get away. "There is no need of that," he said quietly. "I am my lord's man, slave in this house until a month ago." His collar of brass, with its graven name, bore evidence to his words. "I pray you tell me of what hath happened here, and of my lord, and his--his people." "That is another matter," said the stationarius, and let him go. "I thought thee of those roving reavers who have plagued us day and night. Thou hast indeed been out of the world not to know these things. Three nights ago this happened. We were sent down from Calleva as soon as the word was brought, but when we arrived the mischief had been done. The lords had fled; the barbarians were in possession, and wallowing in the havoc they had wrought. We gave them battle; in the midst of it came your lord's men from the mines, whom also he had sent for. The barbarians fled with what booty they could gather. Now the place is patrolled by stationarii. We have been burying bodies and saving what property we might, until your lord shall give command concerning it." "And my lord?" Nicanor asked. "Whither hath he fled?" "It is said to Londinium," the soldier answered. "Thence to Rutupiæ to take ship for Gaul. But of this I know not the truth. We are directed to send in our reports to his house in Londinium; that is all that hath been told us." "Then have I no time to lose," said Nicanor. Forthwith he remounted and rode eastward from the villa into the deepening dusk. He turned into the Noviomagus road which led northward to Londinium, down which he had been brought a prisoner so long a time before, when first he had entered into his slaveship. And here he saw that his lord's mansion had not been the only place to suffer. For he found himself in the very track of the barbarians as they had spread out of the Silva Anderida, through a neck of which, fifteen miles ahead, the road passed. An acrid smell of smoke hung heavy in the twilight; when he reached the station of Noviomagus he found it all in flames, with dark figures which ran wildly in and out against the glare. Here he changed his exhausted horse for a riderless gray which came snorting with terror out of the smoke and gloom, ready to welcome a master's hand and voice. He caught it, left the good roan by the roadside, and hastened on. He met and passed people on the road fleeing from burning houses and wrecked homes; in his ears were the crackle of flames and the wailing of women who mourned their dead. From small hamlets scattered in the country, folk were seeking refuge in the larger towns. Yet when he had passed these heedless, scattered groups, he rode almost alone. All through the scented night he rode, and the round yellow moon rode with him. Strange things were happening beneath that moon; in the crucible of destiny a new land was forming, a new order of things was rising on the ashes of the old. Change, long germinating in hidden depths, was in the air, blowing warm with the breath of the South; in the earth, stirring with the first quickening of Spring; in the hearts and minds of men. And it was in Nicanor's heart as he rode fast through the night, fostered in his long season of darkness, unconscious, and inevitable as the changes which were taking place around him. Ahead of him the great road stretched white in the moonlight, a broad ribbon which lost itself among hills and in the shadows of trees. In his ears was the thunder of his horse's feet, pounding insistent clamor into the quiet of the night; the wind of the speed of his going swept cool against his face. The night was gray around him, a velvet moon-steeped darkness, odorous with the fragrance of breaking earth. Far away the deep-throated bay of a dog rose and died across the world. A bell note, thinned by distance to a faint dream-sound, stole over silent hill and valley; peace seemed to wrap the world around as in a cloister garden. Yet not so many miles away were blazing fires, and red wounds, and the black and bitter death of a battle lost. With every mile the scene unrolled itself before him; off in the wide rolling country, which stretched on either hand, lights twinkled here and yonder, wakeful eyes of watchfulness among the hills. He passed pale glimmering bogs where by day lonely herons brooded, and wide barren heaths over which the road led straight as an arrow's flight. And as the miles reeled away under him his excitement began to mount with the sweep of his horse's stride. The exultation of rapid motion mingled with the rising fever of his wound; he wished to shout aloud, to sing. Vague forms seemed to slip by him in the shadows; in every bush beside the road he saw white faces lurking. Strange and half-formed impressions haunted him, of bearded men passing, who sometimes spoke an unknown tongue and sometimes vanished silently as ghosts. Later, he could not tell if he had seen them or if it had been but his fevered dreams; for always when he forced himself to rouse and look about him sanely, the road reached before him white and deserted. All sense of pain left him, even all consciousness of the horse that he bestrode. He seemed floating miraculously through air, and was aware of vague surprise that he did not fall. He could not stop; an iron weight upon his shoulders crushed him to the earth, but at the same time a force against which he could not struggle drove him on. He became possessed of the idea that again he was working in the mines, under the overseer's lash; the sound of his horse's feet merged imperceptibly into the tapping of the picks, hideously loud, and the maddening rhythm of the sound pounded his brain into bruised torpor. Then he knew that he was on fire; from head to foot he burned, parched as a soul in hell. Balls of flame danced before his eyes; while he looked upon them they turned to faces grinning from out a blood-red mist. The faces drew closer and melted into one face, Varia's face, as he had seen it last, white, with scarlet lips and flaming poppies upon either temple. Then the mist in his eyes cleared suddenly, and he saw the figure below the face, wreathed in a floating web of moonlight through which white limbs gleamed, with dusky hair that streamed behind it in a cloud; saw that it was flying from him upon a great white horse. And as it fled it looked back at him with laughing eyes which yet were Varia's eyes; and in its hand it bore a wan pale flame which was his soul, the essence of the genius in him which was his life. At once he knew the figure to be Life and Love, and all that men strive for and hold most dear; and all his being leaped to the fierce desire for conquest, and he shouted in triumph and pursued. But as fast as the good gray went, with ears laid back and neck outstretched and body flattened to its desperate headlong stride, that great white horse went faster, bearing ever just beyond his reach the slim figure, veiled in misty moonbeams, that laughed into his eyes yet fled from his embraces. He laughed aloud in answer, caught up in the whirlwind of his furious speed; heaven and earth held nothing but the divine frenzy of his desire. Fire coursed through his veins; the chase was Life itself, full-blooded, reckless, exultant and sublime, rioting gloriously with untamed passion. He was a god, all-conquering in the fierce pride of his lusty youth and strength; Life was his, and Love was his, if he could seize them. Now the gray's head was at the white horse's shoulder; now he bent forward, laughing his hot triumph into those eyes which were Varia's eyes, his arm outstretched to grasp the mist-veiled figure that leaned away from him, flying from him yet ready to yield in his clasp, with the pale flame wavering in one hand and a white arm raised to ward him off. He had no eyes for the road ahead; a stride, and the prize would be in his eager arms. Ahead was the darkness of the great wood; a stride, and he was within its shadow. The moon was blotted out by the high blackness of trees; and in a heart-beat with its light were gone the white horse and the slim rider with its veil of gauze--gone like a wreath of smoke or a dream which is lost in darkness. He reeled in his saddle under the shock of it, and cried aloud in his disappointment; baffled, he thought that he had lost his quarry among the trees. The gray thundered on, with the reins hanging loose upon its neck, through the damp silence of the wood, where night hung heavy, and out into the open, where again the road gleamed white and empty beneath the moon. And then the moon was gone, and light went out of the world, and he knew himself for a soul cast into outer darkness. His mind was blank; he knew not whether he lived or died, nor did he care. He lived in a nebulous void of gray unconsciousness, horribly empty of all thought and all sensation. So he would have ridden, blindly, until his horse fell or he was halted. But through sheer exhaustion his fever burned itself out, and left him sane once more, and clinging to his horse's neck. His strength was gone; he was dazed and drunken. He came to himself abruptly, like a man starting from uneasy sleep, and stared about him, not knowing even how far he had been carried. He was on the break of the slope leading down to the marsh-ford, and the lights of Thorney glinted over the water in his eyes. V His horse stumbled, and he pulled it up with an oath. Now he was vividly conscious, every nerve strung taut, every sense alert, as a man will sometimes oddly waken from heavy slumber. They went down the slope at a lurching gallop, along the road churned into mire by the passing of many carts, and splashed into the muddy waters of the ford. And on the further bank the good gray stumbled again, tried gallantly to regain its stride, and came crashing to the ground with a coughing groan and a long sickening stagger. But Nicanor had saved himself from a falling horse before. He was on his feet almost as the beast was down, reeling with sheer weakness, but recovering with dogged persistence. He left the horse dying at the water's edge, and started running up the street which led across the island from ford to ford, and his black shadow raced beside him in the moonlight. At the low cabin next to the house of Chloris he stopped and pounded on the door. "Who comes?" cried a great voice within. "It is I, Nicanor! Let me in!" said Nicanor, huskily, out of a throat parched and stiff, and still pounded. The door opened with a rasping of bolts. The bulk of Nicodemus appeared, half undressed, his single eye glinting under its furze of brow. "Thou, lad? In the name of the goddess mothers, what dost thou here at this hour? Not drunk again? Ha, so! Easy!" Nicanor, with a hoarse and empty laugh, staggered forward even as his spent steed had done, and Nicodemus caught him and lowered him to the floor. He sat quite helpless, fully conscious, yet with the strength of his limbs gone from him for the moment utterly. Nicodemus shouted for Myleia. She came, unkempt and kindly; between them the two got Nicanor to his feet and helped him to a bunk. A lodger, wakened by the noise, thrust out a tousled head, saw only a drunken wayfarer, and went to sleep again, all undisturbed. But at this point Nicanor resisted. "Nay, not yet! I have first a thing to do.--Nico, hath there been trouble of sorts on Thorney these last three days?" Nicodemus shook his great sides with laughter. "Trouble? Yea, verily! Thorney hath been hopping to a mad dance these days, promise you!" "And thou hast been dancing with the maddest," said Myleia, a hand upon his shoulder. "What quarrel is it of thine, my big ugly bear? Some day thou'lt be brought home to me dead, or else be haled away to be sold as slave." "Never fear it, jewel of my heart," Nicodemus said tenderly. "Now see we to this battered one. See, here be a bruise upon his skull the bigness of a duck's egg. Get my shears, sweeting, and I'll clip this lion's mane of hair. It will lighten his head that that silver tongue of his may wag the better." "No, you will not!" said Nicanor. "Give me wine and let my hair alone. Man, I tell you I've no time to lose. What happened here?" "Out of the calm came forth a thunderbolt," said Nicodemus, watching as Myleia brought a bowl of water, with cloths and soothing herbs. She thrust the bowl into his hands, and he stood, great and hairy and patient, holding it for her while she cut away Nicanor's tunic, where it had stuck fast to the wound, and washed away the clotted blood and grime. "But not so long ago as thou hast said. Yester eve comes a cloud of dust over the hill by the marshes, and in the cloud as strange a sight as man may see. Chariots, with horses smoking in the traces, lords on horseback, slaves and rabble, all flying from the gods know what. A tall man, very pale, with a mouth set like the jaws of a trap; a younger one, to whom all turned for command and advice; a woman lovely as--er, that is to say, fair enough to please a taste not over-critical as mine, very pale, with red lips and the eyes of a little child in trouble. They stopped here, even at this house, it being nearest, and bought food and wine, resting for a time, for the woman was as one half dead from weariness. Then went they on once more, and took the road for Londinium. I made as much as five and twenty--" Nicanor raised his head, and his eyes were full of a weary triumph. "Nico, that pale lord is my lord, and that fair lady my lady, and I must follow them even across to Gaul." "What use?" said Nicodemus. "They will not stay their passage for thee. Tarry rather with us, and be healed. In the wink of a cat's eye I'll have that collar from off thy throat, and no man be the wiser. We have no son, this old woman of mine and I; stay thou and be son to us. Thy lord will not miss thee, having other matters in his head. And it is long since we heard word from thee, lad." "I had thought the girl would have told thee," Nicanor said. "And she--where is she?" "Eh? What she?" Nicodemus asked blankly, and Myleia paused to listen. "A girl, Eldris by name, half a Briton, I think, who escaped from my lord's house. I told her to come hither, that thou wouldst give her shelter until I could come. Hath she not been here?" "Never hath such an one darkened these doors of mine," said Nicodemus, and Myleia nodded, adding quickly: "Nay, or I should know!" "She hath likely been captured and returned," Nicanor said, and let the subject drop. In spite of all they could say to him, he borrowed a horse from Nicodemus, and at dawn set forth for Londinium, haggard and stubborn and ridden by haunting desire which would not let him rest. And toward evening he returned, and in his face was written failure. What he told them gave no clew to that which all men could read in him. "My lord and his family sailed yester eve for Gaul. A ship was on the point of starting, and they were taken on board. This I learned from a waterman at the quays, who had helped to load their goods. And I know beyond doubt that they are gone, and that they will not return hither.... Now I am weary and would rest." His voice was utterly dead, without life or spirit. Nicodemus, pierced by a glimmer of strange knowledge, laid a hand upon his shoulder. Very dearly he loved his shaggy teller of tales, even though he knew that whether he loved or not was small matter to his idol. His voice lowered to a husky growl of tenderness. "Son, is all well with thee?" A spasm, swift and sharp, passed over Nicanor's face, and was gone like a shadow. His eyes flinched as though a hand had touched a raw and quivering nerve. "Nay," he answered, very quietly. "It is not well." He wandered out, in time, away from their anxious questionings, across the marsh-ford, and toward the gray hills which rolled away to east and west, where the noise of the traffic could not follow. He threw himself upon the ground and stared upward at the gray misty skies, where no blue showed through and where black dots of birds went sailing. Here was the ground of his boyhood dreams,--he knew it with a tinge of bitterness,--dreams that had ended always under gray skies, upon the bleak hills of the uplands. Here, where the full shy heart of him had first known the secret of its power in those long-gone boyhood days, he had entered upon his heritage, thinking only of its joy, knowing nothing of its pain. And here he had returned. Then he had seen himself a soaring lark, singing out its life in pure joy and triumph in a fair world of dreams and sunshine. Now he knew that the lark was caged, doomed to beat its wings forever against bars stronger than iron, that the dreams were shattered and the world was dark. His life was empty; he had lost all, a slave without a master, a singer whose song was stilled. His face, unchanging, stared at the changeless sky; he lay stolid and motionless, and aching with dumb loneliness. Out of all the world he knew himself alone, set apart from his kind by that heritage which his ardent youth had thought all joy; alien, with his world not the world of those around him, and his way the way of loneliness. In time, Nature had her way with him, and he slept, alone upon the hillside, in the dead slumber of exhaustion. The world thundered on around him; the web of Life unrolled endlessly from the distaff of the Second Fate; and he slept on, unheeding. VI In the late afternoon, when gray shadows were stealing westward over the quiet hills, came Eldris along the road toward Thorney, with an empty basket on her arm. She looked younger, rounder, better fed; her eyes were darkly blue and full of light, her skin as white as milk. Coming up a slight rise of ground, she saw the long figure lying against the hillside but a short distance away, and recognized it and stopped short, turning white, with a hand against her heart, all unprepared for what she had yearned to see. She went to him swiftly, and knelt beside him as he slept. "Thank God! He hath returned--he is alive and well!" she whispered. "I had feared--oh, I know not what I feared! How hath he escaped? Ay me, but he is changed! There is that in his face which was not there before, and there is something gone from it. So thin he is--sure he hath been ill." She hung over him in rapt absorption of tenderness; she listened to his slow and heavy breathing; she longed to draw his rough black head into her arms. Yet she dared scarcely touch him, since even in sleep he was still too much his own; rosy and shy she leaned above him, her face transfigured. They were alone in the world, with gray empty skies above them and gray silent hills rolling upon either hand. With one finger she touched a lock of his hair, rough and matted, and dearer to her than all silken tresses; and he lay as one dead, very far from her. She whispered his name, but not for him to hear; at the deepness of his slumber she became emboldened. She stroked the hair from his forehead with mother-tender hands; her eyes brooded over him. He was her god; out of his strength he had saved her when she was helpless, so she murmured, ready, womanlike, to glorify; now he lay broken at her feet, with lean lithe limbs relaxed, with lids down-dropped over the gray sombre eyes which never had looked love into her eyes, with lips still grim and set even in the unconsciousness of sleep. She bent her head and with her lips touched the hair that she had smoothed. He stirred, and she started, a guilty thing, crimsoned with shame; but he did not wake. Her ears caught a word, as though in sleep he had felt a warm presence near him. "Beloved!" And for a name she listened hungrily, but none came. Who had found a place in that deep stern heart of his?--so she asked herself with a small inward twinge of an emotion new and strange. For whom had his keen eyes softened? Who had listened thralled to the silver speech which was all his? Who had known the strength of his arms? Who had found the spell which would soothe his savage moods to stillness and unloose the flood-gates of his magic? Whose was the name so sacred that even in sleep his lips could guard it? "That is what he wants," she murmured; "some one to love him, to understand and comfort when he is so black and bitter, and I think it is what he hath never found. Ah, pray God he may find that one!" Because she loved, it was given her to understand. And, understanding, she caught a glimpse of the tragedy of the loneliness in which those souls must wander whose world is not the world of everyday life and love and death. Quick tears dimmed her eyes, of pity because she understood; and one fell warm on the quiet face at her knee. Nicanor opened his eyes, without moving, but Eldris saw, and sat stiffened with fear, self-betrayed in her swift flush. He raised himself on an elbow and looked at her, smiling slightly. "Thou?" he said, with no surprise in his voice, as though he had thought of nothing but to find her there. "I thought Nicodemus said thou hadst not come." "I did not go to him," said Eldris. "I was at another house a little while. Now I am taken care of by the priests of Saint Peter's." Nicanor nodded. His eyes had not left her face. "Perhaps that is best. Why dost thou weep?" Eldris flushed again. But his gray eyes were inexorable; they dragged truth from her in spite of all her will. "I--thou wert sleeping, and I thought thee ill, and I--was sorry." "I am not ill," he answered, and his voice was gentle. "But let us speak of thee. Now I have come, not so soon as I had thought to come. It was not mine to say what I should do." [Illustration: "The sight burst upon him in all its hideousness,--where had been the stately mansion of his lord."] "You mean--?" Eldris said quickly. "Tell me of it. Tell me all of it, I pray you!" Nicanor's eyes changed with the quick sweet smile which at rare times had power to lighten his face as a shaft of sunshine lights a thundercloud. "All?" he repeated indulgently. "So, then, this is the tale." He sat rocking gently back and forth, hands clasped about his knees, looking not at her at all, but away over the billowing hills. "When thou hadst slipped away from the door of that torture room, I and Hito amused ourselves. And when our game was ended, he had no thought of thee nor thy escape; me it was upon whom all his loving care was centred. So it was commanded that I be taken to the lowest dungeon cell, there to meditate upon the sins which were mine.... I think that in all the world no man knows darkness as do I. Night is not dark; it hath the silver stars above it, and in the world the red earth-stars of men. But I was in darkness which was the darkness of the grave made manifest; it pressed upon mine eyes like leaden weights, and numbed my brain, and was a cloak which smothered me. What hours rolled on I knew not. I was fed or I starved; all was one. There was no time, there was no life, there was no death; there was but a naked soul sitting in still darkness. Five paces is my cell from wall to wall; shoulder high above the floor is a jutting stone. I doubt not that it is red with blood, since each time I passed, it scored me if I had not care." Her shiver brought his glance back to her; with a smile he woke to recollection of her presence. "I cry not thy sympathy, sweet sister; for there were times, and these were many, when the door of that dungeon opened wide, and Hito himself could not take from me my freedom. When I was back upon the moors with shepherds, who listened while I spoke; when I was by the camp-fires of Thorney in the Fords and men left their business at my word; and there was no darkness then in all the world. Back on the hills, where the clouds sweep free and the wind calls; back in the press of life, amid the crowding feet of men; back in the Garden of Lost Dreams, where flowers bloomed and grass was green and tender, and brown birds sang of love and life and freedom. And Hito, fond fool, rubbed his hands and thought he held me caged!" He was very far from her again, in his own strange world; and she sat and watched him, her soul in her shining eyes, if he had but seen it, and knew she could not enter with him. He spoke more quickly; his voice fell to a deeper note, and in it was a mystery at which Eldris caught her breath. "And out of the darkness there came a Tale to me, and thereafter there was light. And the tale is not yet ended--but it grows, it grows! Night and day it rings within my head; always it is with me, mine and mine only. But there is that in it which eludes me, which I seek and cannot find. And until I find it, the tale is not yet done. And it is of a Child, a Babe who lay within his mother's arms and smiled at all the world." Eldris started, and her eyes, fixed upon his face, widened and filled with light. And again at her motion Nicanor came back to her. He looked at her, and his own eyes were as she had seen them once before, when upon a day she had told him that the name men called him was the silver-tongued. "Once thou didst tell that tale to me," he said, "and day or night it hath never left me since. When it is ended, and I have found this thing I seek, then I'll tell it thee." He took up his speech again, and she hung upon his words, unafraid to watch him since his eyes were turned from her. "So there was a gray rat within this my dungeon cell; and at such times when the light faded and I was back therein, I coaxed and fed him, and taught him how to fight. Eh, he was a gallant beast, and his scar is yet upon my hand. He, my gaunt gray rat, and this little Christ of thine were all that kept my brain from madness those days when I sat in darkness. And in time, I, with others, was sent off to the mines, and there we labored until word came that men were needed to help our lord, who was attacked in his household by barbarians. But I was left behind when these were started, wounded by one with whom I had a quarrel about this same gray rat. When I reached our lord's house, it was empty, sacked and spoiled, and stationarii patrolled it. So I came onward to Londinium and here again was I left behind. Our lord hath left the country, and we are free to live or die as we may. I had no plan for thee when I bade thee to come hither, for there was no time for planning with Hito's jaws agape for thee." He rose to his feet and stood looking down upon her. "Now we be both alone, and there is but one thing for it that I can see. Thou must come with me. I cannot promise thee ease nor even safety, but what I have, thou shalt have also." "With thee!" Eldris repeated below her breath, and turned her face from him. It flushed and was radiant; love brimmed over in her eyes. Was she the one who might find her place in that stern, deep heart of his,--she who might learn the spell which would soothe those bitter moods of his to stillness? Her eyes glowed and drooped. And then, slowly, across her face there fell a shadow, and the shadow was of the cross. She knew nothing of evasion; as her heart, so her lips spoke. "With thee!" she breathed again. A sob caught her throat. In her turn she rose and faced him. "Ah, I would so gladly--so gladly! But--I can go with thee in but one way, and that way as thy wife." Nicanor looked at her. "Why, thou knowest that may not be," he said gently, yet with some surprise. "I am a slave, and a slave hath no rights before the law, nor to lawful marriage. It is the law. But come thou!" Eldris turned white. "I am Christian!" she said painfully, "and that thing I may not do. Father Ambrose teacheth that Christ hath forbidden." "I did not make the law," said Nicanor. "Could I do so, I'd give thee gladly the name of wife. But even thus, more of honor I could not give thee. It is not what I wish to do, but what I must do." He took her face between his hands. "Child, the law is made, not by man, but by men; and it is not for man only, but for men. Were it not found good by men, it could not be. And the law, in its wisdom, saith that a slave is a beast, a thing without rights; and I am a slave. There is no law which could marry me to thee.... I cannot give thee marriage,--I, a slave." "And I, a Christian, cannot go without," said Eldris, very low. Two tears rolled from beneath her wan closed lids. Nicanor bent his tall head and kissed them away, with what tenderness a brother might give a sister dearly loved. But with sudden wild sobbing Eldris flung up her arms and clasped his neck, and hid her face against him. "Oh, I would go with thee!" she wept. "Heart of my heart, I would follow to the world's end, wherever thy path might lead me. I love thee, Nicanor, oh, my man of the silver tongue! and I shall love thee even till I die. But go with thee I may not--I dare not! Is this right? Were thy law and my religion made for this, to wreak such woe upon those who follow them? It is cruel,--it is more cruel than death, and I would to God that I were dead!" Nicanor stood a moment silent, stroking her dark hair gently. "No man would hold thee less worthy, since the case is as it must be. Never have I heard of slaves who took thy view of this. All thy life shalt thou have honor and protection. Were it in my power to mend matters, and I did not, the fault would then lie with me. As it is, it is no man's fault, and we have the right to make the best we may of it." She shook her head, struggling with her tears. His tone changed; it deepened and thrilled until she thrilled with it; in it she heard the concentration of all loneliness and all bitterness. "Come to me, Eldris, for I need thee sorely! All my life have I gone chained, desiring what I could not win, longing for what lay beyond me. Must it be so again? Once one said: 'Seek thou the sanctuary while yet there may be time; and when thou art entered in all else shall be as nothing, for there thou shalt have peace.' Then I did not understand; now know I too well. That is what all my life I have never found, though I have sought in many places, and for a weary while. Therefore pray your God to pity me and all who are as I, for I am ridden by ten thousand devils--a flame consumes me which I cannot quench. An ambition is not all a blessing to him who hath it! Oh, the dreams that were mine, which the high gods gave to me, and which are gone,--gone as the smoke goes and shall never come again! The glimpse I have had of a world that should be mine and never can be mine hath shown me all that I have lost. I beat my hands against the bars, and what doth it avail? I am a slave--a slave was I born and a slave shall I die. There is beauty in the world, and I may not see it; there is knowledge in the world, and I may not share it; and my soul is sick with longing for what all men may have but I. There is a thing within me which cries panting for release, and rends me because I know not how to set it free. It is agony and delight, pain and joy beyond all naming; and once I thought it only joy. Thus ever hath it been: what I have thought would bring me peace hath brought me pain, and pain that I know not what I have done to deserve. It was not thus when I lived a brute's life among the brutes in far, gray, northern hills; there was I content, not knowing that I wanted something more. Now have I stretched my hands out to a star, and found it so far beyond my reach that for me its light is lost in darkness which will never lift. Yet the star is shining,--but not for me." The torrent of his speech checked. His voice dropped from the strain of its hoarse passion. He gathered her two hands closer on his breast. "We be two outcasts, thou and I!--thou shunning, I shunned. Yet we still have each the other. Now do I come seeking the sanctuary of thy love, thy balm and healing for the hands and heart I have beaten against my bars. Wilt thou deny? Must I be turned away? Eldris, come!" "Oh!" cried Eldris, her heart in her stricken voice. Long she looked at him, with eyes drowned in tears and lips quivering, all her struggle in her torn face. But suddenly she drew her hands from his, and slipped to her knees before him, and hid her face in shaking fingers. "Oh, God!" she prayed,--and once Nicanor had heard words babbling so from a man upon the rack who never knew that he had talked aloud,--"keep me from going with him! I want to so--oh, I want to so! Make me strong--never let me yield to what is sin! Keep me from going with him! I love him so that I would sin for him! Dear Jesus Lord, keep me from doing that! But make me strong very quickly, or I must go--how can I stay when he so sorely needs me? Oh, God, God, God, I could comfort him so well! We cannot help it, neither he nor I. Nay, I will not weaken,--I will be strong, quite strong,--but in pity Thou must help a little too! I love Thee and the little Jesus, but I love him more--oh, nay--not more! I did not mean it!" She raised her streaming face, turning at the last from the Power whence no help came, to the human strength beside her. "Oh, beloved, help me, for I cannot fight alone!" So, at the need of one soul, into the world another soul was born, and the long travail of spirit rending flesh was ended. "Dear heart, be strong!--thy will shall be my will. If it be sin to thee, thou shalt not sin through me!" Nicanor said, and knelt beside her. Nerveless and shaken with strangling sobs, she crept into the shelter of his arms, trusting him wholly now that his word was hers, pleading unconsciously that he save her from herself and from him. He lifted her to her feet, soothing her with touch and voice, forgetting himself in her distress. Her religious scruples he could not comprehend; the gods of religion were to be invoked when one wanted material benefits from them, not held as mentors to dictate one's course in life. But since she had such scruples, and since he was learning new, strange tolerance for and sympathy with others, it was not his to blame her for them; rather to remember that though they might be nothing to him, they were all to her, and were therefore not to be held lightly. So, because he was slowly gaining the strength to think of others before himself,--and of strength this is the surest test,--and because the tenderness of a strong man is greater than all the tenderness of a woman, he soothed her and brought her peace; and, it may be, in bringing it he found a measure of it himself. She was very dear to him,--dear as one might be who was not enshrined above all her kind forever. Heart and soul he was another's, for all time and all eternity; yet life was his to live and to make the best of it, even though there was a locked and guarded chamber in it of which the key was lost.... Hand in hand they walked homeward in the faint twilight glow. He left her at the church gate, and himself turned away, back toward the house of Nicodemus, walking with bent head and broad shoulders bowed. But his face was not all sombre; something of the courage he had given her remained to him, and his eyes were softened with the new tenderness which still lived. For it is one of the compensations as well as of the penalties of life, that what one gives, one shall get again. At the threshold sudden distaste seized him; after what he had been through, the thought of the well-meaning, brutish chatter of Nicodemus and his wife was not to be endured. He turned back again and went as far from them as he could get, down to the river-ford. Here he sat upon the beach, away from the passing of the people; and the waters rippled at his feet. The west had cleared; overhead the faint rose of the sky was paling, but across the broad river was splashed a pastel of orange and blue and crimson; and the red, misty ball of the sun was dipping below the world's dark rim. "This is love also," Nicanor said aloud, as though one had been by to hear him. "As she loveth me, so I love. There is love of a man for a maid, and of husband for wife; and there is love of sire for child, and of a friend for a friend, and of these all are different. Yet it is all one love, touching life on every side.... Why, then, it takes in all the world!" His voice changed and rang with quick and startled exultation. "Gods of my fathers! I have found it--I have found that thing I sought! It is love, not fear, nor wrath, nor power, that gave that little Child his power! And because it takes in all the world, this little One of whom men tell hath this love, then, for all the world. Now this is strange! Oh, Little Brother, I have found my tale, and it shall be greater than any tale that I have made before!" His eyes deepened and flashed to the quick surge of power which shook him; now well and truly should all men name him Nicanor of the silver tongue. He was a slave, yet men should bow before him. No iron bars might longer hold him down; Fate, that mocking Fate of his, could no longer keep him chained. But over all the triumph in his face there grew also the old awe as in those days of boyhood, long ago, when first he knew himself for but the tool with which the work was wrought. His face changed and grew longing; his keen eyes dimmed. Quite suddenly he rose to his knees, kneeling as he had seen Eldris kneel, and clasped his hands as Eldris had clasped hers. "Oh, Little Brother of the World, if thou lovest all men, love me also, for I have no one else. When I have sought love, it hath ever turned from me, prospering nothing. But since it seemeth that all men must love something, woman, or fame, or gold, it may be that it is not for me to love one woman only, but all men. If it be that I must choose, I will lose love of woman, and love of friend, and love of child; I will live alone to the end of my days, if but this soul of mine, which singeth in my loneliness, may return to me and my lips be no longer dumb. Love hath chained them; let now love set them free. And this my tale shall be strong as the wind that calls across the hills, and pure as flame, and great as love which takes in all the world, to the end that it may be worthy. Mine it is, and mine only; I made it, and it is blood of my blood and flesh of my flesh, and none may take it from me. Yet it is all, and I am naught but the voice which speaks." His voice sank. He sat in silence, looking beyond the sunset, his hands about his knees. So slowly the waters closed over the sun, and the day died, and the shadow of night descended upon Thorney. VII Old oaks caught the sunlight in their reaching hands and dropped it down to earth in flakes of gold; beech and larch and linden reared their tall heads above the road, and vines clung to them in woven tapestries of living green. There opened from this road dim forest aisles, veiled in dusk in which sunbeams quivered, paths of mystery, winding toward strange twilight worlds where wild wood-creatures wandered. Warm earth-scents drenched the air; soft sibilant whisperings stirred overhead, and hidden birds chattered in the leafage. Here Nicanor sat in the dusk and gold of the forest's afternoon, his back against a gray tree-trunk, his hands about his knees. Hither every day he wandered, drinking new life from Earth's brown bosom, with idle hands and weaving brain. Here, where he had lost his vision, he was drawn back as by enchantment. He wished to dream again; to conjure forth the flying figure from the void into which it had vanished. To him it was more real than reality; for want of the substance he strove to keep the shadow in his heart. In the spirit he roamed world-wide, with the narrow life of Thorney, its petty din and traffic, fallen away from him and forgotten utterly. Always his wandering ended in a garden, whose every path of dusky green he knew by heart, where one waited for him in the still evening light. In the flesh he lived with Nicodemus and Myleia, letting himself be waited on, worried over, caressed, to their affectionate hearts' content. No mood of his was too wayward for their sympathy; when at nightfall, after long hours of brooding, he would chant strange tales by some crowded camp-fire, than theirs were no voices quicker in wonder and applause. That they understood not half of what he said mattered nothing to their fondness; yet to Nicanor it was this one thing which mattered all. Nor were they the only ones who listened and loved his words. Many a fretting soul he lulled to quiet by his magic; to many he gave pleasure whose pleasures were all too few. Once he had scorned them, these simple children of plain and forest, whose emotions he could mould as a potter moulds his clay; in his high pride he had thought that these were not the worlds he was born to conquer. Now he loved them; to bring a moment's brightness into some gray life, a moment's forgetfulness of pain to one who suffered--this it was his to do. For, as once he had thought to move the hearts of kings with his power, so now he knew that a king's heart is no more than man's heart, and only he may move the one who can move the other. And every heart that he won he laid in spirit at the feet of his lost lady, who had taught him the Master-word of the tongue of men and angels, without which faith and hope can profit nothing, nor can any heart be won. A thicket of briars and underbrush hid him from the road. For drowsy hours he had looked through his tangled lattice upon the life that went up and down the highway, himself unseen,--a pedler, bent under the weight of the pack upon his shoulders, making wry faces at his blistered feet; a farmer, mounted on his clumsy two-wheeled cart, returning from the markets of Londinium; a chariot, gay with paint and gilding, with two young nobles arguing over the races at Uriconium; and between all these, long intervals of sun-steeped stillness, when the world drowsed and insects shrilled in the untrod grasses. Later there came northward toward Londinium a funeral train, on the way to the cemeteries that lined the road outside the town, weaving in and out among the checkered shadows, stately and slow and solemn in its pomp of death. There was a bier, draped with a pall of sable velvet, and drawn by four white horses, pacing slow. Slaves and clients went on foot before and behind it; and beside it there walked a man, tall and of lordly bearing. His hand rested on the bier's edge; his face, bowed upon his breast, was scored with sorrow. There was dust upon the richness of his mourning cloak; and dust also on the plumed trappings of the horses, and the garments and the sandals of the slaves. This pilgrimage of love and sorrow had been no easy one, nor short. Nicanor, peering through the brambles at the sombre train, read the story in the man's face, where tragedy sat frozen. At once his mind's eyes saw, beneath the embroidered pall, a fair dead face, great eyes closed, and lashes drooping on a marble cheek, two hands folded on a pulseless breast. In a heart-beat it was as though a veil had lifted, and he probed the depths of one phase of the world's tragedy; through one man's sorrow he looked into the sorrows of all men. By his own pain he felt himself made kin to all those thousands of the earth who knew pain also. The feeling lasted but a moment, and was gone, leaving him with hushed breath and shining eyes. "Here have I found another chord of life to play on," he said softly. "And when it is touched there is no human heart but must answer. So thou also hast lost her, O friend! And yet, perhaps, after all, thou art happier than I. There are things worse than death, as I have found. At least ... she is all thine!" When the turn of the afternoon had come, and while he lay watching gnats dancing in a shaft of golden light that fell athwart the trees, his ears caught voices from the road, and the click of a horse's feet against a stone. A woman laughed; and again he parted the brambles and looked out. The road was splashed with sunshine and shadowed by the trees which arched above it and hid the sky. Down it, with faces turned from Thorney, two came toward him,--a girl, sitting sideways on a great bay horse, leaning to the man who walked beside it. She was fair, with long hair lying in a golden sheen upon her crimson mantle. She rode steadying herself to the horse's stride with a hand upon the man's shoulder. He, tall, fair also of hair and skin, with blue eyes laughing under flaxen brows, in a brown leathern jacket and brazen cap which caught the sun in small sliding gleams of light, led the horse by its bridle and looked up at her as she talked. Down the green forest way they came in the mellow shade and sunshine, fair as gods, radiant in their youth and life and happiness, with eyes for nothing, ears for nothing, save each other. "It is Wardo!" said Nicanor, in surprise. "Sure I had thought him on the way to Gaul." He pressed through the thicket and stepped into the road. Wardo saw him, and dropped the bridle with an exclamation, and ran forward. "Thou!" he cried, and fell upon Nicanor in a storm of joy. "Thou great rascal, I had thought thee dead. Where hast been that thou didst not seek me? When didst leave the mines? Hast heard of what befell our lord? Oh, I have hungered for thee, to tell thee the good fortune which is mine!" The horse came up to them, with the girl in the crimson mantle sitting stately on its back. Her eyes were blue and shining; her cheeks were flushed with the rose of life. Nicanor smiled at her and at his friend. "So, Sada?" he said, with a note in his voice which neither caught. "All is then as it should be?" "Ay, promise you that!" said Wardo, a hand on the girl's knee. She smiled down into his eyes. "She is mine now. This day did I take the gold to Chloris, and the cage-door opened, and my bird was free. My bird now, and no other man's." "Thine!" she murmured, radiant. "When our lord departed for Gaul, I was left behind in the confusion." So Wardo told his tale. "Well, perhaps I need not have been, had not the gods willed it so. Therefore I was my own man, and could not be held to account for it, since my lord ran away from me, not I from him. So I joined those East Saxons who are moving down upon us from the Fens, and henceforth my lot is cast with them. For some of these I repaired swords, bucklers, what not, since my old trade is not lost to me, and for my work they gave me gold--ay, much gold. And with the gold I bought Sada. Now we go forth to seek our nest; where, we care not. She is mine, and I am free. Ye holy gods, but it is fine for a man to own himself and call none other lord! No man ever more shall hold me slave to him. Henceforth we be rovers, this star of my life and I. Come thou with us, friend! If thou stay here, thou'lt be held no better than _erro_, a landless, masterless wanderer, who is fair game for the law and for all men. Had my lord stayed, thou knowest that I too should have remained faithful. He being gone, we must fend for ourselves as best we may." Nicanor shook his head. "Nay, I stay here. Go thou thy way, and may thy faring prosper. Now tell of our lord and his escape." Wardo laughed. "Ho, there was work which thou shouldst have seen!" He told of Wulf, and of the fighting which was done within the villa; of the flight from the house, the long ride by cart-track and highway to Calleva, with his lady crouched in front of him and her hair blowing over his hands. And here Nicanor broke in. "Thou there with her, and I--Tell me, man, was she hurt or frightened? Did she swoon or weep?" "How could I see?" said Wardo. "I stood, and she kneeled before me. And little did I care whether she wept or swooned, when the grays were plunging like to tear my arms from my body, and it was all I could do to keep upon two wheels. There went my lord ahead, and here pounded I after, and alongside rode my lord Marius, watching his wife and itching to be back and have it out with those reavers. I saw it in his eye. Eh, that was a wild night. We made the Bibracte road, and doubled back eastward, and so rode for Londinium. But at the second miliarium from Bibracte the grays gave out. So my lord Marius took my lady upon his saddle, and they all went on, bidding me follow as soon as might be. But by the grace of the gods, I was too late. When I reached the port, my lord and his people had set sail for Gaul. Well, then, if thou wilt not come with us, when things be settled, and a man may know better what to look for, I shall come and seek thee, and we will have a talk over old days together, and spill a drop or so to Bacchus. Until then, comrade o' mine, farewell." They grasped hands, and Sada smiled a farewell at Nicanor. The two went on, then, and left him standing there, and he watched them pass away into the glinting light and shade until Sada's crimson mantle was lost in the green gloom of trees. He took his slow way back toward Thorney, musing as he walked. "This day mine eyes have looked on life and death, and all that death mourns and life clamors is Love, Love, and again Love. Strange that something all men must love, who cannot live for themselves alone, no matter how they try." He came down from his dreams at the stepping-stones of the marsh-ford, to find himself all but overrunning a child who stood upon the bank and wept because he feared to cross--a small atom of a man, with little tunic torn and puckered face of woe. At sight of Nicanor he ran, and flung himself against his legs, with the sure confidence of babyhood in all the new, strange world, and clamored to be taken home. Nicanor stooped to him with a laugh, recognizing him as the son of one Julius the Tungrian, a field-hand belonging to the farmer Medor, whose estate lay between the hills a half-mile from Thorney. "How now, manling? Why these tears at thy first venture into the world? How didst stray so far from mother's skirts? Dost wish to go home?" "Ay, home!" wept young Julius. "Thou wilt take me home!" "Come, then," said Nicanor, and swung him to his shoulder, and turned back from the ford to the road again. It came upon him then that this was the first time that ever he had held a child in his arms. Always before had children run from him, learning, like their elders, to shun him: now he knew why. The softness of the round little body thrilled him oddly; the touch of the clinging hands, the baby weight upon his shoulder, called into life emotions such as he had never thought to know. A child, a little living child, her child and his.... The thought stirred him suddenly to his soul; and with the thought a fresh bit of the Scroll of Life unrolled before his eyes,--that Scroll which slowly he was learning how to read. His heart caught another phase of the old experience of the world, the high pride and joy of fatherhood. Again, as once before, he got a flash of new, strange light into the hearts and minds of all the world of men, as with the parting of a veil; found a new chord under his hand to be struck into pulsing life. All unaware that on a day his lady had said, "His son could I love, and be proud that he was mine," he marvelled at himself and at his feeling, and still more at the little one that had such power to wake it. He reached the farm of Medor, and stopped at the cabin of Julius, whom he knew, which stood at the edge of the estate. Through the open doorway he could see, in the obscurity of the one poor room within, a woman's figure, bending to rub her man's back, bruised and raw from the harness of the plough, with ointment of herbs--a nightly proceeding regular as the evening meal. When she had done, he would take his turn in rubbing her; since it was not enough for women to be the bearers of children, but also they must be hewers of wood and drawers of water as well. She rose to straighten herself from her task, and saw the tall figure coming doorward, with the little one crowing upon his shoulder. At her exclamation, Julius, rugged and mossed as a sturdy hemlock, came to the threshold to look over her shoulder, stripped to the waist, his neck and arms shining with the grease. "Here is thy son, O Kalia!" said Nicanor, halting. "He was by Thorney, weeping because the world was not large enough for his adventure." The mother received her son with tender welcome, but he held his arms out to Nicanor, whimpering to be taken back. "He runs away to play with boys while I am in the field, the wicked one!" she said. Julius looked down at her and at his boy with proud eyes. When he was drunk he would beat his wife, but she loved him because he loved their child. Nicanor looked at the three. "He is worth having," he said, very soberly, nor thought that his words might sound strange to them. He smiled at the boy, and left them, with the mother's thanks following him. And Julius, watching him across the field toward the road, said: "Mark you how the boy hath taken to him? Dost remember, before he went away from Thorney, how children ran from him, and even folk feared him and his gall-tipped tongue?" "I remember," Kalia answered. "Even I have punished the child by saying, 'The black man Nicanor will get thee if thou stop not thy crying,' until for very fear he ceased. Never have I seen one so changed as he. Juncina, the fish-wife, with whom I spoke but yesterday on Thorney, saith that each day he goeth to lame Gallus, the blacksmith's son, who is dying of a fever, and telleth him tales until the little one sleeps. And when folk give him money for his tales, he will take it, though he never asketh it, and of it he will give half to those three old men whom each day he tendeth. It is not so long since he hath been back on Thorney, yet even so all men wonder at the change in him. Verily, I think that he must be in love." "That is ever all you women think of!" Julius grumbled. "Were you to have your way of it, it would be love that worketh all the miracles, cureth all the illnesses, taketh the place of all the gods. Now come and rub; I am sore in every joint and sinew." Nicanor went home in a brown study, seeing never Kalia's broad, homely face, untidy wisps of hair, brown bosom covered by her coarse gray kerchief, but that face, young and fair and tender, which in his dreams had become mingled with that Other Woman's face with holy eyes, who was the Virgin Mother of all love. When he thought of this one, it was to think of the other, no longer woman merely, but idealized and uplifted into all that he could imagine of purity, a something too fine for earth. In place of humble Kalia, he pictured that fair patrician face as his soul's eyes saw it, glorified with the mother-love upon it, brooding over a round little head in the hollow of her breast. Holy gods, the maddening, sweet mockery of it! He shook himself as one who throws off a weight upon him, and turned in at the house of Nicodemus, whistling, with aching throat and sombre eyes of pain. It was later than he had thought, and the evening meal was over. This troubled him not at all, for in that house he was sovereign lord, and knew his power. Myleia and her ursine spouse served him quite as though they had been his slaves. A roasted pigeon hot from the coals, beans cooked in oil with garlic, a cake of barley-bread baked in the ashes, honey, and a pitcher of wine--no lord could have fared better than their idol. Nicodemus carried an empty platter to Myleia in the kitchen, showing it to her with immense pride. "He hath eaten all!" he rumbled in a rasping whisper. "The first time these three weeks. Come! that is doing better. We'll have him around yet, my girl--this spoiled baby of ours." "Who spoileth him?" she retorted, pinching his ear gently. "Thou art worse over him than a mother whose babe hath cut its first tooth. Thou art foolish in thine old age, my great ugly bear." "Soul of my heart, a man must find something to be foolish over!" he declared, vastly pleased. "And it is high time I left off being foolish over thee. Eh, sweeting, what sayest thou?" He ruffled her hair with his great hand. Nicanor looked in upon them from the threshold. "At it again, thou old lion and his mate? Thou also!" he said, and smiled at them. "I go down to the ford--there be a party of men riding over the hill. Wilt come, Nico?" The two went forth into the evening, leaving Myleia to watch them with fond eyes of pride from the low doorway. Along the street people had begun to gather, with more of curiosity to see what might be seen than of apprehension. Woodmen with bundles of fagots on their shoulders, fishermen with strings of fish, itinerant wine-sellers rattling strings of horn cups, with skins of cheap red wine, vendors of the black sticky sweetmeats made of the blood of beeves mixed with rice and honey,--all these ceased to cry custom for their evening trade in interest at the arrival of the strangers. It was long since such a crowd had descended upon Thorney; trade might be improving. Women, ragged, with more ragged children clinging to their skirts, came from the fisher-huts upon the beach to gaze across the marsh. And across the ford, on the crest of the long gentle rise of hill over which the straight road ran, came riding a troop of horsemen, carelessly, without order, in a tangle of waving spears and gleaming helmets. No merchants or townsfolk were these; and a tingle went through the crowd at the sight of weapons. Those were days when none knew what to expect from hour to hour. The on-comers cantered down the hill and into the waters of the marsh-ford; and it could be seen that they were for the most part fair-skinned, and every man bore a round buckler of bullock's hide upon his arm. At once a whisper flew from end to end of Thorney: "These be Saxons!" The name had become a word with which to conjure. The crowd upon the beach increased. Nicanor and Nicodemus stood in the forefront of it and watched. The leaders of the party--an old man with white drifting beard and hot blue eyes, and a young one, with tanned face and brown, curling hair--rode out upon the shingle with stern faces set straight ahead. Those behind them were more free and easy as to bearing; a man leaned from his saddle to scoop up water in his hand; there was joking in low tones, and deep-throated laughter. As they drew nearer to the people, waiting silent, it could be seen that they had with them a prisoner in their midst, bound upon his horse and wounded; and at sight of him a murmur fluttered through the crowd. For he went in the dress of a Roman noble, torn and stained with blood, his head sunk forward on his breast, his right arm in a sling--a pitiful object, were there those to pity. With the crowd Nicanor and Nicodemus followed the Saxons as they rode along the main street. Questions flew from mouth to mouth: "Who is this lord, their prisoner? Whither take they him? How did they capture him? For what come they here?" But to these no man could give an answer. VIII Thereafter Fate, the grim, smiling goddess, took into her own hand the shuttle of Destiny and sent it flying fast rough the warp and woof of Life. For when they came to the river's brink, the tide was in, and the waters of Tamesis, too deep to ford with safety since the moon was full, swirled past them in their swift rush from the sea. The Saxons halted on the beach, dismounting, while the leaders conferred, and the prisoner drooped pallid in their midst; and the men of Thorney seized upon their chance for trade. An hundred mouths to feed was a boon not to be despised in those lean days. There sprang up a horde of wine-sellers, men with poultry, with produce, and with meats. The two leaders rode away to seek an inn, each attended by a servant. A fire was kindled on the beach, where in other days so many fires had blazed; for a brief while Thorney took on a semblance of its former thriving self. Mingled with the sounds of trade and barter there was heard the dry, thin rattle of a sistrum from a temple of Isis where priests and worshippers were gathered for hidden rites; the voices of men singing, the neighing of horses. Here, on the river side of Thorney, the beach was wider than upon the marsh side. The houses grouped themselves in black, irregular masses behind this beach; and to the west, a short distance from the water's edge, rose the low stone wall which bounded the land of the Christian church. Fishermen's huts were crowded at the foot of this wall; and along the sand were strewn rotting spars and timbers, and there were boats drawn out of reach of the tide. Old houses, wrecked by fire and time, leaned their tottering walls above the alleys at strange angles, settling slowly into the ruin of age. The round moon hung stately, low in the eastern sky, drowning in radiance the garish glare of flames; houses stood out sharp-cut against its light, and strange shadows flung across the crooked cobbled streets. A broad path of silver glinted on the inky waters of the river. The smell of fish and tar rose strong above all other scents. The Saxons, hungry and weary from their march, ate hugely and drank deep. Horns of mead and beer were drained and filled; white wine was as good as red. They talked with the men of Thorney, in strange Latin, with much gesticulation and interpolation of Saxon words. Among the many figures on the beach, black in the mingled light of moon and flame, was ceaseless motion, kaleidoscopic and bewildering. Thorney woke to a lusty gayety, born of deep drinking; of recklessness, even, such as she had known rarely since the old days of the legions. Laughter became louder; quarrels, short and fierce, arose as hot blood mounted with the fumes of wine. Into the air there crept a tension, the intangible effluvium of excitement which precedes the arousing of the crowd. Quite suddenly the spirits of people were raised to fever pitch; the boisterous vigor of the Saxons was infectious. Nicanor soon lost sight of Nicodemus. He stood among the people, regarding the scene with eyes of detachment. As always in a crowd, an odd sense of impersonality possessed him, of aloofness; in it he was forgetful of his own presence, of his own corporeality; became as a Mind seeking out its own. Here and there he was recalled by a man's greeting; here and there also a woman spoke. Everywhere he was hailed cheerily, as one comrade by another. Jests were passed to him, for which he gave as good as he got. There was that in their intercourse with him which proved him one of themselves, an intimate sharer in their pleasures, their sorrows, their lives. Yet he was the man who not so many years before had in this place been baited as men bait a bear--the surlier, the better sport. A red-lipped flower-girl, on the way home from her day's business in Londinium with her basket of remaining blossoms, was pressed against his shoulder in the outer edge of the crowd that watched the Saxons feed, as boys gather to see the wild beasts of the arena tear their meat. She turned, saw him, and laughed with gay raillery. "Couldst even thou, O Silver-tongued, make of these great guzzling cattle a tale?" He looked at her with quick artist joy in the vivid color and effect of her,--red lips, cheeks as brilliant as her roses, black eyes, midnight hair in which a crimson flower was tangled. In her laughing glance, her care-free joyous innocence, he caught a hint, gone as swiftly as it come, of that Other who held his soul. Now he understood the heart and inmost meaning of it; it was the all-compelling Womanhood, the sacred spark, guarded and precious, which set men's hearts aflame; and for him, henceforth, because of that one, it made all women sacred. He answered her, banter for banter. "What would the world be without cattle, O Flower-maiden? And why not a tale? There is a tale in all things, if one but look to find it--in every bud and leaf and flower--in these Saxons--in thee, little sister to the rose!" "That is pretty," she cried, dimpling. "Here is a bloom in payment; once it was as fragrant as thy words. May they never lose sweetness like a flower which fadeth!" Reaching up, she thrust a flower behind his ear, as a young fop of the nobility would wear it, and sprang away into the crowd laughing. "The wish of innocence should be good omen; the gods grant it!" said Nicanor. He pushed onward through the press to get a nearer view of the Saxons; and heard as he came a great voice shouting a rhythmic chant. Over the shoulders of those in front he could see a ring of Saxons surrounding the man who sang. As they listened they drank, and as they drank grew more emphatic in applause. The singer was a bull-chested fellow, purple-faced with his exertions. He swung his sword, he roared, he heaved himself upon his toes; and Nicanor, fellow-craftsman and maker of words, eyed him and smiled a smile of pity. The shouting ceased; the man cast himself upon the ground and called for wine. Nicanor touched upon the shoulder one whose face showed that he understood the words. "Friend, who is this dainty warbler, and what the burden of his song?" "Who he is I know not," said the man, with a grunt of laughter. "What he sang was the greatness of his people, and their skill in war. Tell thou them a tale, Nicanor; these Saxons will listen all day to tales, and give good silver to the teller." Nicanor shook his head. "Nay; perhaps they understand not Latin over well, and I had rather that they understood than that they gave me silver. Now what are they going to do?" Two men dragged the prisoner forward into the circle of the firelight. He was afoot, but the hand free of the sling was bound to his body. That the poor wretch knew what they would do with him was plain; he cringed, and cast hunted glances around the ring of fire-lit, curious faces. "I am Felix of Anderida, a Roman lord!" he cried in a high voice, his pale eyes wide with fear. "If there be any Roman among ye who will free me from these Saxon wolves, I will give him gold as much as his back may carry!" A Saxon raised his hand and smote the lord upon the mouth, so that blood began to trickle down his chin. "Cease thy bleating, thou white-eyed sheep!" he growled in Latin. "That is not right, to strike a man unarmed and bound," said the man beside Nicanor. "I think our backs could carry a goodly sum of gold, eh, friend? These fellows be half drunken; it should not be difficult to get him free of them, and after, make him pay. I am of the collegium of smiths in Londinium, and I see many of my fellows here who would stand with me. Also, we could summon the militarii unto us and let them settle the matter; it is not lawful that these Saxons make away with a Roman after this fashion." "I can hold them, if thou canst summon thy fellows quickly," said Nicanor. His tone was quite assured. "But it must be done at once, before they have worked themselves up to mischief over him." "Do thou so then, and I will shake a staff aloft when he is safe," said the man, and slipped away among the people. Before Nicanor could make his way through to confront the Saxons, who were preparing for brutal sport with their prisoner, the horses of the two chieftains broke through the ring and the riders dismounted in the open space. The lord Felix twisted away from those who held him and ran to the younger chief. "Call thy fellows from me!" he cried. "Each time when thou art not by they seek to torture me for their sport." The brown-haired leader folded his arms across his chest and looked down upon his prisoner. He spoke, in Latin sufficiently fluent. "Hast thou forgotten that I am Ceawlin, son of that Evor whom thou hast slain, and that my foot is upon thy neck and thy blood shall be let out in payment for my sire his blood? How then shouldst thou say what may or may not be done with thee, thou little toad?" It was then that Nicanor came into the torchlit ring, walking carelessly, a song upon his lips. He stopped where the light fell fullest on him, facing the chieftains, shapely as a young pagan god in the strength and flower of his manhood, the red rose behind his ear. The speech of Ceawlin broke and stopped; his gaze fastened upon the intruder with the swift recognition of one strong man for another. "Who is this man?" he said sharply. None answered; his own people did not know, and no one else seemed ready to stand sponsor. Ceawlin spoke again. "Who art thou, fellow? Art thou also of the Welsh?" For as Briton was the Roman word, so Welsh, or wælisc, a foreigner, was the Saxon word, meaning merely one who was not of Teuton race, and given to those nations which spoke the Latin tongue. "I am a Briton," said Nicanor. "Men call me the teller of tales, and I am come to buy from thee thy prisoner. What price wilt thou put upon him, O son of Evor?" "How knowest thou me?" Ceawlin asked doubtfully. His voice became angered. "What price, quotha! No price that thou canst pay, sir teller of tales!" "So? Didst ever hear of that ancient sea-king who put too high a price upon his spoils?" said Nicanor, with a laugh, choosing simple words that all might understand. Before Ceawlin had time to speak he swung around upon the listening men, standing tall in the ruddy light, his head thrown back to shake the hair from his eyes. "Listen, O friends, for it is a good tale, such as ye know how to love. Five black ships, dragon-prowed, rode out of the night, upon the black seas, upon the foam. Long were they, and lean, and swift as the vertragus, the hound that outspeeds the hart. Winds roared behind them; great birds swooped through the storm across their way; great waves rushed under them as they rode with rocking spars. Spray swept across the faces of those who manned them, as the hair of a woman sweeps across her lover's face; crashing they reeled through lifting seas, and swam to the crests of curling billows rimmed with pale fire, and the thunder of their going outroared the clamoring storm. Know ye the yell of the wind in the straining cordage, the heave and fall of the plunging deck beneath your feet? Know ye the sting of brine upon your lips, and the savor of the salt winds in your lungs, O ye sons of Evor?" A deep breath went through the circle, as though a breath from the outer seas had filled men's nostrils. Ceawlin licked his lips as though he had thought to find them stiff with salt. "Ay--we know!" he said deeply, his eyes alight. "Hast thou then been also upon the seas?" Nicanor laughed low. "Nay, never I!" he said. "But I see that ye do know." "Go on!" spoke a voice, impatient, from the circle. They were his, every man, and he knew it. In his first words he had struck the chord which answered true in them, these lawless sea-rovers; they were his to play upon as a musician on his lyre. The sure instinct of his art taught him to tell of those things which they themselves knew best, which were nearest to them, to their own lives. The ring held silent, awaiting his next word, bearded men who leaned upon their spears and iron swords, and listened. They had eyes for none other than he, this tall youth with the black hair and the eyes of steel, who stood before them in his careless pose of triumph, with his red rose thrust behind his ear; who knew what they knew, felt what they had felt, made them see what he saw, and held them in the hollow of his hand. Caught up in his swift imagery, even they forgot their prisoner, who, it seemed, was further to one side, less in evidence among his guards. By now the Romans had drawn closer to the ring of Saxons, so that there was one dense crowd about the open space--much narrowed now--where the chieftains and Nicanor stood. Not for nothing had he listened to the talk of the deep-sea fishermen and the whalers who frequented Thorney, and stored in his memory all that they could give him. In his tale was the clamor of the wild north wind, the scream of wheeling gulls, the groan of straining timbers, the rush of bubbling foam beneath sharp prows. He told of swift battle fought over heaving waters, whose jaws yawned for their dead; and men hung upon his words. He told of the red medley of the fight; of the heavy fall and sullen splash of bodies into the grave which waited; of ships that grappled in their death-throes like wrestling men and sank locked in their grim embrace; of defeat and triumph, of high courage of men who lost, and the higher courage of mercy of men who won; and men's faces grew eager, who themselves had lived through scenes such as these, and themselves had watched the death of gallant ships. Nicanor glanced over the ring and saw that the prisoner had disappeared, leaving not a ripple in the crowd to mark his trail. The absorbed faces of his hearers, and the sense of what was being done behind their backs, seized him, and he smothered a laugh. His voice flowed on, deep-toned, vibrant, working his magic upon them, talking against time. Somewhere in the outskirts of the crowd a horse neighed loudly; there was a flurry among those people nearest the sound, and high over men's heads a staff was shaken. Nicanor's speech broke midway; this was the signal, and he no longer cared whether or not he held them. In that instant the spell was snapped; men stirred and whispered. And suddenly a shout of warning and anger went up-- "The prisoner! The prisoner hath gone!" Forgotten were the tale and its teller; the inner group of Saxons surged into commotion and uproar. There was a rising storm of assertion and denial. Ceawlin strode to Nicanor, his link armor clashing softly as he moved. "Now do I believe that thou hast had to do with this!" he cried in ready anger. Nicanor laughed. "Perhaps after all it had been better if thou hadst paid the price, lord Saxon!" Swift words sprang to Ceawlin's lips, but the elder leader ran to them, shouting something in his own tongue. Ceawlin turned to answer, and Nicanor slipped away. Face to face he came with a woman seldom seen beyond her jealous doors; a fat and shapeless bunch of garments topped by thin hair streaked with ruddy dye, a high white marble brow, an old face deeply lined. The woman was looking at him keenly, with boring vulture eyes. She spoke swiftly, in a voice clear-toned and silvery as a bell. "I heard thee speak.... Once, long years ago, stood I in this place and heard a boy speak, an elfin, wolf-eyed child, who came out of the night and spoke with an un-childish tongue. Often since have I thought of him and the power within him, for though I was young in years yet was I old in knowledge, and I knew that never had I seen one like him. Into his hand I put a piece of silver, and I think it was the first that ever he had touched. Art thou that child?" "Ay," said Nicanor. "That child was I. So it was thou who first didst teach me that silver could pay for souls." He thrust a hand into the pouch that hung at his belt and drew forth a broad piece of silver, holding it to her. "But I think it must be clean silver that pays for mine, O Chloris." The woman flinched oddly. Both had forgotten the rising tide of excitement around them. "Nay," she said. "I will not have it back. Canst not leave me the thought that there was one gift which I gave honestly--or is it with thee as ever with stony-hearted youth, swift to condemn, slow to understand?" "Why should I condemn thee?" said Nicanor. "That is not mine to do until in me is nothing to condemn. Nay, rather could I pity thee." The heavy lids opened slightly over Chloris's eyes. "And wherefore?" she asked with a hard note in her flute-like voice. "If I pity not myself, why shouldst thou pity? Am I not loved, and have I not loved greatly? Have I not riches beyond thine imaginings?" Nicanor laughed low and softly, his keen eyes on the old face. "Love thou hast never known, O Chloris," he said gently. "In all thy long life of wanton ease, thy long life in which children might have leaned upon thy knees and children's voices might have called thee blessed, love thou hast never known. Who could not pity this? Or thy name would not be upon the lips of men in the market-place. When men love, think you they make common talk of what they love? When women love, keep they not themselves pure for love's pure sake? Ay, truly I could pity thee, because some day thou wilt so pity thyself, in spite of thy riches beyond mine imaginings. That is all." "Thou art over strange," said Chloris. "And I would I had not spoken with thee. After all, what doth it matter? There is always the end, when darkness comes and the wax is wiped clean." "Is there?" said Nicanor. "Is there an end to anything upon the earth?" "Now thou art foolish," said Chloris. Her eyes were unchanged, but her voice was angry. "In truth there is an end, and the end is--death." She spoke with the deep-rooted and universal distaste of all Romans to the direct reference to death. "Must not all things be gathered to the shades? And is not that the end of them?" "Believe it, then, for so long as thou canst, for thou wilt be the happier for believing," said Nicanor. "And if some day it come to pass that thou dost believe differently, remember then what others have found, that only love can save thee--the love which thou hast never known. Were it not wise, O Chloris, to seek it while yet there may be time?" He paused, and his eyes forgot her. "I am seeking now," he said below his breath, and turned away from her into the crowd. Chloris looked after him a moment with lids half dropped over her changeless eyes. "The breath of the gods hath breathed upon him, and he understands. Oh, ay! he understands." She laughed, a silver tinkle which was not wholly mirth. "Will it ever come to pass that Chloris, the greatly loving, will rejoice to know that there is one who pities her? We shall see!" But meanwhile affairs had changed on Thorney, even during the moments of Nicanor's speech with Chloris. The throng upon the beach, no longer orderly, was heaving with excitement. The Saxons, spreading in all directions to search for their prisoner, were in no mood to care what offence they gave. They plucked brands from the fire, using them as torches, and started for the village, while men and women retreated before them, not knowing how far trouble might ensue. But before they reached the village, a body of militarii, hastily summoned, came forth from between the houses to meet them. The officer commanding them sprang upon a pile of lumber, shouting to the Saxons, who halted, as it were irresolute. "While ye remain in this province it is right that ye should obey its laws! If this Roman whom ye have taken hath committed crime against your laws or ours, let him be tried by these laws. Otherwise will we not give him up to you. He is a freeborn Roman, and is not to be done away with as a slave. If ye make oath to grant him trial, we will deliver him unto you." Ceawlin, the hot-headed young chieftain, pulled his long sword from its bronze sheath, pointing with it to the figure upon the lumber-pile. His face flamed with red rage; he shook his sword and shouted to his men behind him. There was a rush; before the Romans could prevent, a score of Saxons had leaped upon the pile, dragging down him who spoke; and the first blood on Thorney had been shed. It was the signal; like warring currents of the sea the two forces clashed. The beach was alive with figures, struggling, shouting, or swaying in deadly silence in each other's grip. Light flickered snakelike along uplifted blades which shot above the sea of heads. It was a fight hand to hand, primitive, blind with insensate rage, ever-smouldering, which wanted but the spark of excuse to flame into the full flare of battle. The resistance of the militarii was speedily overcome; outnumbered, lacking their leader, they broke and fled. The Saxons, with shouts of triumph, gave chase over the stony beach into the streets of the island, bent on the recapture of their prisoner, and on wreaking vengeance upon those who had dared oppose them. IX That night, in the house of Juncina the fish-wife, kneeled Eldris at the window of the loft where she slept, looking out upon the house-tops with her shoulders gleaming white through her loosened hair. Through the window moonlight drifted, showing the squalor of the loft, and the bed where Sosia, the daughter of Juncina, lay asleep. Into the night she murmured love-words, happy in her dreaming, calling to her love across the darkness. "Is he in the wine-shop of Nicodemus, or is he in the moonlight by the fords, telling his tales to those who crowd around him? Doth he think of me, whose thoughts are all of him? Or have I angered him over-deeply?--for never have I seen him since that day I said him nay. Ah, Nicanor, was it love that said thee nay? This hour might I have been lying in his arms, Love's happy handmaid--so happy! What if I had yielded? I so want his love! What would God care? Mary, Mother, keep me from these thoughts! I would that I could see him now--this same moon doth shine upon him somewhere. Thou old moon, how many maids hast thou looked down on since the beginning of the world, who have kneeled at windows, and thought of a man, and been foolish?" Sosia, in the bed, awoke, turned on her back, and raised herself upon an elbow, showing her flat and heavy face above the blanket pulled to her chin. She spoke drowsily, in a voice thick with sleep: "Hath the moon bewitched thee quite? In truth I think thee off thy wits with love. All these nights hast thou been foolish, and waked me from my sleep. Wilt not come to bed, thou cruel girl?" Reluctantly Eldris undressed and got into bed beside Sosia, who slept again, heavily, with stertorous breathings. The night breeze blew freshly in the window; from the village dogs barked, and the distant voices of men reached her. Somewhere in that press was he, in the midst of the tide of hurrying life; and her heart went out to him. So she slept, deeply. Once or twice she tried to waken, as one strives to rouse from dreams; but the black swoon of sleep held her fast; body and soul she was drowned in the soundless depths of oblivion. But suddenly she was awake, startled, and somewhat dazed. Her first thought was wonder as to what had waked her; her next, that it was not so late as she had thought, for the noise at the ford still continued. More, it seemed increased. And even in the first moment of full consciousness which followed her waking daze, a sound grew out of all the noises of the village; a long mellow note, like the note of a deep-toned hunting-horn, vibrant yet steady, filling every cranny of the air. At once she knew it was this that had awakened her. It hung a moment, sweet, unearthly, haunting; and dropped back into an outburst of fierce clamor that leaped at it as hounds leap at a stag. Eldris put out her hand and shook Sosia. "Sosia--waken! Dost hear that strange sound? What is it? Never have I heard such a sound before." She scrambled out of bed and went to the window, her feet shining white on the rough floor. She saw other faces appear at other windows and at doorways of dim hovels; there came black figures of men from lanes between the houses, running from the river-ford. The sharp clatter of the feet of a galloping horse clashed for a moment through other sounds. "It is but a drunken brawl," said Sosia, sitting on the bed, a blanket about her bare shoulders. Her tone was indifferent; drunken brawls were no new things on Thorney. "Come back to bed." "I think that something hath happened," said Eldris, and started to dress. "Dress thyself quickly, Sosia, and let us go out to see. It is not so late--the moon hath not left the window." This was true, although the wide pool of light upon the floor had narrowed to a silver bar. But the room was lighted suddenly by a ruddy glare which leaped into it from without; a gust of voices swept beneath the window like the rising of a wind; there came the sound of many feet, as though a crowd had gathered before the house; cries, and the rattle of weapons. Again Eldris ran to the window. She cried over her shoulder in a frightened voice: "Oh, blessed Peter! there be armed men entering all the houses in the lane! Haste thee, Sosia--let them not find thee naked here. I will go down and see--" Below, the voice of Juncina cried: "We harbor no fugitive here, I tell thee! Here be none but I and my two maids!" Eldris, climbing down the ladder with hasty feet, saw that the room, fogged with gray smoke, was filled with half a score of men; saw Juncina struggling in a corner, held by two; saw others overturning the scanty furniture, slashing with their swords at fish-nets and bedding, thrusting their torches into every nook and corner. She would have stumbled up the ladder again out of their sight, but a shout told her that she was seen. A great fellow seized her, dragging her from the ladder; in his grasp she fluttered like a rag caught in a briar. Another pulled her from him; she was in the midst of mail-clad forms that towered over her, drink-flushed faces, brutal with greed, that leered down upon her, hairy hands that grasped at her. Her captor she eluded, and another, her breath coming in dry sobs of terror; at her desperate doublings, like a frightened hare, their shouts of laughter told that the sport was very well to their liking. The doorway, close at hand, broken open and unguarded, offered a chance. She darted through it into the night, into another world of terror, in which sinister sounds met her on every side. In a blind panic of fright she ran, thinking at every step to feel a heavy hand upon her; in the narrow lane she ran, jostled by those who fled beside her. Flames from burning houses threw their glare over fights which occurred in every street and lane, in which wounded men and dying crawled from beneath the feet of combatants into the shelter of black doorways. A band of horsemen galloped up the lane, overriding those who crossed their path, with shouts of "Death to Britons!" Eldris saw them coming; saw the mouth of an alley black on one side, a slit between houses scarce wide enough for a horseman to ride through. She dived into it, stumbling now and again into the gutter which channelled it. She began to sob with fright and exhaustion as she ran. "Lord, let me find him, or I die of fear! He will save me--with him shall I be safe. Take me to him--let me find him, for my love is stronger than am I." Fear swept her from all the rationalities to which she had clung; out of the tumult and the terror in which she struggled, love rose like a wave and claimed her--the passion which was stronger than she. God was very strong, without doubt; but without doubt also He had many souls to guard that night, and it was the strength of a man's arm she wanted. So she reached the end of the alley where it opened into the street of the fords, and crouched behind the elbow of a rambling wall, looking out warily, a hunted thing, to see if further faring might be safe. The broad paved street was lighted by flames from a house blazing fiercely opposite her; and figures ran to and fro before it like imps gone mad. Other figures there were also, which lay very still upon the roadway in the crimson light, with their black shadows crouched behind them. There was a rending crackle from the heart of the fire, and shrieks and shouting from those around it; and under it all the dull roar from all Thorney which never ceased. And quite suddenly Eldris knew that she was listening to a sound that came out of the din around her, the sound of men's voices, singing in unison. In that hour and place it was to her more dreadful, more a thing of terror, than even the cries which it was drowning. The voices came nearer; and at that in them, for all her fear, the blood thrilled through her to her finger-tips. For in them was the very spirit of the fight, of lust and blood and fierce exultant triumph; barbaric and pagan, they were reckless with a pitiless pride which feared neither gods nor men nor devils. Eldris crouched closer against the sheltering wall as though it had been a sentient thing to aid her. So she saw a line of men, on foot, approaching; and the line reached from side to side of the wide street. Each man walked with arms across his fellows' shoulders; and their song kept time with their swift marching feet. The red light of the burning houses fell upon them, on their reckless faces, and glinted on their shirts of link-mail which clashed as they moved, on their crested caps of metal, and on the weapons which hung at their sides. They swept all before them as they came; plunderers left their work of outrage and slaughter and fell in with them, taking up their song. The first line passed; and Eldris saw the reason of their triumph. For those in the rear dragged with them a prisoner, a small man, battered and bloody, with one arm hanging in a torn sling. She could not see his face, but her heart turned to water within her. The song sickened her with an overpowering sense of her own weakness against all that it signified of brutal male strength; it dominated her, and before it she shrank and shivered. But now her terror was not all for herself alone, but for that one who might be also in their hands, prisoner to them even as was this poor puppet prisoner. She started up, with a cry which was drowned in the rhythm of the terrible song as ever the cries of women have been drowned in the song of the fighting, and fell back in a huddle against the wall, with her face hidden on her knees, sobbing: "Christ--oh, Christ, save him! Mary, save him, or let me die with him!" When she found her way back to life, Thorney was wrapped in silence and illimitable gloom. The light of the burning houses had died; the shouts of men and shrieks of women and the fierce song of the Saxons had ceased. Yet there were other sounds which grew out of the darkness as she listened; a thin far wailing, like the ghost of grief, and close at hand a man's deep voice, very low, broken by sobbing. "Soul of my heart, where art thou! All the night I have searched and cannot find thee, dead nor living. The curse of all evil be upon these Saxon swine! They have slain her--my woman!--and she is dead! No more will she lie beside me when the dark swims in the hut.--O light of my life, could I but hear thee call me once again thy great ugly bear! Eh, thy bear is a sad bear this night, my lamb!" Eldris stumbled to her feet, covering her ears with her hands. She also was seeking and could not find. She started running from the dreadful sobbing voice, picking her way as best she might in the wreck and ruin of the Saxons' trail. Long she searched, and everywhere met others, also seeking, and yet others who had found what they had lost. Torches flashed in and out like fireflies among the darkened lanes; from houses left unscathed came the wailing of women who had brought home their dead. The air was heavy with smoke, so that the eyes smarted and the throat stung. Into the face of every man who passed her she looked with eager eyes of hope. Every man's body that lay in street or lane she hovered over with caught breath and eyes of fear, nerving herself to stoop, to turn the dead weight that settled sullenly into itself as her hands left it; to scan the face by the light of her flaring torch. And the light showed her as ghastly as what she looked on; black hair streaming like smoke behind her, eyes wide with fear, pinched face glimmering pallid. No joyful handmaiden of Love looked she, going to love's embraces, rather a wild thing, terror-ridden, possessed wholly by the frenzy of her love. Strange faces she looked on in her search among the living and the dead; bearded faces, boyish faces, but never that face she sought. To a dead man's side she flitted, like a spirit of the night; and on her knees, holding her torch to a face with light staring eyes and open jaws that seemed still to shriek a last despairing curse at her, she caught her breath with a stifled scream. For the shock of thick hair, cut below the ears, was black and coarse; and the half-naked body, from which the tunic had been stripped, was long and lean. The torchlight cast quick shadows upon the fearful face; and sometimes to her eyes it was the face of her love, who had died terribly, and sometimes it was the face of a stranger. She began to shake. "I cannot tell--oh, God, I cannot tell!" she wailed. "Is my mind gone, that I should not know thee? I must know--how can I go further until I know?" With wild eyes she looked about her. She was in the open space of the market-place,--alone, save for the thing at her feet, and for other things huddled here and there around her,--a silent battleground from which the hosts had departed. The carcass of a horse lay near, and her torch struck points of light from the metal of its trappings. A dog ran by her on padding feet, its fangs dripping, its tail between its legs. Eldris thrust the torch into the earth, that it might stand erect. She knelt beside that silent screaming figure, and the light flashed from the white bared teeth of the open mouth, and showed dark smears of blood upon the face. She laid her hand on the shoulder, and the clammy cold of the dead flesh sent a spasm of sickness through her. "If it is thou I will kiss thee," she moaned. "I will lie upon thy breast and put my mouth to that mouth of thine. And I must find out--what if I should pass and leave thee here? God give me strength--I must find out! Whose own mother could know him so?" She wiped blood from the face with the skirt of her tunic; she forced the stiffened jaws together, so that the horror took again the likeness to a human face; while her breath whistled in sobbing gasps and her flesh crept and crawled with horror. She bent and peered into the poor face that no longer seemed to scream at her, holding the jaws shut with tense and shaking hands. And then she sat back upon her heels with a strangled sob of relief and nerves far overwrought, wiping her hands furiously upon her skirt and crying: "It is not thou! Dear Christ in heaven! it is not thou! How thou wilt laugh when I tell thee, beloved--when I tell thee that a dead man screamed at me and I thought him thee! How thou wilt laugh--and I shall laugh with thee!" Sobbing, she began to laugh, a laughter strange and cracked like the laugh of a very old woman, that mounted high and higher, welling from her throat as blood wells from a wound; and rocked herself to and fro and stared into the face of the dead stranger with wide eyes of unreason.... She took her torch and fled on, and the face that she had left behind seemed to scream its mockery with open jaws through the darkness after her. X Nicanor was half way up the beach when the stationarius went down and his men fell upon the Saxons. Instantly, nothing loath, he found himself in the midst of the fighting. He was unarmed, save for his knife; so that his first thought was to get within the length of the long swords of those attacking him, since at close range, these, built for thrusting, were as good as useless. This was not easy to do, for the Saxons, despite their bulk, were light upon their feet, and wary to keep their opponents at sufficient distance. But twice he did it, each time forcing his adversary to leave his sword-play and take to his dagger, the terrible seaxa which had won for the Saxons their name. He went into battle joyously, cool-eyed, alert, heart and soul in the work ahead; yet ever with that other self within him, which stood apart as a spectator in the arena, and watched through the smoke and crimson light of battle the faces of those who fought,--the fierce delight of one, the black hate of another, red wounds, and the swift black swoop of Death. His heart sang its high song of triumph which his lips would fain have echoed, of thanksgiving in the clean strength of his manhood, in the power of his arm, which could uphold his own before all men. He stooped to catch a sword from one who needed it no longer; and heard the soft clashing of links of mail beside him and felt the breath of a great horse that stirred his hair. Above him the voice of Ceawlin cried: "Thou tale-teller, thee I seek! This is thy work--that dead-eyed toad is gone, but it is thou shalt pay the price for him!" He straightened up, the sword in hand, a laugh upon his lips; and a bolt of red fire entered into his side and seared him to the vitals. He fell; and the horse's tread jarred him and shook the world as it passed, spurred by its mail-clad rider with the blood-tinged spear. At first he fought to keep his hold on consciousness; knew that the fight surged over and around him, but with those who fought he seemed suddenly to have no part nor lot. They faded into spectres, beings somehow set apart from him, in whose affairs he no longer had concern. He lay quiet, his eyes closed, the red flower behind his ear, the red flower of his life staining the trampled sands on which he lay. Quite suddenly he drifted into a gray empty world of twilight, in which he wandered seeking for what he did not know. He became aware, presently, that on the other side of this world, at the end of the road of Time, there was a little narrow door which would lead him into his Garden of Lost Dreams, and he thought that if he might reach it, all would be very well with him. But across the world, from out the twilight, there appeared a tiny point of light, ever growing, ever brighter. It came upon him as a rolling ball of fire, and he turned and would have fled from it; but it enveloped him in rose-red light that burned and blinded, and he knew that it was Pain. It lapped over him like water; it shrivelled him, soul and body; it entered into the marrow of his bones and twisted him in every joint and sinew. And suddenly he found his soul following the fight into the streets of Thorney; he was plunged amid the slaughter, in the smoke of burning houses. Yet through it all he knew, with strange inner knowledge drawn from the deeps below consciousness, that his soul was in his body, lying quiet on the sands in the dark and moonlight, and that the fight had passed him by. Out of the flame-shot darkness of his oblivion a sound came to him; and the devil-lights that danced before his eyes ceased their wheeling to listen--a bell, deep-throated, majestic, that tolled once, and out of its sonorous, slow throbbing that lingered in the air, a voice intoning. "_Ave Maria, gratia plena._" The bell-note boomed again. "_Benedicta tu in mulieribus._" Again the heavy clanging shook the air. "_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis, Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!_" The voice drifted from him; yet the air seemed alive with the vibrations of the words. "_Ora pro nobis!_" Who was the Mary full of grace who could pray for one, to whom one could call as men called upon the gods? Who but the Mother of Jesus, the Little Brother of the World, sweet comrade of his black and bitter hour? He smiled as one who hears names well known and well beloved. "_Nunc et in hora mortis nostræ!_" Who was that mortal one for whom priests prayed in the silence before the dawning, for whom the hour of death was striking in the tolling of the bell? "In the hour of our death"--not one death only was prayed for, but all deaths. But then the words took upon themselves new and startling meaning. He knew that the hour had struck for him also in the great bell's voice; was that prayer for his death among all others--for his, the pagan's? With sudden lonely longing he wished it might be so, as one who starts upon a journey wishes for a friendly voice, a handclasp, for farewell. Would Mary pray for him; would the Little Brother bring him solace as in that bitter time before? If this were so, could not one go down into death, as one had gone through life, with a song upon his lips? What, after all, was death? For the first time the question of Life was launched at him from the vastness of infinity; and he, poor atom of mortality, with his bright tongue and his groping heart, his longings, his hopes and fears and ignorances, was called upon to answer. Was it full of terrors, the terrors at which men hinted and dared not speak? He knew that he was not afraid. Was it lonely? He did not feel alone. But his thoughts were fluttering from him like birds rising from the grass; slowly darkness closed above him, in which he struggled as a drowning man to keep his head above the waters. Again he stood upon the edge of the gray twilight land, and saw that something was coming to him--a mist of light, cool and pure as pearl. It grew, and out of it there looked down on him a face, young and fair and tender, with holy eyes. It was the face of his lost Lady, yet her face transfigured as his eyes had never seen it,--the same and not the same. The mist grew brighter and he saw that in her arms there lay a babe that leaned its head against her breast and smiled at all the world. At once he knew them for his Dream made manifest, and his face lightened to adoration. "O Best Beloved!" he whispered, "how mine eyes have hungered for thee in the dark days that are gone over! My lips would sing unto thee even as my heart is singing, but my tongue is black within my throat. I have found that who would seek for peace must pass through pain, and when pain hath ended, peace shall come. When therefore it cometh to my body, as it hath come upon my soul, then I shall sing my song to thee,--my song, which thou and little Jesus did teach me how to make, I will sing to-morrow when the moon shines on the fountains, in the garden." His voice died; he saw his Lady lean to him from her mist of rose and pearl; cool as the dews of morning he felt her hand upon his head. Very softly then his fever left him; love's touch soothed the red flame of pain that ate his life away, as in the long ago love's touch had stilled the bitter soul within him. He smiled happily, for that soul's pain and body's pain had brought heart's peace. With no surprise, he knew that he had found the answer. "I think it is the door of the garden," he said clearly. X A keen sweet wind blew over the world, first pure breath of the coming day, driving before it the reek of smoke and blood and death which hovered over Thorney as a pall. A tinge of gray light diffused itself like mist through the darkness; in this mist the forms of people wandered like dim restless ghosts seeking the graves from which the night had called them. Out of the stillness which had succeeded to the turmoil of the night, cocks began to crow, a homely sound, as though this dawning held no difference from the peaceful morn of yesterday. The ripples of the river woke, gurgling like a happy child that laughs itself out of dreams. Eldris came out upon the beach from between the rows of tottering houses. She cast away her torch and stretched her hands to the east, where momently the earth was turning from black to gray, steeped in a haze as of twilight, the strange half-light of dawn. "O day, come swiftly and give me back my own! I shall put my hands upon his breast and say, 'Take me, for I am all, all thine and love's, and where thou goest there will I go also, for my God is love. I am only woman, and weak and very weary, and I love thee. Ah, dear God! I would leave heaven and all the angels for thine arms!' And he will take me in his arms, and I shall fear nothing any more. O day, come swiftly!" Along the beach she hastened, light-footed, and came to the lumber-pile, with no more than a glance for the Roman soldier who lay upon it, his duty done. And so, behind the lumber-pile, with but a strip of gray sand between his bed and the broad river, she found him, with the dawn-light upon his face. As once before she had gone to him and knelt beside him as he slept, so she thought to go to him again. But this time she would not fear to wake him, for he, her lord, had called her, and her delight was to obey. She had come to yield herself his, body and soul forever, and in her face the bridal joy outshone the bridal terror. She would do this and that; thought to play with her joy to taste the sweetness of its savor; but suddenly all her thought was lost in the flood of love triumphant which rose to overwhelm her. She ran forward, her arms outflung to him, crying: "Beloved, wake, for I am come to thee! All my soul is a flame of fire, and the fire is love which blindeth me to all in earth and heaven save only thee. Wilt thou not wake and take me?" On her knees she threw herself beside him. But he did not move, nor did he speak in answer. And even in the moment of her exaltation, Eldris understood. Her words broke; an instant she knelt with arms outstretched above him; she ceased to breathe, and her face froze into lines of stone. But suddenly she gave a cry, loud and sharp, and her hands fell upon him. Her eyes awoke into living terror; with desperate fingers she strove to turn his face further to the light. At the weight of him she shook and shuddered; she had felt that horrible dead weight before, that sullen settling into itself of his bulk as her hands left it. In the gray light of the slow dawning she turned his face toward her, gray, and smiling, and still. She looked down upon him and put her hands to her throat. "I am glad, ay, glad, that thy mouth is not open and screaming at me!" she said aloud, in a dead voice. The sense of her words smote her, and she closed her eyes with a long-drawn whispering moan. Again she looked at him, scarcely believing; and once more the flood overwhelmed her. She wrung her hands and brought them down before her face. "Oh, God, is this Thy punishment for that I said my God was love? Very well--punish Thou me, then--what canst Thou do that matters now?" Her voice faltered; she lowered her hands to stroke the hair from his pale forehead. She sat upon the sands and drew his heavy head to her knees, and her voice sank to the crooning of a woman with her man-child that is dead. "I am too late--too late--too late! In mine ears was the wailing of the women in empty houses--how knew I that my voice must cry among them? My love, that liest so quiet at my knee, thou art gone very far from me, and all my tears and pleading may not call thee back. O pale lips sealed forever, all thy magic dumb within thee, give me of thy power that I may mourn my love! O wandering feet that have strayed in lands of bright enchantment, thou walkest in the dim paths of the twilight places, and I would that my feet might follow! O strong hands that have wrought the work of men, why dost thou not answer to the clinging of my fingers? O heart that camest through bitter waters, was it good to rest? I and old Sorrow walk hand in hand; for the red flower of my lover's life which is withered here, we shall cover him with lilies. The young men and the maidens shall walk softly; the old shall mourn him saying 'Eheu! it is not well for the young to go before us.' And I--what is there that I may say? Dead--dead--dead--and my heart is breaking--Ah! bitter woe is mine! O ye Elder Gods, would ye have been more kind than the One who hath torn him from me?" She bent over him so that her tears fell warm upon his face and the veil of her hair shrouded him; she kissed his lips as though she would breathe her own life into him. "This my bridal kiss I give thee, O Nicanor, O my dear!--here on thy mouth, and thou canst never know--God have pity!--thou canst never know! Thy lips are cold--so cold--thou art all cold, and even my bosom may not warm thee. My love, who didst die with a flower in thy hair and a smile upon thy lips, why is thy face so bright with triumph? Peace lieth upon thee as a garment.... O Nicanor, Nicanor, give me of thy peace!" There fell a voice upon her weeping: "My daughter, what dost thou here?" Thin-faced Father Ambrose stood before her, very gentle, very old, from Saint Peter's Church within the wall. On his arm he bore a basket filled with simple dressings; his brown frock, up-kilted, was stained with blood and mire. Perhaps all night he had done his work of mercy among the dying and the dead. "I have found him!" said Eldris. She swept back her hair with one arm, showing her sorrow. The priest knelt, touching here and there with skilful fingers. "Is it not he whom men called Nicanor? Nay, daughter, weep not so bitterly! Is it not the death he would have chosen, being man? We have heard of him; we have seen that his power he hath striven to use for good, so that many loved him; we have thought that in God's own time the light would come upon him and he should be baptized into the Faith." But Eldris broke in fiercely: "Ye have heard--ye have seen--ye have thought--but can ye give him back to me? I knew not your God was a cruel God; ye have taught that He is the Father of all mercy and all love. What mercy is there in this that He hath done? I am Christian, for I wished to seek love from that God that is thy God; and this my love did I try to make Christian also. But since God hath done this thing unto him and me, I am glad that he was not Christian and hath not gone to God!" Father Ambrose looked down upon her, smiling, and his face was holy. "I think he was a better Christian than art thou, dear child, even though he did not know it. Can one be Christian, for all he cries 'God, God!' if he have not Christ within his heart as well as on his lips? What is a Christian, save one who dealeth gently, liveth cleanly, giveth of himself? And such an one, I think, whether he professeth all gods or no god, will our Father call 'my son.' Long have I lived, and very much have I seen, and I think that this is so." He paused. Eldris's sobbing alone made answer. "Daughter, thou sayest thou art glad he hath not gone to God. Loving him, wouldst thou not rather think of him with God than wandering lonely in the outer darkness?" But Eldris flung out her hands with a bitter cry. "Nay--nay--oh, Lord Christ, not that! I cannot bear to think he wanders lonely, as all his life he hath been lonely--anything but that! What have I said--what have I done! Oh, father, father, he must not be lonely! Pray thou that God will take him, even though he did not know! Dear God, let him into heaven--do not Thou be angered because he did not know! Mary Mother, pity him and let him not be lonely any more!" She stretched her hands in desolate appeal over the still face at her knee. Father Ambrose gathered them into his. "God hath taken him, dear child," he said gently. "Out of his darkness hath he entered into light; and I think that it is well with him." A long time he looked down at the face that smiled in answer; at the long lithe limbs whose strength was dust. From his basket he took a cup, and went aside and filled it with water from the river, and offered it to God. Returning, he knelt, and with the water signed the cross on the pale forehead and the broad pulseless breast. "So sign I and seal I thee with the Cross of Christ, that in His mercy thy Lord may receive thy soul. 'Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'" He raised his hand, and Eldris dropped her face to the rough black hair and sobbed. "The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make His face shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace." His gentle voice ceased, and a moment the earth hung silent, awaiting the mystery of the dawn. Then the red misty sun shot up over the hills on the east of Thorney, and the bright new day was come. THE END 
21614	----	For the Temple: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem By G. A. Henty. Contents Preface. Chapter 1: The Lake Of Tiberias. Chapter 2: A Storm On Galilee. Chapter 3: The Revolt Against Rome. Chapter 4: The Lull Before The Storm. Chapter 5: The Siege Of Jotapata. Chapter 6: The Fall Of The City. Chapter 7: The Massacre On The Lake. Chapter 8: Among The Mountains. Chapter 9: The Storming Of Gamala. Chapter 10: Captives. Chapter 11: A Tale Of Civil Strife. Chapter 12: Desultory Fighting. Chapter 13: The Test Of Devotion. Chapter 14: Jerusalem. Chapter 15: The Siege Is Begun. Chapter 16: The Subterranean Passage. Chapter 17: The Capture Of The Temple. Chapter 18: Slaves. Chapter 19: At Rome. Illustrations On the Sea of Galilee. Heightening the Walls of Jotapata under Shelter of Ox Hides. John Incites his Countrymen to Harass the Romans. The Roman Camp Surprised and Set on Fire. Mary and the Hebrew Women in the Hands of the Romans. Titus Brings Josephus to See John. John and his Band in Sight of Jerusalem. Misery in Jerusalem During the Siege by Titus. 'Lesbia,' the Roman said, 'I have brought you two more slaves.' The Return of John to his House on the Lake. Preface. In all history, there is no drama of more terrible interest than that which terminated with the total destruction of Jerusalem. Had the whole Jewish nation joined in the desperate resistance made, by a section of it, to the overwhelming strength of Rome, the world would have had no record of truer patriotism than that displayed, by this small people, in their resistance to the forces of the mistress of the world. Unhappily, the reverse of this was the case. Except in the defense of Jotapata and Gamala, it can scarcely be said that the Jewish people, as a body, offered any serious resistance to the arms of Rome. The defenders of Jerusalem were a mere fraction of its population--a fraction composed almost entirely of turbulent characters and robber bands, who fought with the fury of desperation; after having placed themselves beyond the pale of forgiveness, or mercy, by the deeds of unutterable cruelty with which they had desolated the city, before its siege by the Romans. They fought, it is true, with unflinching courage--a courage never surpassed in history--but it was the courage of despair; and its result was to bring destruction upon the whole population, as well as upon themselves. Fortunately the narrative of Josephus, an eyewitness of the events which he describes, has come down to us; and it is the storehouse from which all subsequent histories of the events have been drawn. It is, no doubt, tinged throughout by his desire to stand well with his patrons, Vespasian and Titus; but there is no reason to doubt the accuracy of his descriptions. I have endeavored to present you with as vivid a picture as possible of the events of the war, without encumbering the story with details and, except as regards the exploits of John of Gamala, of whom Josephus says nothing, have strictly followed, in every particular, the narrative of the historian. G. A. Henty. Chapter 1: The Lake Of Tiberias. "Dreaming, John, as usual? I never saw such a boy. You are always in extremes; either tiring yourself out, or lying half asleep." "I was not half asleep, mother. I was looking at the lake." "I cannot see much to look at, John. It's just as it has been ever since you were born, or since I was born." "No, I suppose there's no change, mother; but I am never tired of looking at the sun shining on the ripples, and the fishermen's boats, and the birds standing in the shallows or flying off, in a desperate hurry, without any reason that I can make out. Besides, mother, when one is looking at the lake, one is thinking of other things." "And very often thinking of nothing at all, my son." "Perhaps so, mother; but there's plenty to think of, in these times." "Plenty, John; there are baskets and baskets of figs to be stripped from the trees, and hung up to dry for the winter and, next week, we are going to begin the grape harvest. But the figs are the principal matter, at present; and I think that it would be far more useful for you to go and help old Isaac and his son, in getting them in, than in lying there watching the lake." "I suppose it would, mother," the lad said, rising briskly; for his fits of indolence were by no means common and, as a rule, he was ready to assist at any work which might be going on. "I do not wonder at John loving the lake," his mother said to herself, when the lad had hurried away. "It is a fair scene; and it may be, as Simon thinks, that a change may come over it, before long, and that ruin and desolation may fall upon us all." There were, indeed, few scenes which could surpass in tranquil beauty that which Martha, the wife of Simon, was looking upon--the sheet of sparkling water, with its low shores dotted with towns and villages. Down the lake, on the opposite shore, rose the walls and citadel of Tiberias, with many stately buildings; for although Tiberias was not, now, the chief town of Galilee--for Sepphoris had usurped its place--it had been the seat of the Roman authority, and the kings who ruled the country for Rome generally dwelt there. Half a mile from the spot where Martha was standing rose the newly-erected walls of Hippos. Where the towns and villages did not engross the shore, the rich orchards and vineyards extended down to the very edge of the water. The plain of Galilee was a veritable garden. Here flourished, in the greatest abundance, the vine and the fig; while the low hills were covered with olive groves, and the corn waved thickly on the rich, fat land. No region on the earth's face possessed a fairer climate. The heat was never extreme; the winds blowing from the Great Sea brought the needed moisture for the vegetation; and so soft and equable was the air that, for ten months in the year, grapes and figs could be gathered. The population, supported by the abundant fruits of the earth, was very large. Villages--which would elsewhere be called towns, for those containing but a few thousand inhabitants were regarded as small, indeed--were scattered thickly over the plain; and few areas of equal dimensions could show a population approaching that which inhabited the plains and slopes between the Sea of Galilee and the Mediterranean. None could then have dreamed of the dangers that were to come, or believed that this rich cultivation and teeming population would disappear; and that, in time, a few flocks of wandering sheep would scarce be able to find herbage growing, on the wastes of land which would take the place of this fertile soil. Certainly no such thought as this occurred to Martha, as she re-entered the house; though she did fear that trouble, and ruin, might be approaching. John was soon at work among the fig trees, aiding Isaac and his son Reuben--a lad of some fifteen years--to pick the soft, luscious fruit, and carry it to the little courtyard, shaded from the rays of the sun by an overhead trellis work, covered with vines and almost bending beneath the purple bunches of grapes. Miriam--the old nurse--and four or five maid servants, under the eye of Martha, tied them in rows on strings, and fastened them to pegs driven into that side of the house upon which the sun beat down most hotly. It was only the best fruit that was so served; for that which had been damaged in the picking, and all of smaller size, were laid on trays in the sun. The girls chatted merrily as they worked; for Martha, although a good housewife, was a gentle mistress and, so long as fingers were busy, heeded not if the tongue ran on. "Let the damsels be happy, while they may," she would say, if Miriam scolded a little when the laughter rose louder than usual. "Let them be happy, while they can; who knows what lies in the future?" But at present, the future cast no shade upon the group; nor upon a girl of about fourteen years old, who danced in and out of the courtyard in the highest spirits, now stopping a few minutes to string the figs, then scampering away with an empty basket which, when she reached the gatherers, she placed on her head and supported demurely, for a little while, at the foot of the ladder upon which John was perched--so that he could lay the figs in it without bruising them. But, long ere the basket was filled she would tire of the work and, setting it on the ground, run back into the house. "And so you think you are helping, Mary," John said, laughing, when the girl returned for the fourth time, with an empty basket. "Helping, John! Of course I am--ever so much. Helping you, and helping them at the house, and carrying empty baskets. I consider myself the most active of the party." "Active, certainly, Mary! but if you do not help them, in stringing and hanging the figs, more than you help me, I think you might as well leave it alone." "Fie, John! That is most ungrateful, after my standing here like a statue, with the basket on my head, ready for you to lay the figs in." "That is all very fine!" John laughed; "but before the basket is half full, away you go; and I have to get down the ladder, and bring up the basket and fix it firmly, and that without shaking the figs; whereas, had you left it alone, altogether, I could have brought up the empty basket and fixed it close by my hand, without any trouble at all." "You are an ungrateful boy, and you know how bad it is to be ungrateful! And after my making myself so hot, too!" Miriam said. "My face is as red as fire, and that is all the thanks I get. Very well, then, I shall go into the house, and leave you to your own bad reflections." "You need not do that, Mary. You can sit down in the shade there, and watch us at work; and eat figs, and get yourself cool, all at the same time. The sun will be down in another half hour, and then I shall be free to amuse you." "Amuse me, indeed!" the girl said indignantly, as she sat down on the bank to which John had pointed. "You mean that I shall amuse you; that is what it generally comes to. If it wasn't for me I am sure, very often, there would not be a word said when we are out together." "Perhaps that is true," John agreed; "but you see, there is so much to think about." "And so you choose the time when you are with me to think! Thank you, John! You had better think, at present," and, rising from the seat she had just taken, she walked back to the house again, regardless of John's explanations and shouts. Old Isaac chuckled, on his tree close by. "They are ever too sharp for us, in words, John. The damsel is younger than you, by full two years; and yet she can always put you in the wrong, with her tongue." "She puts meanings to my words which I never thought of," John said, "and is angered, or pretends to be--for I never know which it is--at things which she has coined out of her own mind, for they had no place in mine." "Boys' wits are always slower than girls'," the old man said. "A girl has more fancy, in her little finger, than a boy in his whole body. Your cousin laughs at you, because she sees that you take it all seriously; and wonders, in her mind, how it is her thoughts run ahead of yours. But I love the damsel, and so do all in the house for, if she be a little wayward at times, she is bright and loving, and has cheered the house since she came here. "Your father is not a man of many words; and Martha, as becomes her age, is staid and quiet, though she is no enemy of mirth and cheerfulness; but the loss of all her children, save you, has saddened her, and I think she must often have pined that she had not a girl; and she has brightened much since the damsel came here, three years ago. "But the sun is sinking, and my basket is full. There will be enough for the maids to go on with, in the morning, until we can supply them with more." John's basket was not full, but he was well content to stop and, descending their ladders, the three returned to the house. Simon of Gadez--for that was the name of his farm, and the little fishing village close by, on the shore--was a prosperous and well-to-do man. His land, like that of all around him, had come down from father to son, through long generations; for the law by which all mortgages were cleared off, every seven years, prevented those who might be disposed to idleness and extravagance from ruining themselves, and their children. Every man dwelt upon the land which, as eldest son, he had inherited; while the younger sons, taking their smaller share, would settle in the towns or villages and become traders, or fishermen, according to their bent and means. There were poor in Palestine--for there will be poor, everywhere, so long as human nature remains as it is; and some men are idle and self indulgent, while others are industrious and thrifty--but, taking it as a whole there were, thanks to the wise provisions of their laws, no people on the face of the earth so generally comfortable, and well to do. They grumbled, of course, over the exactions of the tax collectors--exactions due, not to the contribution which was paid by the province to imperial Rome, but to the luxury and extravagance of their kings, and to the greed and corruption of the officials. But in spite of this, the people of rich and prosperous Galilee could have lived in contentment, and happiness, had it not been for the factions in their midst. On reaching the house, John found that his father had just returned from Hippos, whither he had gone on business. He nodded when the lad entered, with his basket. "I have hired eight men in the market, today, to come out tomorrow to aid in gathering in the figs," he said; "and your mother has just sent down, to get some of the fishermen's maidens to come in to help her. It is time that we had done with them, and we will then set about the vintage. Let us reap while we can, there is no saying what the morrow will bring forth. "Wife, add something to the evening meal, for the Rabbi Solomon Ben Manasseh will sup with us, and sleep here tonight." John saw that his father looked graver than usual, but he knew his duty as a son too well to think of asking any questions; and he busied himself, for a time, in laying out the figs on trays--knowing that, otherwise, their own weight would crush the soft fruit before the morning, and bruise the tender skins. A quarter of an hour later, the quick footsteps of a donkey were heard approaching. John ran out and, having saluted the rabbi, held the animal while his father assisted him to alight and, welcoming him to his house, led him within. The meal was soon served. It consisted of fish from the lake, kid's flesh seethed in milk, and fruit. Only the men sat down; the rabbi sitting upon Simon's right hand, John on his left, and Isaac and his son at the other end of the table. Martha's maids waited upon them, for it was not the custom for the women to sit down with the men and, although in the country this usage was not strictly observed, and Martha and little Mary generally took their meals with Simon and John, they did not do so if any guest was present. In honor of the visitor, a white cloth had been laid on the table. All ate with their fingers; two dishes of each kind being placed on the table--one at each end. But few words were said during the meal. After it was concluded, Isaac and his son withdrew and, presently, Martha and Mary, having taken their meal in the women's apartments, came into the room. Mary made a little face at John, to signify her disapproval of the visitor, whose coming would compel her to keep silent all the evening. But though John smiled, he made no sign of sympathy for, indeed, he was anxious to hear the news from without; and doubted not that he should learn much, from the rabbi. Solomon Ben Manasseh was a man of considerable influence in Galilee. He was a tall, stern-looking old man, with bushy black eyebrows, deep-set eyes, and a long beard of black hair, streaked with gray. He was said to have acquired much of the learning of the Gentiles, among whom, at Antioch, he had dwelt for some years; but it was to his powers as a speaker that he owed his influence. It was the tongue, in those days, that ruled men; and there were few who could lash a crowd to fury, or still their wrath when excited, better than Solomon Ben Manasseh. For some time they talked upon different subjects: on the corn harvest and vintage, the probable amount of taxation, the marriage feast which was to take place, in the following week, at the house of one of the principal citizens of Hippos, and other matters. But at last Simon broached the subject which was uppermost in all their thoughts. "And the news from Tiberias, you say, is bad, rabbi?" "The news from Tiberias is always bad, friend Simon. In all the land there is not a city which will compare with it, in the wrongheadedness of its people and the violence of its seditions; and little can be hoped, as far as I can see, so long as our good governor, Josephus, continues to treat the malefactors so leniently. A score of times they have conspired against his life and, as often, has he eluded them; for the Lord has been ever with him. But each time, instead of punishing those who have brought about these disorders, he lets them go free; trusting always that they will repent them of their ways, although he sees that his kindness is thrown away, and that they grow even bolder and more bitter against him after each failure. "All Galilee is with him. Whenever he gives the word, every man takes up his arms and follows him and, did he but give the order, they would level those proud towns Tiberias and Sepphoris to the ground, and tear down stone by stone the stronghold of John of Gischala. But he will suffer them to do nothing--not a hair of these traitors' heads is to be touched; nor their property, to the value of a penny, be interfered with. "I call such lenity culpable. The law ordains punishment for those who disturb the people. We know what befell those who rebelled against Moses. Josephus has the valor and the wisdom of King David; but it were well if he had, like our great king, a Joab by his side, who would smite down traitors and spare not." "It is his only fault," Simon said. "What a change has taken place, since he was sent hither from Jerusalem to take up our government! All abuses have been repressed, extortion has been put down, taxes have been lightened. We eat our bread in peace and comfort, and each man's property is his own. Never was there such a change as he has wrought and, were it not for John of Gischala, Justus the son of Piscus, and Jesus the son of Sapphias, all would go quietly and well; but these men are continually stirring up the people--who, in their folly, listen to them--and conspiring to murder Josephus, and seize upon his government." "Already he has had, more than once, to reduce to submission Tiberias and Sepphoris; happily without bloodshed for, when the people of these cities saw that all Galilee was with Josephus, they opened their gates and submitted themselves to his mercy. Truly, in Leviticus it is said: "'Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people; but thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' "But Josephus carries this beyond reason. Seeing that his adversaries by no means observe this law, he should remember that it is also said that 'He that taketh the sword shall fall by the sword,' and that the law lays down punishments for the transgressors. Our judges and kings slew those who troubled the land, and destroyed them utterly; and Josephus does wrong to depart from their teaching." "I know not where he could have learned such notions of mercy to his enemies, and to the enemies of the land," Simon said. "He has been to Rome, but it is not among the Romans that he will have found that it is right to forgive those who rise up in rebellion." "Yes, he was in Rome when he was twenty-six years old," Solomon said. "He went thither to plead the cause of certain priests who had been thrown into bonds, by Felix, and sent to Rome. It was a perilous voyage, for his ship was wrecked in the Adriatic and, of six hundred men who were on board, only eighty were picked up--after floating and swimming all night--by a ship of Cyrene. He was not long in Rome for, being introduced to Poppaea, the wife of Caesar, he used his interest with her and obtained the release of those for whose sake he went there. "No, if he gained these ideas from anyone, he learned them from one Banus--an Ascetic, of the sect of the Essenes, who lived in the desert with no other clothing than the bark and leaves of trees, and no other food save that which grew wild. Josephus lived with him, in like fashion, for three years and, doubtless, learned all that was in his heart. Banus was a follower, they say, of that John whom Herod put to death; and for aught I know, of that Jesus who was crucified, two years afterwards, at Jerusalem, and in whom many people believed, and who has many followers, to this day. I have conversed with some of them and, from what they tell me, this Jesus taught doctrines similar to those which Josephus practices; and which he may have learned from Banus, without accepting the doctrines which the members of this sect hold, as to their founder being the promised Messiah who was to restore Israel." "I, too, have talked with many of the sect," Simon said; "and have argued with them on the folly of their belief, seeing that their founder by no means saved Israel, but was himself put to death. From what I could see, there was much that was good in the doctrines they hold; but they have exaggerated ideas, and are opposed to all wars, even to fighting for their country. I hear that, since there has been trouble with Rome, most of them have departed altogether out of the land, so as to avoid the necessity of fighting." "They are poor creatures," Solomon Ben Manasseh said, scornfully; "but we need not talk of them now, for they affect us in no way, save that it may be that Josephus has learned somewhat of their doctrines, from Banus; and that he is thus unduly and, as I think, most unfortunately for the country, inclined too much to mercy, instead of punishing the evildoers as they deserve." "But nevertheless, rabbi, it seems to me that there has been good policy, as well, in the mercy which Josephus has shown his foes. You know that John has many friends in Jerusalem; and that, if he could accuse Josephus of slaughtering any, he would be able to make so strong a party, there, that he could obtain the recall of Josephus." "We would not let him go," Solomon said, hotly. "Since the Romans have gone, we submit to the supremacy of the council at Jerusalem, but it is only on sufferance. For long ages we have had nothing to do with Judah; and we are not disposed to put our necks under their yoke, now. We submit to unity because, in the Romans, we have a common foe; but we are not going to be tyrannized. Josephus has shown himself a wise ruler. We are happier, under him, than we have been for generations under the men who call themselves kings, but who are nothing but Roman satraps; and we are not going to suffer him to be taken from us. Only let the people of Jerusalem try that, and they will have to deal with all the men of Galilee." "I am past the age at which men are bound to take up the sword, and John has not yet attained it but, if there were need, we would both go out and fight. What could they do, for the population of Galilee is greater than that of Judah? And while we would fight, every man, to the death; the Jews would, few of them, care to hazard their lives only to take from us the man we desire to rule over us. Still, Josephus does wisely, perhaps, to give no occasion for accusation by his enemies. "There is no talk, is there, rabbi, of any movement on the part of the Romans to come against us, in force?" "None, so far as I have heard," the rabbi replied. "King Agrippa remains in his country, to the east; but he has no Roman force with him sufficient to attempt any great enterprise and, so long as they leave us alone, we are content." "They will come, sooner or later," Simon said, shaking his head. "They are busy elsewhere. When they have settled with their other enemies, they will come here to avenge the defeat of Cestius, to restore Florus, and to reconquer the land. Where Rome has once laid her paw, she never lets slip her prey." "Well, we can fight," Solomon Ben Manasseh said, sternly. "Our forefathers won the land with the sword, and we can hold it by the sword." "Yes," Martha said quietly, joining in the conversation for the first time, "if God fights for us, as He fought for our forefathers." "Why should He not?" the rabbi asked sternly. "We are still his people. We are faithful to his law." "But God has, many times in the past, suffered us to fall into the hands of our enemies as a punishment for our sins," Martha said, quietly. "The tribes were carried away into captivity, and are scattered we know not where. The temple was destroyed, and the people of Judah dwelt long as captives in Babylon. He suffered us to fall under the yoke of the Romans. "In his right time, He will fight for us again; but can we say that that time has come, rabbi, and that He will smite the Romans, as He smote the host of Sennacherib?" "That no man can say," the rabbi answered, gloomily. "Time only will show but, whether or no, the people will fight valiantly." "I doubt not that they will fight," Simon said; "but many other nations, to whom we are but as a handful, have fought bravely, but have succumbed to the might of Rome. It is said that Josephus, and many of the wisest in Jerusalem, were heartily opposed to the tumults against the Romans, and that they only went with the people because they were in fear of their lives; and even at Tiberias many men of worth and gravity, such as Julius Capellus, Herod the son of Miarus, Herod the son of Gamalus, Compsus, and others, are all strongly opposed to hostility against the Romans. "And it is the same, elsewhere. Those who know best what is the might and power of Rome would fain remain friendly with her. It is the ignorant and violent classes have led us into this strait; from which, as I fear, naught but ruin can arise." "I thought better things of you, Simon," the rabbi said, angrily. "But you yourself have told me," Simon urged, "that you thought it a mad undertaking to provoke the vengeance of Rome." "I thought so, at first," Solomon admitted, "but now our hand is placed on the plow, we must not draw back; and I believe that the God of our fathers will show his might before the heathen." "I trust that it may be so," Simon said, gravely. "In His hand is all power. Whether He will see fit to put it forth, now, in our behalf remains to be seen. However, for the present we need not concern ourselves greatly with the Romans. It may be long before they bring an army against us; while these seditions, here, are at our very door, and ever threaten to involve us in civil war." "We need fear no civil war," the rabbi said. "The people of all Galilee, save the violent and ill disposed in a few of the towns, are all for Josephus. If it comes to force, John and his party know that they will be swept away, like a straw before the wind. The fear is that they may succeed in murdering Josephus; either by the knife of an assassin, or in one of these tumults. They would rather the latter, because they would then say that the people had torn him to pieces, in their fury at his misdoings. "However, we watch over him, as much as we can; and his friends have warned him that he must be careful, not only for his own sake, but for that of all the people; and he has promised that, as far as he can, he will be on his guard against these traitors." "The governor should have a strong bodyguard," John exclaimed, impetuously, "as the Roman governors had. In another year, I shall be of age to have my name inscribed in the list of fighting men; and I would gladly be one of his guard." "You are neither old enough to fight, nor to express an opinion unasked," Simon said, "in the presence of your elders." "Do not check the boy," the rabbi said. "He has fire and spirit; and the days are coming when we shall not ask how old, or how young, are those who would fight, so that they can but hold arms. "Josephus is wise not to have a military guard, John, because the people love not such appearance of state. His enemies would use this as an argument that he was setting himself up above them. It is partly because he behaves himself discreetly, and goes about among them like a private person, of no more account than themselves, that they love him. None can say he is a tyrant, because he has no means of tyrannizing. His enemies cannot urge it against him at Jerusalem--as they would doubtless do, if they could--that he is seeking to lead Galilee away from the rule of Jerusalem, and to set himself up as its master for, to do this, he would require to gather an army; and Josephus has not a single armed man at his service, save and except that when he appears to be in danger many, out of love of him, assemble and provide him escort. "No, Josephus is wise in that he affects neither pomp nor state; that he keeps no armed men around him, but trusts to the love of the people. He would be wiser, however, did he seize one of the occasions when the people have taken up arms for him to destroy all those who make sedition; and to free the country, once and for all, from the trouble. "Sedition should be always nipped in the bud. Lenity, in such a case, is the most cruel course; for it encourages men to think that those in authority fear them, and that they can conspire without danger; and whereas, at first, the blood of ten men will put an end to sedition, it needs, at last, the blood of as many thousands to restore peace and order. It is good for a man to be merciful, but not for a ruler, for the good of the whole people is placed in his hands. The sword of justice is given to him, and he is most merciful who uses it the most promptly against those who work sedition. The wise ruler will listen to the prayers of his people, and will grant their petitions, when they show that their case is hard; but he will grant nothing to him who asketh with his sword in his hand, for he knows full well that when he yields, once, he must yield always; until the time comes, as come it surely will, when he must resist with the sword. Then the land will be filled with blood whereas, in the beginning, he could have avoided all trouble, by refusing so much as to listen to those who spoke with threats. "Josephus is a good man, and the Lord has given him great gifts. He has done great things for the land; but you will see that many woes will come, and much blood will be shed, from this lenity of his towards those who stir up tumults among the people." A few minutes later the family retired to bed; the hour being a late one for Simon's household, which generally retired to rest a short time after the evening meal. The next day the work of gathering in the figs was carried on, earnestly and steadily, with the aid of the workers whom Simon had hired in the town and, in two days, the trees were all stripped, and strings of figs hung to dry from the boughs of all the trees round the house. Then the gathering of the grapes began. All the inhabitants of the little fishing village lent their aid--men as well as women and children--for the vintage was looked upon as a holiday; and Simon was regarded as a good friend by his neighbors, being ever ready to aid them when there was need, judging any disputes which arose between them, and lending them money without interest if misfortune came upon their boats or nets, or if illness befell them; while the women, in times of sickness or trouble, went naturally to Martha with their griefs, and were assured of sympathy, good advice, and any drugs or dainty food suited to the case. The women and girls picked the grapes, and laid them in baskets. These were carried by men, and emptied into the vat; where other men trod them down, and pressed out the juice. Martha and her maids saw to the cooking and laying out, on the great tables in the courtyard, of the meals; to which all sat down, together. Simon superintended the crushing of the grapes; and John worked now at one task, and now at another. It was a pretty scene, and rendered more gay by the songs of the women and girls, as they worked; and the burst of merry laughter which, at times, arose. It lasted four days, by which time the last bunch, save those on a few vines preserved for eating, was picked and crushed; and the vats in the cellar, sunk underground for coolness, were full to the brim. Simon was much pleased with the result; and declared that never, in his memory, had the vine and fig harvest turned out more abundant. The corn had long before been gathered, and there remained now only the olives; but it would be some little time yet before these were fit to be gathered, and their oil extracted, for they were allowed to hang on the trees until ready to drop. The last basket of grapes was brought in with much ceremony; the gatherers forming a little procession, and singing a thanksgiving hymn as they walked. The evening meal was more bounteous, even, than usual; and all who helped carried away with them substantial proofs of Simon's thankfulness, and satisfaction. For the next few days Simon and his men, and Martha's maids, lent their assistance in getting in the vintage of their neighbors; for each family had its patch of ground, and grew sufficient grapes and fruits for its own needs. Those in the village brought their grapes to a vat, which they had in common; the measures of the grapes being counted as they were put in, and the wine afterwards divided, in like proportion--for wine, to be good, must be made in considerable quantities. And now there was, for a time, little to do on the farm. Simon superintended the men who were plowing up the corn stubbles, ready for the sowing in the spring; sometimes putting his hand to the plow, and driving the oxen. Isaac and his son worked in the vineyard and garden, near the house; aided to some extent by John who, however, was not yet called upon to take a man's share in the work of the farm--he having but lately finished his learning, with the rabbi, at the school in Hippos. Still, he worked steadily every morning and, in the afternoon, generally went out on the lake with the fishermen, with whom he was a great favorite. This was not to last long for, at seventeen, he was to join his father, regularly, in the management of the farm and, indeed, the Rabbi Solomon, who was a frequent guest, was of opinion that Simon gave the boy too much license; and that he ought, already, to be doing man's work. But Simon, when urged by him, said: "I know that, at his age, I was working hard, rabbi; but the lad has studied diligently, and I have a good report of him; and I think it well that, at his age, the bow should be unbent somewhat. "Besides, who knows what is before us! I will let the lad have as much pleasure from his life as he can. The storm is approaching; let him play, while the sun shines." Chapter 2: A Storm On Galilee. One day, after the midday meal, John said: "Mary, Raphael and his brother have taken the big boat, and gone off with fish to Tiberias; and have told me that I can take the small boat, if I will. Ask my mother to let you off your task, and come out with me. It is a fortnight since we had a row on the lake, together." "I was beginning to think that you were never going to ask me again, John; and, only I should punish myself, I would say you nay. There have you been, going out fishing every afternoon, and leaving me at home to spin; and it is all the worse because your mother has said that the time is fast coming when I must give up wandering about like a child, and must behave myself like a woman. "Oh, dear, how tiresome it will be when there will be nothing to do but to sit and spin, and to look after the house, and to walk instead of running when I am out, and to behave like a grown-up person, altogether!" "You are almost grown up," John said; "you are taller, now, than any of the maids except Zillah; but I shall be sorry to see you growing staid and solemn. And it was selfish of me not to ask you to go out before, but I really did not think of it. The fishermen have been working hard, to make up for the time lost during the harvest; and I have really been useful, helping them with their nets, and this is the last year I shall have my liberty. "But come, don't let's be wasting time in talking; run in and get my mother's permission, and then join me on the shore. I will take some grapes down, for you to eat; for the sun is hot today, and there is scarce a breath of wind on the water." A few minutes later, the young pair stood together by the side of the boat. "Your mother made all sorts of objections," Mary said, laughing, "and I do think she won't let me come again. I don't think she would have done it, today, if Miriam had not stood up for me, and said that I was but a child though I was so tall; and that, as you were very soon going to work with your father, she thought that it was no use in making the change before that." "What nonsense it all is!" John said. "Besides, you know it is arranged that, in a few months, we are to be betrothed according to the wishes of your parents and mine. It would have been done, long ago, only my father and mother do not approve of young betrothals; and think it better to wait, to see if the young ones like each other; and I think that is quite right, too, in most cases--only, of course, living here, as you have done for the last three years--since your father and mother died--there was no fear of our not liking each other." "Well, you see," Mary said, as she sat in the stern of the boat, while John rowed it quietly along, "it might have been just the other way. When people don't see anything of each other, till they are betrothed by their parents, they can't dislike each other very much; whereas, when they get to know each other, if they are disagreeable they might get to almost hate each other." "Yes, there is something in that," John agreed. "Of course, in our case it is all right, because we do like each other--we couldn't have liked each other more, I think, if we had been brother and sister--but it seems to me that, sometimes, it must be horrid when a boy is told by his parents that he is to be betrothed to a girl he has never seen. You see it isn't as if it were for a short time, but for all one's life. It must be awful!" "Awful!" Mary agreed, heartily; "but of course, it would have to be done." "Of course," John said--the possibility of a lad refusing to obey his parents' commands not even occurring to him. "Still it doesn't seem to me quite right that one should have no choice, in so important a matter. Of course, when one's got a father and mother like mine--who would be sure to think only of making me happy, and not of the amount of dowry, or anything of that sort--it would be all right; but with some parents, it would be dreadful." For some time, not a word was spoken; both of them meditating over the unpleasantness of being forced to marry someone they disliked. Then, finding the subject too difficult for them, they began to talk about other things; stopping, sometimes, to see the fishermen haul up their nets, for there were a number of boats out on the lake. They rowed down as far as Tiberias and, there, John ceased rowing; and they sat chatting over the wealth and beauty of that city, which John had often visited with his father, but which Mary had never entered. Then John turned the head of the boat up the lake and again began to row but, scarcely had he dipped his oar into the water, when he exclaimed: "Look at that black cloud rising, at the other end of the lake! Why did you not tell me, Mary?" "How stupid of me," she exclaimed, "not to have kept my eyes open!" He bent to his oars, and made the boat move through the water at a very different rate to that at which she had before traveled. "Most of the boats have gone," Mary said, presently, "and the rest are all rowing to the shore; and the clouds are coming up very fast," she added, looking round. "We are going to have a storm," John said. "It will be upon us long before we get back. I shall make for the shore, Mary. We must leave the boat there, and take shelter for a while, and then walk home. It will not be more than four miles to walk." But though he spoke cheerfully, John knew enough of the sudden storms that burst upon the Sea of Galilee to be aware that, long before he could cross the mile and a half of water, which separated them from the eastern shore, the storm would be upon them; and indeed, they were not more than half way when it burst. The sky was already covered with black clouds. A great darkness gathered round them; then came a heavy downpour of rain; and then, with a sudden burst, the wind smote them. It was useless, now, to try to row, for the oars would have been twisted from his hands in a moment; and John took the helm, and told Mary to lie down in the bottom of the boat. He had already turned the boat's head up the lake, the direction in which the storm was traveling. The boat sprang forward, as if it had received a blow, when the gale struck it. John had, more than once, been out on the lake with the fishermen, when sudden storms had come up; and knew what was best to be done. When he had laid in his oars, he had put them so that the blades stood partly up above the bow, and caught the wind somewhat; and he, himself, crouched down in the bottom, with his head below the gunwale and his hand on the tiller; so that the tendency of the boat was to drive straight before the wind. With a strong crew, he knew that he could have rowed obliquely towards the shore but, alone, his strength could have done nothing to keep the heavy boat off her course. The sea rose, as if by magic, and the spray was soon dashing over them; each wave, as it followed the boat, rising higher and higher. The shores were no longer visible; and the crests of the waves seemed to gleam, with a pallid light, in the darkness which surrounded them. John sat quietly in the bottom of the boat, with one hand on the tiller and the other arm round Mary, who was crouched up against him. She had made no cry, or exclamation, from the moment the gale struck them. Illustration: On the Sea of Galilee. "Are we getting near shore?" she asked, at last. "No, Mary; we are running straight before the wind, which is blowing right up the lake. There is nothing to be done but to keep straight before it." Mary had seen many storms on the lake, and knew into what a fury its waters were lashed, in a tempest such as was now upon them. "We are in God's hands, John," she said, with the quiet resignation of her race. "He can save us, if He will. Let us pray to him." John nodded and, for a few minutes, no word was spoken. "Can I do anything?" Mary asked, presently, as a wave struck the stern, and threw a mass of water into the boat. "Yes," John replied; "take that earthen pot, and bale out the water." John had no great hope that they would live through the gale, but he thought it better for the girl to be kept busily employed. She bailed steadily but, fast as she worked, the water came in faster; for each wave, as it swept past them, broke on board. So rapidly were they traveling that John had the greatest difficulty in keeping the boat from broaching to--in which case the following wave would have filled, or overturned, her. "I don't think it's any use, John," Mary said, quietly, as a great wave broke on board; pouring in as much water, in a second, as she could have baled out in ten minutes. "No use, dear. Sit quietly by me but, first, pull those oars aft. Now, tie them together with that piece of rope. Now, when the boat goes down, keep tight hold of them. "Cut off another piece of rope, and give it me. When we are in the water, I will fasten you to the oars. They will keep you afloat, easily enough. I will keep close to you. You know I am a good swimmer and, whenever I feel tired, I can rest my hands on the oars, too. "Keep up your courage, and keep as quiet as you can. These sudden storms seldom last long; and my father will be sure to get the boats out, as soon as he can, to look for us." John spoke cheerfully, but he had no great hopes of their being able to live in so rough a sea. Mary had still less, but she quietly carried out John's instructions. The boat was half-full of water, now, and rose but heavily upon the waves. John raised himself and looked round; in hopes that the wind might, unnoticed, have shifted a little and blown them towards the shore. As he glanced around, him he gave a shout. Following almost in their track, and some fifty yards away, was a large galley; running before the wind, with a rag of sail set on its mast. "We are saved, Mary!" he exclaimed. "Here is a galley, close to us." He shouted loudly, though he knew that his voice could not be heard, many yards away, in the teeth of the gale but, almost directly, he saw two or three men stand up in the bow of the galley. One was pointing towards them, and he saw that they were seen. In another minute the galley came sweeping along, close to the boat. A dozen figures appeared over her side, and two or three ropes were thrown. John caught one, twisted it rapidly round Mary's body and his own, knotted it and, taking her in his arms, jumped overboard. Another minute they were drawn alongside the galley, and pulled on board. As soon as the ropes were unfastened, John rose to his feet; but Mary lay, insensible, on the deck. "Carry the damsel into the cabin," a man, who was evidently in authority said. "She has fainted, but will soon come round. I will see to her, myself." The suddenness of the rescue, the plunge in the water, and the sudden revulsion of his feelings affected John so much that it was two or three minutes before he could speak. "Come along with me, lad," one of the sailors said, laying his hand on his shoulder. "Some dry clothes, and a draught of wine will set you all right again; but you have had a narrow escape of it. That boat of yours was pretty nearly water logged and, in another five minutes, we should have been too late." John hastily changed his clothes in the forecastle, took a draught of wine, and then hurried back again towards the aft cabin. Just as he reached it, the man who had ordered Mary to be carried in came out. "The damsel has opened her eyes," he said, "and you need not be uneasy about her. I have given her some woolen cloths, and bade her take off her wet garments, and wrap herself in them. "Why did you not make for the shore, before the tempest broke? It was foolish of you, indeed, to be out on the lake, when anyone could see that this gale was coming." "I was rowing down, and did not notice it until I turned," John replied. "I was making for the shore, when the gale struck her." "It was well, for you, that I noticed you. I was, myself, thinking of making for the shore although, in so large and well-manned craft as this, there is little fear upon the lake. It is not like the Great Sea; where I, myself, have seen a large ship as helpless, before the waves, as that small boat we picked you from. "I had just set out from Tiberias, when I marked the storm coming up; but my business was urgent and, moreover, I marked your little boat, and saw that you were not likely to gain the shore; so I bade the helmsman keep his eye on you, until the darkness fell upon us; and then to follow straight in your wake, for you could but run before the wind--and well he did it for, when we first caught sight of you, you were right ahead of us." The speaker was a man of about thirty years of age; tall, and with a certain air of command. "I thank you, indeed, sir," John said, "for saving my life; and that of my cousin Mary, the daughter of my father's brother. Truly, my father and mother will be grateful to you, for having saved us; for I am their only son. "Whom are they to thank for our rescue?" "I am Joseph, the son of Matthias, to whom the Jews have intrusted the governorship of this province." "Josephus!" John exclaimed, in a tone of surprise and reverence. "So men call me," Josephus replied, with a smile. It was, indeed, the governor. Flavius Josephus, as the Romans afterwards called him, came of a noble Jewish family--his father, Matthias, belonging to the highest of the twenty-four classes into which the sacerdotal families were divided. Matthias was eminent for his attainments, and piety; and had been one of the leading men in Jerusalem. From his youth, Josephus had carefully prepared himself for public life, mastering the doctrines of the three leading sects among the Jews--the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes--and having spent three years in the desert, with Banus the Ascetic. The fact that, at only twenty-six years of age, he had gone as the leader of a deputation to Rome, on behalf of some priests sent there by Felix, shows that he was early looked upon as a conspicuous person among the Jews; and he was but thirty when he was intrusted with the important position of Governor of Galilee. Contrary to the custom of the times, he had sought to make no gain from his position. He accepted neither presents, nor bribes; but devoted himself entirely to ameliorating the condition of the people, and in repressing the turbulence of the lower classes of the great towns; and of the robber chieftains who, like John of Gischala, took advantage of the relaxation of authority, caused by the successful rising against the Romans, to plunder and tyrannize over the people. The expression of the face of Josephus was lofty and, at the same time, gentle. His temper was singularly equable and, whatever the circumstances, he never gave way to anger, but kept his passions well under control. His address was soft and winning, and he had the art of attracting respect and friendship from all who came in contact with him. Poppaea, the wife of Nero, had received him with much favor and, bravely as he fought against them, Vespasian and Titus were, afterwards, as much attached to him as were the Jews of Galilee. There can be no doubt that, had he been otherwise placed than as one of a people on the verge of destruction, Josephus would have been one of the great figures of history. John had been accustomed to hear his father and his friends speak in tones of such admiration for Josephus, as the man who was regarded not only as the benefactor of the Jews of Galilee, but as the leader and mainstay of the nation, that he had long ardently desired to see him; and to find that he had now been rescued from death by him, and that he was now talking to him face to face, filled him with confusion. "You are a brave lad," Josephus said, "for you kept your head well, in a time when older men might have lost their presence of mind. You must have kept your boat dead before the wind; and you were quick and ready, in seizing the rope and knotting it round yourself, and the maid with you. I feared you might try and fasten it to the boat. If you had, full of water as she was, and fast as we were sailing before the wind, the rope would barely have stood the strain." "The clouds are breaking," the captain of the boat said, coming up to Josephus, "and I think that we are past the worst of the gale. And well it is so for, even in so staunch a craft, there is much peril in such a sea as this." The vessel, although one of the largest on the lake, was indeed pitching and rolling very heavily; but she was light and buoyant and, each time that she plunged bows under, as the following waves lifted her stern high in the air, she rose lightly again; and scarce a drop fell into her deep waist, the lofty erections, fore and aft, throwing off the water. "Where do you belong, my lad?" Josephus asked. "I fear that it is impossible for us to put you ashore, until we reach Capernaum; but once there, I will see that you are provided with means to take you home." "Our farm lies three miles above Hippos." "That is unfortunate," Josephus said, "since it lies on the opposite side of the lake to Capernaum. However, we shall see. If the storm goes down rapidly, I may be able to get a fishing boat to take you across, this evening; for your parents will be in sore trouble. If not, you must wait till early morning." In another hour they reached Capernaum. The wind had, by this time, greatly abated; although the sea still ran high. The ship was soon alongside a landing jetty, which ran out a considerable distance, and formed a breakwater protecting the shipping from the heavy sea which broke there when the wind was, as at present, from the south. Mary came out from the cabin, as the vessel entered the harbor, wrapped up from head to foot in the woolen cloths with which she had been furnished. John sprang to her side. "Are you quite well, Mary?" "Quite well," she said, "only very ashamed of having fainted, and very uncomfortable in these wrappings. But, oh! John, how thankful we ought to be, to God, for having sent this ship to our aid, just when all seemed lost!" "We ought, indeed, Mary. I have been thanking him, as I have been standing here watching the waves; and I am sure you have been doing the same, in the cabin." "Yes, indeed, John. But what am I to do, now? I do not like going on shore like this, and the officer told me I was, on no account, to put on my wet clothes." "Do you know, it is Josephus himself, Mary--think of that--the great Josephus, who has saved us! He marked our boat before the storm broke and, seeing that we could not reach the shore, had his vessel steered so as to overtake us." Mary was too surprised to utter more than an exclamation. The thought that the man, who had been talking so kindly and pleasantly to her, was the great leader of whom she had heard so much, quite took away her breath. At that moment Josephus, himself, came up. "I am glad to see you have got your color again, maiden," he said. "I am just going to land. Do you, with your cousin, remain on board here. I will send a woman down, with some attire for you. She will conduct you both to the house where I shall be staying. "The sea is going down, and the captain tells me that he thinks, in another three or four hours, I shall be able to get a boat to send you across to your home. It will be late, but you will not mind that; for they are sure not to retire to rest, at home, but to be up all night, searching for you." A crowd had assembled on the jetty, for Josephus was expected, and the violent storm had excited the fears of all for his safety; and the leading inhabitants had all flocked down to welcome him, when his vessel was seen approaching. "Isn't he kind and good?" Mary said, enthusiastically, as she watched the greeting which he received, as he landed. "He talked to me, just as if he had been of my own family." "He is grand!" John agreed, with equal enthusiasm. "He is just what I pictured to myself that a great leader would be; such as Joshua, or Gideon, or the Prince of the Maccabees." "Yes; but more gentle, John." "Brave men should always be gentle," John said, positively. "They ought to be, perhaps," Mary agreed, "but I don't think they are." They chatted, then, about the storm and the anxiety which they would be feeling, at home; until an officer, accompanied by a woman carrying attire for Mary, came on board. Mary soon came out of the cabin, dressed; and the officer conducted them to the house which had been placed at the disposal of Josephus. The woman led them up to a room, where a meal had been prepared for them. "Josephus is in council, with the elders," she said. "He bade me see that you had all that you required. He has arranged that a bark shall start with you, as soon as the sea goes down; but if, by eight o'clock, it is still too rough, I shall take the maiden home to my house, to sleep; and they will arouse you, as soon as it is safe to put out, whatever the hour may be, as your friends will be in great anxiety concerning you." The sun had already set and, just as they finished their meal, the man belonging to the boat came to say that it would be midnight before he could put out. Mary then went over with the woman; and John lay down on some mats, to sleep, until it was time to start. He slept soundly, until he was aroused by the entry of someone, with lights. He started to his feet, and found that it was Josephus, himself, with an attendant. "I had not forgotten you," he said, "but I have been, until now, in council. It is close upon midnight, and the boat is in readiness. I have sent to fetch the damsel, and have bidden them take plenty of warm wraps, so that the night air may do her no harm." Mary soon arrived; and Josephus, himself, went down with them to the shore, and saw them on board the boat--which was a large one, with eight rowers. The wind had died away to a gentle breeze, and the sea had gone down greatly. The moon was up, and the stars shining brightly. Josephus chatted kindly to John, as they made their way down to the shore. "Tell your father," he said, "that I hope he will come over to see me, ere long; and that I shall bear you in mind. The time is coming when every Jew who can bear arms will be needed in the service of his country and, if your father consents, I will place you near my person; for I have seen that you are brave and cool, in danger, and you will have plenty of opportunities of winning advancement." With many thanks for his kindness, John and Mary took their places in the stern of the boat. Mary enveloped herself in the wraps that had been prepared for her, for the nights were chilly. Then the sail was hoisted, and the boat sailed away from the land. The wind had shifted round, somewhat, to the west, and they were able to lay their course across towards Hippos; but their progress was slow, and the master bade the crew get out their oars, and aid the sail. In three hours they neared the land, John pointing out the exact position of the village; which was plainly enough marked out, by a great fire blazing on the shore. As they approached it, they could see several figures and, presently, there came a shout, which John recognized as that of Isaac. "Any news?" "Here we are, Isaac, safe and well." There was a confused sound, of shouts and cries of pleasure. In a few minutes, the boat grated on the shallow shore. The moment she did so, John leaped out over the bow and waded ashore, and was at once clasped in his mother's arms; while one of the fishermen carried Mary to the land. She received, from Martha, a full share of her caresses; for she loved the girl almost as dearly as she did her son. Then Miriam and the maids embraced and kissed her, while Isaac folded John in his arms. "The God of Israel be thanked and praised, my children!" Martha exclaimed. "He has brought you back to us, as from the dead, for we never thought to see you again. Some of the fishermen returned, and told us that they saw your boat, far on the lake, before the storm burst; and none held out hope that you could have weathered such a storm." "Where is father?" John asked. "He is out on the lake, as are all the fishermen of the village, searching for you. "That reminds me, Isaac, set fire to the other piles of wood that we have prepared. "If one of the boats returned, with any sure news of you, we were to light them to call the others back--one fire if the news was bad, two if it was good--but we hardly even dared to hope that the second would be required." A brand from the fire was soon applied to the other piles, and the three fires shone out across the lake, with the good news. In a quarter of an hour a boat was seen approaching, and soon came a shout: "Is all well?" "All is well," John shouted, in reply, and soon he was clasped in his father's arms. The other boats came in, one by one; the last to arrive towing in the boat--which had been found, bottom upwards, far up the lake, its discovery destroying the last hope of its late occupants being found alive. As soon as Simon landed, the party returned to the house. Miriam and the maids hurried to prepare a meal--of which all were sorely in need, for no food had been eaten since the gale burst on the lake; while their three hours in the boat had again sharpened the appetite of John and Mary. A quantity of food was cooked, and a skin of old wine brought up from the cellar; and Isaac remained down on the shore, to bid all who had been engaged in the search come up and feast, as soon as they landed. John related to his parents the adventure which had befallen them, and they wondered greatly at the narrowness of their deliverance. When the feasting was over, Simon called all together, and solemnly returned thanks to God for the mercies which He had given them. It was broad daylight before all sought their beds, for a few hours, before beginning the work of the day. A week later Josephus himself came to Hippos, bringing with him two nobles, who had fled from King Agrippa and sought refuge with him. He had received them hospitably, and had allotted a home to them at Tarichea, where he principally dwelt. He had, just before, had another narrow escape, for six hundred armed men--robbers and others--had assembled round his house, charging him with keeping some spoils which had been taken, by a party of men of that town, from the wife of Ptolemy--King Agrippa's procurator--instead of dividing them among the people. For a time, he pacified them by telling them that this money was destined for strengthening the walls of their town, and for walling other towns at present undefended; but the leaders of the evildoers were determined to set his house on fire, and slay him. He had but twenty armed men with him. Closing the doors, he went to an upper room, and told the robbers to send in one of their number to receive the money. Directly he entered, the door was closed. One of his hands was cut off, and hung round his neck; and he was then turned out again. Believing that Josephus would not have ventured to act so boldly, had he not had a large body of armed men with him, the crowd were seized with panic and fled to their homes. After this, the enemies of Josephus persuaded the people that the nobles he had sheltered were wizards; and demanded that they should be given up to be slain, unless they would change their religion to that of the Jews. Josephus tried to argue them out of their belief, saying that there were no such things as wizards and, if the Romans had wizards who could work them wrong, they would not need to send an army to fight against them; but as the people still clamored, he got the men privately on board a ship, and sailed across the lake with them to Hippos; where he dismissed them, with many presents. As soon as the news came that Josephus had come to Hippos, Simon set out with Martha, John, and Mary, to see him. Josephus received them kindly, and would permit no thanks for what he had done. "Your son is a brave youth," he said to Simon, "and I would gladly have him near me, if you would like to have it so. This is a time when there are greater things than planting vineyards, and gathering in harvests, to be done; and there is a need for brave and faithful men. If, then, you and your wife will give the lad to me, I will see to him, and keep him near me. I have need of faithful men with me, for my enemies are ever trying to slay me. If all goes well with the lad, he will have a good opportunity of rising to honor. "What say you? Do not give an answer hastily, but think it over among yourselves and, if you agree to my proposal, send him across the lake to me." "It needs no thought, sir," Simon said. "I know well that there are more urgent things, now, than sowing and reaping; and that much trouble and peril threaten the land. Right glad am I that my son should serve one who is the hope of Israel, and his mother will not grudge him for such service. As to advancement, I wish nothing better than that he should till the land of his fathers; but none can say what the Lord has in store for us, or whether strangers may not reap what I have sown. Thus, then, the wisdom which he will gain, in being with you, is likely to be a far better inheritance than any I can give him. "What say you, Martha?" "I say as you do, Simon. It will grieve me to part with him, but I know that such an offer as that which my lord Josephus makes is greatly for his good. Moreover, the manner in which he was saved from death seems to show that the Lord has something for his hand to do, and that his path is specially marked out for him. To refuse to let him go would be to commit the sin of withstanding God-- "Therefore, my lord, I willingly give up my son to follow you." "I think that you have decided wisely," Josephus said. "I tarry here, for tonight, and tomorrow cross to Tiberias; therefore, let him be here by noon." Mary was the most silent of the party, on the way home. Simon and his wife felt convinced the decision they had made was a wise one and, although they were not ambitious, they yet felt that the offer of Josephus was a most advantageous one, and opened a career of honor to their son. John, himself, was in a state of the highest delight. To be about the person of Josephus seemed, to him, the greatest honor and happiness. It opened the way to the performance of great actions, which would bring honor to his father's name; and although he had been, hitherto, prepared to settle down to the life of a cultivator of the soil, he had had his yearnings for one of more excitement and adventure; and these were now likely to be gratified, to the fullest. Mary, however, felt the approaching loss of her friend and playmate greatly, though even she was not insensible to the honor which the offer of Josephus conferred upon him. "You don't seem glad of my good fortune, Mary," John said as, after they returned home, they strolled together, as usual, down to the edge of the lake. "It may be your good fortune, but it's not mine," the girl said, pettishly. "It will be very dull here, without you. I know what it will be. Your mother will always be full of anxiety, and will be fretting whenever we get news of any disturbances; and that is often enough, for there seem to be disturbances, continually. Your father will go about silently, Miriam will be sharper than usual with the maids, and everything will go wrong. I can't see why you couldn't have said that, in a year or two, you would go with the governor; but that, at present, you thought you had better stop with your own people." "A nice milksop he would have thought me!" John laughed. "No, if he thought I was man enough to do him service, it would have been a nice thing for me to say that I thought I was too young. "Besides, Mary, after all it is your good fortune, as well as mine; for is it not settled that you are to share it? Josephus is all powerful and, if I please him and do my duty, he can, in time, raise me to a position of great honor. I may even come to be the governor of a town, or a captain over troops, or a councilor." "No, no!" Mary laughed, "not a councilor, John. A governor, perhaps; and a captain, perhaps; but never, I should say, a councilor." John laughed good temperedly. "Well, Mary, then you shall look forward to be the wife of a governor, or captain; but you see, I might even fill the place of a councilor with credit, because I could always come to you for advice before, I give an opinion--then I should be sure to be right. "But, seriously, Mary, I do think it great honor to have had such an offer made me, by the governor." "Seriously, so do I, John; though I wish, in my heart, he had not made it. I had looked forward to living here, all my life, just as your mother has done; and now there will be nothing fixed to look forward to. "Besides, where there is honor, there is danger. There seem to be always tumults, always conspiracies--and then, as your father says, above all there are the Romans to be reckoned with and, of course, if you are near Josephus you run a risk, going wherever he does." "I shall never be in greater risk, Mary, than we were, together, on the lake the other day. God helped us, then, and brought us through it; and I have faith that He will do so, again. It may be that I am meant to do something useful, before I die. At any rate, when the Romans come, everyone will have to fight; so I shall be in no greater danger than any one else." "I know, John, and I am not speaking quite in earnest. I am sorry you are going--that is only natural--but I am proud that you are to be near our great leader, and I believe that our God will be your shield and protector. "And now, we had better go in. Your father will, doubtless, have much to say to you, this evening; and your mother will grudge every minute you are out of her sight." Chapter 3: The Revolt Against Rome. That evening the Rabbi Solomon Ben Manasseh came in, and was informed of the offer which Josephus had made. "You were present, rabbi," Simon said, "at the events which took place in Jerusalem, and at the defeat of Cestius. John has been asking me to tell him more about these matters for, now that he is to be with the governor, it is well that he should be well acquainted with public affairs." "I will willingly tell him the history for, as you say, it is right that the young man should be well acquainted with the public events and the state of parties and, though the story must be somewhat long, I will try and not make it tedious. "The first tumult broke out in Caesarea, and began by frays between our people and the Syrian Greeks. Felix the governor took the part of the Greeks; and many of our people were killed, and more plundered. When Felix was recalled to Rome, we sent a deputation there with charges against him; but the Greeks, by means of bribery, obtained a decree against us, depriving the Jews of Caesarea of rights of equal citizenship. From this constant troubles arose but, outside Caesarea, Festus kept all quiet; putting down robbers, as well as impostors who led the people astray. "Then there came trouble in Jerusalem. King Agrippa's palace stood on Mount Zion, looking towards the Temple; and he built a lofty story, from whose platform he could command a view of the courts of the Temple, and watch the sacrifices. Our people resented this impious intrusion, and built a high wall to cut off the view. Agrippa demanded its destruction, on the ground that it intercepted the view of the Roman guard. We appealed to Nero, and sent to him a deputation; headed by Ismael, the high priest, and Hilkiah, the treasurer. They obtained an order for the wall to be allowed to stand, but Ismael and Hilkiah were detained at Rome. Agrippa thereupon appointed another high priest--Joseph--but, soon afterwards, nominated Annas in his place. "When Festus--the Roman governor--was away, Annas put to death many of the sect called Christians, to gratify the Sadducees. The people were indignant, for these men had done no harm; and Agrippa deprived him of the priesthood and appointed Jesus, son of Damnai. Then, unhappily, Festus--who was a just and good governor--died, and Albinus succeeded him. He was a man greedy of money, and ready to do anything for gain. He took bribes from robbers, and encouraged, rather than repressed, evil doers. There was open war, in the streets, between the followers of various chief robbers. Albinus opened the prisons, and filled the city with malefactors; and, at the completion of the works at the Temple, eighteen thousand workmen were discharged, and thus the city was filled with men ready to sell their services to the highest bidders. "Albinus was succeeded by Gessius Florus, who was even worse than Albinus. This man was a great friend of Cestius Gallus, who commanded the Roman troops in Syria; and who, therefore, scoffed at the complaints of the people against Florus. "At this time, strange prodigies appeared in Rome. A sword of fire hung above the city, for a whole year. The inner gate of the Temple--which required twenty men to move it--opened by itself; chariots and armed squadrons were seen in the heavens and, worse than all, the priests in the Temple heard a great movement, and a sound of many voices, which said: "'Let us depart hence!' "So things went on, in Jerusalem, until the old feud at Caesarea broke out afresh. The trouble, this time, began about one of our synagogues. The land around it belonged to a Greek and, for this, our people offered a high price. The heathen who owned it refused and, to annoy us, raised mean houses round the synagogue. The Jewish youths interrupted the workmen; and the wealthier of the community--headed by John, a publican--subscribed eight talents, and sent them to Florus as a bribe, that he might order the building to be stopped. "Florus took the money, and made many promises; but the evil man desired that a revolt should take place, in order that he might gain great plunder. So he went away from Caesarea, and did nothing; and a great tumult arose between the heathen and our people. In this we were worsted, and went away from the city; while John, with twelve of the highest rank, went to Samaria to lay the matter before Florus; who threw them into prison--doubtless the more to excite the people--and at the same time sent to Jerusalem, and demanded seventeen talents from the treasury of the Temple. "The people burst into loud outcries, and Florus advanced upon the city with all his force. But we knew that we could not oppose the Romans; and so received Florus, on his arrival, with acclamations. But this did not suit the tyrant. The next morning he ordered his troops to plunder the upper market, and to put to death all they met. The soldiers obeyed, and slew three thousand six hundred men, women, and children. "You may imagine, John, the feelings of grief and rage which filled every heart. The next day the multitude assembled in the marketplace, wailing for the dead and cursing Florus. But the principal men of the city, with the priests, tore their robes and went among them, praying them to disperse and not to provoke the anger of the governor. The people obeyed their voices, and went quietly home. "But Florus was not content that matters should end so. He sent for the priests and leaders, and commanded them to go forth and receive, with acclamations of welcome, two cohorts of troops who were advancing from Caesarea. The priests called the people together in the Temple and, with difficulty, persuaded them to obey the order. The troops, having orders from Florus, fell upon the people and trampled them down and, driving the multitude before them, entered the city; and at the same time Florus sallied out from his palace, with his troops, and both parties pressed forward to gain the Castle of Antonia, whose possession would lay the Temple open to them, and enable Florus to gain the sacred treasures deposited there. "But, as soon as the people perceived their object, they ran together in such vast crowds that the Roman soldiers could not cut their way through the mass which blocked up the streets; while the more active men, going up on to the roofs, hurled down stones and missiles upon the troops. "What a scene was that, John! I was on the portico near Antonia, and saw it all. It was terrible to hear the shouts of the soldiers, as they strove to hew their way through the defenseless people; the war cries of our own youths, the shrieks and wailings of the women. While the Romans were still striving, our people broke down the galleries connecting Antonia with the Temple; and Florus, seeing that he could not carry out his object, ordered his troops to retire to their quarters and, calling the chief priests and the rulers, proposed to leave the city, leaving behind him one cohort to preserve the peace. "As soon as he had done so, he sent to Cestius Gallus lying accounts of the tumults, laying all the blame upon us; while we and Bernice, the sister of King Agrippa--who had tried, in vain, to obtain mercy for the people from Florus--sent complaints against him. Cestius was moving to Jerusalem--to inquire into the matter, as he said, but really to restore Florus--when, fortunately, King Agrippa arrived from Egypt. "While he was yet seven miles from the city, a procession of the people met him, headed by the women whose husbands had been slain. These, with cries and wailings, called on Agrippa for protection; and related to a centurion, whom Cestius had sent forward, and who met Agrippa on the way, the cruelty of Florus. When the king and the centurion arrived in the city, they were taken to the marketplace and shown the houses where the inhabitants had been massacred. "Agrippa called the people together and, taking his seat on a lofty dais, with Bernice by his side, harangued them. He assured them that, when the emperor heard what had been done, he would send a better governor to them, in the place of Florus. He told them that it was vain to hope for independence, for that the Romans had conquered all the nations in the world; and that the Jews could not contend against them, and that war would bring about the destruction of the city, and the Temple. The people exclaimed they had taken up arms, not against the Romans, but against Florus. "Agrippa urged us to pay our tribute, and repair the galleries. This was willingly done. We sent out leading men to collect the arrears of tribute, and these soon brought in forty talents. All was going on well, until Agrippa tried to persuade us to receive Florus, till the emperor should send another governor. At the thought of the return of Florus, a mad rage seized the people. They poured abuse upon Agrippa, threw stones at him, and ordered him to leave the city. This he did, and retired to his own kingdom. "The upper class, and all those who possessed wisdom enough to know how great was the power of Rome, still strove for peace. But the people were beyond control. They seized the fortress of Masada--a very strong place near the Dead Sea--and put the Roman garrison to the sword. But what was even worse, Eleazar--son of Ananias, the chief priest--persuaded the priests to reject the offerings regularly made, in the name of the emperor, to the God of the Hebrews; and to make a regulation that, from that time, no foreigner should be allowed to sacrifice in the Temple. "The chief priests, with the heads of the Pharisees, addressed the people in the quadrangle of the Temple, before the eastern gate. I, myself, was one of those who spoke. We told them that the Temple had long benefited by the splendid gifts of strangers; and that it was not only inhospitable, but impious, to preclude them from offering victims, and worshiping God, there. We, who were learned in the law, showed them that it was an ancient and immemorial usage to receive the offerings of strangers; and that this refusal to accept the Roman gifts was nothing short of a declaration of war. "But all we could do, or say, availed nothing. The influence of Eleazar was too great. A madness had seized the people, and they rejected all our words; but the party of peace made one more effort. They sent a deputation--headed by Simon, son of Ananias--to Florus, and another to Agrippa, praying them to march upon Jerusalem, and reassert their authority, before it was too late. Florus made no reply, for things were going just as he wished; but Agrippa, anxious to preserve the city, sent three thousand horsemen, commanded by Darius and Philip. When these troops arrived, the party of peace took possession of the upper city; while Eleazar and the war party held the Temple. "For a week, fighting went on between the two parties. Then, at the festival of the Wood Carrying, great numbers of the poorer people were allowed by the party of the chief priest to pass through their lines; and go, as usual, to the Temple. When there, these joined the party of Eleazar, and a great attack was made on the upper city. The troops of Darius and Philip gave way. The house of Ananias--the high priest--and the palaces of Agrippa and Bernice were burned, and also the public archives. Here all the bonds of the debtors were registered and, thus, at one blow the power of the rich over the poor was destroyed. Ananias himself, and a few others, escaped into the upper towers of the palace, which they held. "The next day, Eleazar's party attacked the fortress of Antonia, which was feebly garrisoned and, after two days' fighting, captured it, and slew the garrison. Manahem, the son of Judas the Zealot, arrived two days later, while the people were besieging the palace. He was accepted as general, by them; and took charge of the siege. Having mined under one of the towers, they brought it to the ground, and the garrison asked for terms. Free passage was granted to the troops of Agrippa, and the Jews; but none was granted to the Roman soldiers, who were few in number and retreated to the three great towers, Hippicus, Phasaelus, and Mariamne. "The palace was entered, and Ananias and Hezekiah--his brother--were found in hiding, and put to death. Manahem now assumed the state of a king; but Eleazar, unwilling that, after having led the enterprise, the fruits should be gathered by another, stirred up the people against him, and he was slain. The three towers were now besieged; and Metilius--the Roman commander--finding he could no longer hold out, agreed to surrender, on the condition that his men should deliver up their arms, and be allowed to march away, unharmed. "The terms were accepted and ratified but, as soon as the Roman soldiers marched out, and laid down their arms, Eleazar and his followers fell upon them and slew them; Metilius himself being, alone, spared. After this terrible massacre, a sadness fell on the city. All felt that there was no longer any hope of making conditions with Rome. We had placed ourselves beyond the pale of forgiveness. It was war, to the death, with Rome. "Up to this time, as I have told you, I was one of those who had labored to maintain peace. I had fought in the palace, by the side of Ananias; and had left it only when the troops, and we of their party, were permitted to march out when it surrendered. But, from this time, I took another part. All hope of peace, of concessions, or of conditions was at an end. There remained nothing now but to fight and, as the vengeance of Rome would fall on the whole Jewish people, it was for the whole Jewish people to unite in the struggle for existence. "On the very day and hour in which the Romans were put to death, retribution began to fall upon the nation; for the Greeks of Caesarea rose suddenly, and massacred the Jews. Twenty thousand were slain, in a single day. The news of these two massacres drove the whole people to madness. They rose throughout the land, laid waste the country all round the cities of Syria--Philadelphia, Sebonitis, Gerasa, Pella, and Scythopolis--and burned and destroyed many places. "The Syrians, in turn, fell upon the Jewish inhabitants of all their towns; and a frightful carnage, everywhere, took place. Then, our people made an inroad into the domains of Scythopolis but, though the Jewish inhabitants there joined the Syrians in defending their territory, the Syrians doubted their fidelity and, falling upon them in the night, slew them all, and seized their property. Thirteen thousand perished here. In many other cities, the same things were done; in Ascalon, two thousand five hundred were put to the sword; in Ptolemais, two thousand were killed. The land was deluged with blood, and despair fell upon all. "Even in Alexandria, our countrymen suffered. Breaking out into a quarrel with the Greeks, a tumult arose; and Tiberias Alexander, the governor--by faith a Jew--tried to pacify matters; but the madness which had seized the people, here, had fallen also upon the Jews of Alexandria. They heaped abuse upon Alexander, who was forced to send the troops against them. The Jews fought, but vainly; and fifty thousand men, women, and children fell. "While blood was flowing over the land, Cestius Gallus--the prefect--was preparing for invasion. He had with him the Twelfth Legion, forty-two hundred strong; two thousand picked men, taken from the other legions; six cohorts of foot, about twenty-five hundred; and four troops of horse, twelve hundred. Of allies he had, from Antiochus, two thousand horse and three thousand foot; from Agrippa, one thousand horse and three thousand foot; Sohemus joined him with four thousand men--a third of whom were horse, the rest archers. Thus he had ten thousand Roman troops, and thirteen thousand allies; besides many volunteers, who joined him from the Syrian cities. "After burning and pillaging Zebulon, and wasting the district, Cestius returned to Ptolemais, and then advanced to Caesarea. He sent forward a part of his army to Joppa. The city was open, and no resistance was offered; nevertheless, the Romans slew all, to the number of eight thousand five hundred. The cities of Galilee opened their gates, without resistance, and Cestius advanced against Jerusalem. "When he arrived within six miles of the town, the Jews poured out; and fell upon them with such fury that, if the horse and light troops had not made a circuit, and fallen upon us in the rear, I believe we should have destroyed the whole army. But we were forced to fall back, having killed over five hundred. As the Romans moved forward, Simon--son of Gioras--with a band, pressed them closely in rear; and slew many, and carried off numbers of their beasts of burden. "Agrippa now tried, once more, to make peace, and sent a deputation to persuade us to surrender--offering, in the name of Cestius, pardon for all that had passed--but Eleazar's party, fearing the people might listen to him, fell upon the deputation, slew some, and drove the others back. "Cestius advanced within a mile of Jerusalem and--after waiting three days, in hopes that the Jews would surrender, and knowing that many of the chief persons were friendly to him--he advanced to the attack, took the suburb of Bezetha, and encamped opposite the palace in the upper city. The people discovered that Ananias and his friends had agreed to open the gates; and so slew them, and threw the bodies over the wall. The Romans for five days attacked and, on the sixth, Cestius, with the flower of his army made an assault; but the people fought bravely and, disregarding the flights of arrows which the archers shot against them, held the walls, and poured missiles of all kinds upon the enemy; until at last, just as it seemed to all that the Romans would succeed in mining the walls, and firing the gates, Cestius called off his troops. "Had he not done so, he would speedily have taken the city; for the peace party were on the point of seizing one of the gates, and opening it. I no longer belonged to this party; for it seemed to me that it was altogether too late, now, to make terms; nor could we expect that the Romans would keep to their conditions, after we had set them the example of breaking faith. "Cestius fell back to his camp, a mile distant, but he had no rest there. Exultant at seeing a retreat from their walls, all the people poured out, and fell upon the Romans with fury. "The next morning Cestius began to retreat; but we swarmed around him, pressing upon his rear, and dashing down from the hills upon his flanks, giving him no rest. The heavy-armed Romans could do nothing against us; but marched steadily on--leaving numbers of dead behind them--till they reached their former camp at Gabao, six miles away. Here Cestius waited two days but, seeing how the hills around him swarmed with our people, who flocked in from all quarters, he gave the word for a further retreat; killing all the beasts of burden, and leaving all the baggage behind, and taking on only those animals which bore the arrows and engines of war. Then he marched down the valley, towards Bethoron. "The multitude felt now that their enemy was delivered into their hands. Was it not in Bethoron that Joshua had defeated the Canaanites, while the sun stayed his course? Was it not here that Judas, the Maccabean, had routed the host of Nicanor? As soon as the Romans entered the defile, the Jews rushed down upon them, sure of their prey. "The Roman horse were powerless to act. The men of the legions could not climb the rocky sides and, from every point, javelins, stones, and arrows were poured down upon them; and all would have been slain, had not night come on and hidden them from us, and enabled them to reach Bethoron. "What rejoicings were there not, on the hills that night, as we looked down on their camp there; and thought that, in the morning, they would be ours! Fires burned on every crest. Hymns of praise, and exulting cries, arose everywhere in the darkness; but the watch was not kept strictly enough. Cestius left four hundred of his bravest men to mount guard, and keep the fires alight--so that we might think that all his army was there--and then, with the rest, he stole away. "In the morning, we saw that the camp was well-nigh deserted and, furious at the escape of our foes, rushed down, slew the four hundred whom Cestius had left behind, and then set out in pursuit. But Cestius had many hours' start and, though we followed as far as Antipatris, we could not overtake him; and so returned, with much rich spoil, and all the Roman engines of war, to Jerusalem--having, with scarcely any loss, defeated a great Roman army, and slain five thousand three hundred foot, and three hundred and eighty horse. "Such is the history of events which have brought about the present state of things. As you see, there is no hope of pardon, or mercy, from Rome. We have offended beyond forgiveness. But the madness against which I fought so hard, at first, is still upon the people. They provoked the power of Rome; and then, by breaking the terms, and massacring the Roman garrison, they went far beyond the first offense of insurrection. By the destruction of the army of Cestius, they struck a heavy blow against the pride of the Romans. For generations, no such misfortune had fallen upon their arms. "What, then, would a sane people have done since? Surely they would have spent every moment in preparing themselves for the struggle. Every man should have been called to arms. The passes should have been all fortified, for it is among the hills that we can best cope with the heavy Roman troops. The cities best calculated for defense should have been strongly walled; preparations made for places of refuge, among the mountains, for the women and children; large depots of provisions gathered up, in readiness for the strife. That we could ever, in the long run, hope to resist, successfully, the might of Rome was out of the question; but we might so sternly, and valiantly, have resisted as to be able to obtain fair terms, on our submission. "Instead of this, men go on as if Rome had no existence; and we only show an energy in quarreling among ourselves. At bottom, it would seem that the people rely upon our God doing great things for us, as he did when he smote the Assyrian army of Sennacherib; and such is my hope, also, seeing that, so far, a wonderful success has attended us. And yet, how can one expect the Divine assistance, in a war so begun and so conducted--for a people who turn their swords against each other, who spend their strength in civil feuds, who neither humble themselves, nor repent of the wickedness of their ways? "Alas, my son, though I speak brave words to the people, my heart is very sad; and I fear that troubles, like those which fell upon us when we were carried captive into Babylon, await us now!" There was silence, as the rabbi finished. John had, of course, heard something of the events which had been taking place but, as he now heard them, in sequence, the gravity and danger of the situation came freshly upon him. "What can be done?" he asked, after a long pause. "Nothing, save to pray to the Lord," the rabbi said, sorrowfully. "Josephus is doing what he can, towards building walls to the towns; but it is not walls, but soldiers that are wanted and, so long as the people remain blind and indifferent to the danger, thinking of naught save tilling their ground, and laying up money, nothing can be done." "Then will destruction come upon all?" John asked, looking round in a bewildered and hopeless way. "We may hope not," the rabbi said. "Here in Galilee, we have had no share in the events in Jerusalem; and many towns, even now, are faithful to the Romans. Therefore it may be that, in this province, all will not be involved in the lot of Jerusalem. There can be, unless a mighty change takes place, no general resistance to the Romans; and it may be, therefore, that no general destruction will fall upon the people. As to this, none can say. "Vespasian--the Roman general who has been charged, by Nero, with the command of the army which is gathering against us--is said to be a merciful man, as well as a great commander. The Roman mercies are not tender, but it may be that the very worst may not fall upon this province. The men of spirit and courage will, doubtless, proceed to Jerusalem to share in the defense of the Holy City. If we cannot fight with success, here, it is far better that the men should fight at Jerusalem; leaving their wives and families here, and doing naught to call down the vengeance of the Romans upon this province. "In Galilee there have, as elsewhere, been risings against the Romans; but these will count for little, in their eyes, in comparison to the terrible deeds at Jerusalem; and I pray, for the sake of all my friends here, that the Romans may march through the land, on their way to Jerusalem, without burning and wasting the country. Here, on the eastern shore of Galilee, there is much more hope of escape than there is across the lake. Not only are we out of the line of the march of the army, but there are few important cities on this side; and the disposition of the people has not been so hostile to the Romans. "My own opinion is that, when the Romans advance, it will be the duty of every Jew who can bear arms to go down to the defense of the Holy City. Its position is one of vast strength. We shall have numbers, and courage, though neither order nor discipline; and it may be that, at the last, the Lord will defend his sanctuary, and save it from destruction at the hands of the heathen. Should it not be so, we can but die; and how could a Jew better die than in defense of God's Temple?" "It would have been better," Simon said, "had we not, by our evil doings, have brought God's Temple into danger." "He has suffered it," the rabbi said, "and his ways are not the ways of man. It may be that He has suffered such madness to fall upon, us in order that His name may, at last, be glorified." "May it be so!" Simon said piously; "and now, let us to bed, for the hour is growing late." The following morning Simon, his wife, and the whole household accompanied John to the shore; as Simon had arranged with one of the boatmen to take the lad to Hippos. The distance was but short; but Simon, when his wife had expressed surprise at his sending John in a boat, said: "It is not the distance, Martha. A half-hour's walk is naught to the lad; but I had reasons, altogether apart from the question of distance. John is going out to play a man's part. He is young but, since my lord Josephus has chosen to place him among those who form his bodyguard, he has a right to claim to be regarded as a man. That being so, I would not accompany him to Hippos; for it would seem like one leading a child, and it were best to let him go by himself. "Again, it were better to have but one parting. Here he will receive my blessing, and say goodbye to us all. Doubtless he will often be with us, for Tiberias lies within sight and, so long as Josephus remains in Galilee, he will never be more than a long day's journey from home. The lad loves us, and will come as often as he can but, surrounded as Josephus is by dangers, the boy will not be able to get away on his own business. He must take the duties, as well as the honor of the office; and we must not blind ourselves to the fact that, in one of these popular tumults, great danger and even death may come upon him. "This seems to you terrible," he went on, in answer to an exclamation of alarm from Martha; "but it does not seem so terrible to me. We go on planting, and gathering in, as if no danger threatened us, and the evil day were far off; but it is not so. The Roman hosts are gathering, and we are wasting our strength, in party strife, and are doing naught to prepare against the storm. We have gone to war, without counting the cost. We have affronted and put to shame Rome, before whom all nations bow and, assuredly, she will take a terrible vengeance. Another year, and who can say who will be alive, and who dead--who will be wandering over the wasted fields of our people, or who will be a slave, in Rome! "In the times that are at hand, no man's life will be worth anything; and therefore I say, wife, that though there be danger and peril around the lad, let us not trouble overmuch; for he is, like all of us, in God's hands." Therefore, the parting took place on the shore. Simon solemnly blessed John, and his mother cried over him. Mary was a little surprised at these demonstrations, at what she regarded as a very temporary separation; but her merry spirits were subdued at the sight of her aunt's tears, although she, herself, saw nothing to cry about. She brightened up, however, when John whispered, as he said goodbye to her: "I shall come across the lake, as often as I can, to see how you are getting on, Mary." Then he took his place in the stern of the boat. The fishermen dipped their oars in the water, and the boat drew away from the little group, who stood watching it as it made its way across the sparkling water to Hippos. Upon landing, John at once went to the house where Josephus was lodging. The latter gave him in charge to the leader of the little group of men who had attached themselves to him, as his bodyguard. "Joab," he said, "this youth will, henceforth, make one of your party. He is brave and, I think, ready and quick witted. Give him arms and see that he has all that is needful. Being young, he will be able to mingle unsuspected among the crowds; and may obtain tidings of evil intended me, when men would not speak, maybe, before others whom they might judge my friends. He will be able to bear messages, unsuspected; and may prove of great service to the cause." John found, at once, that there was nothing like discipline, or regular duties, among the little band who constituted the bodyguard of Josephus. They were simply men who, from affection for the governor, and a hatred for those who, by their plots and conspiracies, would undo the good work he was accomplishing, had left their farms and occupations to follow and guard him. Every Jewish boy received a certain training in the use of weapons, in order to be prepared to fight in the national army, when the day of deliverance should arrive; but beyond that, the Jews had no military training, whatever. Their army would be simply a gathering of the men capable of bearing arms, throughout the land--each ready to give his life, for his faith and his country; relying, like their forefathers, on the sword of the Lord and Israel, but without the slightest idea of military drill, discipline, or tactics. Such an army might fight bravely, might die nobly, but it could have little chance of victory over the well-trained legions of imperial Rome. At noon, Josephus embarked in a galley with his little band of followers--eight in number--and sailed across the lake to Tiberias. Here they landed, and went up to the house in which Josephus always dwelt, when in that city. His stay there was generally short, Tarichea being his general abode--for there he felt in safety, the inhabitants being devoted to him; while those of Tiberias were ever ready to follow the advice of the disaffected, and a section were eager for the return of the Romans, and the renewal of the business and trade which had brought wealth to the city, before the troubles began. That evening, Josephus sent for John, and said: "I purpose, in two days, to go to Tarichea, where I shall spend the Sabbath. I hear that there is a rumor that many of the citizens have, privately, sent to King Agrippa asking him to send hither Roman troops, and promising them a good reception. The men with me are known, to many in the city, and would be shunned by my enemies, and so would hear naught of what is going on; therefore, I purpose to leave you here. "In the morning, go early to the house of Samuel, the son of Gideon. He dwells in the street called that of Tarichea, for it leadeth in the direction of that town. He is a tanner, by trade; and you will have no difficulty in finding it. He has been here, this evening, and I have spoken to him about you and, when you present yourself to him, he will take you in. Thus, no one will know that you are of my company. "Pass your time in the streets and, when you see groups of people assemble, join yourself to them and gather what they are saying. If it is ought that is important for me to know, come here and tell me or, if it be after I have departed for Tarichea, bring me the news there. It is but thirty furlongs distant." John followed up the instructions given him, and was hospitably received by Samuel the tanner. In the course of the day, a number of the citizens called upon Josephus and begged him, at once, to set about building walls for the town, as he had already built them for Tarichea. When he assured them that he had already made preparations for doing so, and that the builders should set to work, forthwith, they appeared satisfied; and the city remained perfectly tranquil until Josephus left, the next morning, for Tarichea. Chapter 4: The Lull Before The Storm. The galley which carried Josephus from Tiberias was scarcely out of sight when John, who was standing in the marketplace watching the busy scene with amusement, heard the shout raised: "The Romans are coming!" At once, people left their business, and all ran to the outskirts of the city. John ran with them and, on arriving there, saw a party of Roman horsemen riding along, at no great distance. The people began to shout loudly to them to come into the town, calling out that all the citizens were loyal to King Agrippa and the Romans, and that they hated the traitor Josephus. The Romans halted, but made no sign of entering the town; fearing that treachery was intended, and remembering the fate of their comrades, who had trusted to Jewish faith when they surrendered the towers of Hippicus, Phasaelus, and Mariamne. The movement, however, spread through the city. The people assembled in crowds, shouting "Death to Josephus!" and exclaiming for the Romans, and King Agrippa. Such as were loyal to Josephus did not venture to raise their voices, so numerous and furious were the multitude; and the whole city was soon in open revolt, the citizens arming themselves in readiness for war. As soon as he saw the course which affairs were taking, John made his way out of the town, and ran at the top of his speed to Tarichea, where he arrived in a little over half an hour. He was directed at once to the house of Josephus, who rose in surprise, at the table at which he was seated, writing, at John's entry. "Scarcely had you left, my lord, than some Roman horsemen approached near the town; whereupon the whole city rose in revolt, shouting to them to enter and take possession, in the name of the king, and breathing out threats against yourself. The Romans had not entered, as I came away; but the populace were all in arms, and your friends did not venture to lift up a voice. Tiberias has wholly revolted to the Romans." "This is bad news, indeed," Josephus said, gravely. "I have but the seven armed men who accompanied me from Tiberias, here. All those who were assembled in the city I bade disperse, so soon as I arrived; in order that they might go to their towns, or villages, for the Sabbath. Were I to send round the country, I could speedily get a great force together but, in a few hours, the Sabbath will begin; and it is contrary to the law to fight upon the Sabbath, even though the necessity be great. "And yet, if the people of Tiberias march hither, we can hardly hope to resist successfully; for the men of the town are too few to man the full extent of the walls. It is most necessary to put down this rising, before King Agrippa can send large numbers of troops into Tiberias; and yet, we can do nothing until the Sabbath is past. "Nor would I shed blood, if it can be avoided. Hitherto I have put down every rising, and caused Sepphoris, Tiberias, and other cities to expel the evildoers, and return to obedience, by tact--and by the great force which I could bring against them--and without any need of bloodshed. But this time, I fear, great trouble will come of it; since I cannot take prompt measures, and the enemy will have time to organize their forces, and to receive help from John of Gischala and other robbers--to say nothing of the Romans." Josephus walked up and down the room, in agitation, and then stood looking out into the harbor. "Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, "we may yet frighten them into submission. Call in Joab." When Joab entered Josephus explained to him, in a few words, the condition of things at Tiberias; and then proceeded: "Send quickly to the principal men of the town, and bid them put trusty men at each of the gates, and let none pass out. Order the fighting men to man the walls, in case those of Tiberias should come hither, at once. Then let one or two able fellows embark on board each of the boats and vessels in the port, taking with them two or three of the infirm and aged men. Send a fast galley across to Hippos; and bid the fishermen set out, at once, with all their boats, and join us off Tiberias. We will not approach close enough to the city for the people to see how feebly we are manned but, when they perceive all these ships making towards them, they will think that I have with me a great army, with which I purpose to destroy their city." The orders were very quickly carried out. Josephus embarked, with his eight companions, in one ship and, followed by two hundred and thirty vessels, of various sizes, sailed towards Tiberias. As they approached the town, they saw a great movement among the population. Men and women were seen, crowding down to the shore--the men holding up their hands, to show that they were unarmed; the women wailing, and uttering loud cries of lamentation. Josephus waited for an hour, until the ships from Hippos also came up, and then caused them all to anchor off the town--but at such a distance that the numbers of those on board could not be seen. Then he advanced, in his own ship, to within speaking distance of the land. The people cried out to him to spare the city, and their wives and children; saying that they had been misled by evil men, and regretted bitterly what they had done. Josephus told them that, assuredly, they deserved that the city should be wholly destroyed; for that now, when there was so much that had to be done to prepare for the war which Rome would make against the country, they troubled the country with their seditions. The people set up a doleful cry for mercy; and Josephus then said that, this time, he would spare them; but that their principal men must be handed over to him. To this the people joyfully agreed; and a boat, with ten of their senate, came out to the vessel. Josephus had them bound, and sent them on board one of the other ships. Another and another boat load came off; until all the members of the senate, and many of the principal inhabitants, were prisoners. Some of the men had been drawn from the other ships, and put on board those with the prisoners; and these then sailed away to Tarichea. The people of Tiberias--terrified at seeing so many taken away, and not knowing how many more might be demanded--now denounced a young man, named Clitus, as being the leader of the revolt. Seven of the bodyguard of Josephus had gone down the lake, with the prisoners; and one Levi, alone, remained. Josephus told him to go ashore, and to cut off one of the hands of Clitus. Levi was, however, afraid to land, alone, among such a number of enemies; whereupon Josephus addressed Clitus, and told him that he was worthy of death, but that he would spare his life, if his two hands were sent on board a ship. Clitus begged that he might be permitted to keep one hand, to which Josephus agreed. Clitus then drew his sword, and struck off his left hand. Josephus now professed to be satisfied and, after warning the people against again listening to evil advisers, sailed away with the whole fleet. Josephus, that evening, entertained the principal persons among the prisoners and, in the morning, allowed all to return to Tiberias. The people there had already learned that they had been duped; but with time had come reflection and, knowing that in a day or two Josephus could have assembled the whole population of Galilee against them, and have destroyed them before any help could come, there were few who were not well content that their revolt had been so easily, and bloodlessly, repressed; and Josephus rose, in their estimation, by the quickness and boldness of the stratagem by which he had, without bloodshed save in the punishment of Clitus, restored tranquillity. Through the winter, Josephus was incessantly active. He endeavored to organize an army, enrolled a hundred thousand men, appointed commanders and captains, and strove to establish something like military drill and order. But the people were averse to leaving their farms and occupations, and but little progress was made. Moreover, a great part of the time of Josephus was occupied in suppressing the revolts, which were continually breaking out in Sepphoris, Tiberias, and Gamala; and in thwarting the attempts of John of Gischala, and his other enemies, who strove by means of bribery, at Jerusalem, to have him recalled--and would have succeeded, had it not been that the Galileans, save those of the great cities, were always ready to turn out, in all their force, to defend him and, by sending deputations to Jerusalem, counteracted the efforts, there, of his enemies. John was incessantly engaged, as he accompanied Josephus in his rapid journeys through the province, either to suppress the risings or to see to the work of organization; and only once or twice was he able to pay a short visit to his family. "You look worn and fagged, John," his cousin said, on the occasion of his last visit, when spring was close at hand. "I am well in health, Mary; but it does try one, to see how all the efforts of Josephus are marred by the turbulence of the people of Tiberias and Sepphoris. All his thoughts and time are occupied in keeping order, and the work of organizing the army makes but little progress. "Vespasian is gathering a great force, at Antioch. His son Titus will soon join him, with another legion; and they will, together, advance against us." "But I hear that the walling of the cities is well-nigh finished." "That is so, Mary, and doubtless many of them will be able to make a long defense but, after all, the taking of a city is a mere question of time. The Romans have great siege engines, which nothing can withstand but, even if the walls were so strong that they could not be battered down, each city could, in time, be reduced by famine. It is not for me, who am but a boy, to judge the doings of my elders; but it seems to me that this walling of cities is altogether wrong. They can give no aid to each other and, one by one, must fall; and all within perish, or be made slaves, for the Romans give no quarter when they capture a city by storm. "It seems to me that it would be far better to hold Jerusalem, only, with a strong force of fighting men; and for all the rest of the men capable of carrying arms to gather among the hills, and there to fight the Romans. When the legion of Cestius was destroyed we showed that, among defiles and on rocky ground, our active, lightly-armed men were a match for the Roman soldiers, in their heavy armor; and in this way I think that we might check even the legions of Vespasian. The women and the old men and children could gather in the cities, and admit the Romans when they approached. In that case they would suffer no harm; for the Romans are clement, when not opposed. "As it is, it seems to me that, in the end, destruction will fall on all alike. Here in Galilee we have a leader, but he is hampered by dissensions and jealousies. Samaria stands neutral. Jerusalem, which ought to take the lead, is torn by faction. There is war in her streets. She thinks only of herself, and naught of the country; although she must know that, when the Romans have crushed down all opposition elsewhere she must, sooner or later, fall. The country seems possessed with madness, and I see no hope in the future." "Save in the God of Israel," Mary said, gently; "that is what Simon and Martha say." "Save in him," John assented; "but, dear, He suffered us to be carried away into Babylon; and how are we to expect His aid now--when the people do naught for themselves, when His city is divided in itself, when its streets are wet with blood, and its very altars defiled by conflict? When evil men are made high priests, and all rule and authority is at an end, what right have we to expect aid at the hands of Jehovah? "My greatest comfort, Mary, is that we lie here on the east of the lake, and that we are within the jurisdiction of King Agrippa. On this side, his authority has never been altogether thrown off; though some of the cities have made common cause with those of the other side. Still, we may hope that, on this side of Jordan, we may escape the horrors of war." "You are out of spirits, John, and take a gloomy view of things; but I know that Simon, too, thinks that everything will end badly, and I have heard him say that he, too, is glad that his farm lies on this side of the lake; and that he wishes Gamala had not thrown off the authority of the king, so that there might be naught to bring the Romans across Jordan. "Our mother is more hopeful. She trusts in God for, as she says, though the wealthy and powerful may have forsaken Him, the people still cling to Him; and He will not let us fall into the hands of our enemies." "I hope it will be so, Mary; and I own I am out of spirits, and look at matters in the worst light. However, I will have a talk with father, tonight." That evening, John had a long conversation with Simon, and repeated the forebodings he had expressed to Mary. "At any rate, father, I hope that when the Romans approach you will at least send away my mother, Mary, and the women to a place of safety. We are but a few miles from Gamala and, if the Romans come there and besiege it, they will spread through the country; and will pillage, even if they do not slay, in all the villages. If, as we trust, God will give victory to our arms, they can return in peace; if not, let them at least be free from the dangers which are threatening us." "I have been thinking of it, John. A fortnight since, I sent old Isaac to your mother's brother--whose farm, as you know, lies upon the slopes of Mount Hermon, a few miles from Neve, and very near the boundary of Manasseh--to ask him if he will receive Martha, and Mary, and the women, until the troubles are over. He will gladly do so; and I purpose sending them away, as soon as I hear that the Romans have crossed the frontier." "I am, indeed, rejoiced to hear it, father; but do not let them tarry for that, let them go as soon as the snows have melted on Mount Hermon, for the Roman cavalry will spread quickly over the land. Let them go as soon as the roads are fit for travel. I shall feel a weight off my mind, when I know that they are safe. "And does my mother know what you have decided?" "She knows, John, but in truth she is reluctant to go. She says, at present, that if I stay she also will stay." "I trust, father, that you will overrule my mother; and that you will either go with her or, if you stay, you will insist upon her going. Should you not overcome her opposition, and finally suffer her, with Miriam and the older women, to remain with you, I hope that you will send Mary and the young ones to my uncle. The danger, with them, is vastly greater. The Romans, unless their blood is heated by opposition, may not interfere with the old people--who are valueless as slaves--but the young ones--" and he stopped. "I have thought it over, my son, and even if your mother remains here with me, I will assuredly send off Mary, and the young maidens, to the mountain. Make your mind easy, on that score. We old people have taken root on the land which was our fathers'. I shall not leave, whatever may befall--and it may be that your mother will tarry here, with me--but the young women shall assuredly be sent away, until the danger is over. "Not that I think the peril is as great as it seems, to you. Our people have ever shown themselves courageous, in great danger. They know the fate that awaits them, after provoking the anger of Rome. They know they are fighting for faith, for country, and their families, and will fight desperately. They greatly outnumber the Romans--at least, the army by which we shall first be attacked--and maybe, if we can resist that, we may make terms with Rome for, assuredly, in the long run she must overpower us." "I should think with you, father," John said, shaking his head, "if I saw anything like union among the people; but I lose all heart, when I see how divided they are, how blind to the storm that is coming against us, how careless as to anything but the trouble of the day, how intent upon the work of their farms and businesses, how disinclined to submit to discipline, and to prepare themselves for the day of battle." "You are young, my son, and full of enthusiasm; but it is hard to stir men, whose lives have traveled in one groove, from their ordinary course. In all our history, although we have been ready to assemble and meet the foe, we have ever been ready to lay by the sword, when the danger is past, and to return to our homes and families. We have been a nation of fighting men, but never a nation with an army." "Yes, father, because we trusted in God to give us victory, on the day of battle. He was our army. When He fought with us, we conquered; when He abstained, we were beaten. He suffered us to fall into the hands of the Romans and, instead of repenting of our sins, we have sinned more and more. "The news from Jerusalem is worse and worse. There is civil war in its streets. Robbers are its masters. The worst of the people sit in high places." "That is so, my son. God's anger still burns fiercely, and the people perish; yet it may be that He will be merciful, in the end." "I hope so, father, for assuredly our hope is only in Him." Early in the spring, Vespasian was joined by King Agrippa, with all his forces; and they advanced to Ptolemais and, here, Titus joined his father, having brought his troops from Alexandria by sea. The force of Vespasian now consisted of the Fifth, Tenth, and Fifteenth Legions. Besides these he had twenty-three cohorts; ten of which numbered a thousand footmen, the rest, each, six hundred footmen and a hundred and fifty horse. The allied force, contributed by Agrippa and others, consisted of two thousand archers, and a thousand horse; while Malchus, King of Arabia, sent a thousand horse, and five thousand archers. The total force amounted to sixty thousand regular troops, besides great numbers of camp followers--who were all trained to military service, and could fight, in case of need. Vespasian had encountered no resistance, on his march down to Ptolemais. The inhabitants of the country through which he passed forsook the villages and farms; and retired, according to the orders they had received, to the fortified towns. There was no army to meet the Romans in the field. The efforts at organization which Josephus had made bore no fruit, whatever. No sooner had the invader entered the country, than it lay at his mercy; save only the walled cities into which the people had crowded. In the range of mountains stretching across Upper Galilee were three places of great strength: Gabara, Gischala, and Jotapata. The last named had been very strongly fortified, by Josephus himself; and here he intended to take up his own position. "It is a pitiful sight, truly," Joab remarked to John, as they saw the long line of fugitives--men, women, and children--with such belongings as they could carry on their own backs, and those of their beasts of burden. "It is a pitiful sight, is it not?" "It is a pitiful sight, Joab, and one that fills me with foreboding, as well as with pity. What agonies may not these poor people be doomed to suffer, when the Romans lay siege to Jotapata?" "They can never take it," Joab said, scornfully. "I wish I could think so, Joab. When did the Romans ever lay siege to a place, and fail to capture it? Once, twice, three times they may fail but, in the end, they assuredly will take it." "Look at its position. See how wild is the country through which they will have to march." "They have made roads over all the world, Joab. They will make very short work of the difficulties here. It may take the Romans weeks, or months, to besiege each of these strong places; but they will assuredly carry them, in the end--and then, better a thousand times that the men had, in the first place, slain the women, and rushed to die on the Roman swords." "It seems to me, John," Joab said stiffly, "that you are over bold, in thus criticising the plans of our general." "It may be so," John said, recklessly, "but methinks, when we are all risking our lives, each man may have a right to his opinions. I am ready, like the rest, to die when the time comes; but that does not prevent me having my opinions. Besides, it seems to me that there is no heresy in questioning the plans of our general. I love Josephus, and would willingly give my life for him. He has shown himself a wise ruler, firm to carry out what is right, and to suppress all evildoers but, after all, he has not served in war. He is full of resources, and will, I doubt not, devise every means to check the Romans but, even so, he may not be able to cope, in war, with such generals as theirs, who have won their experience all over the world. Nor may the general's plan of defense, which he has adopted, be the best suited for the occasion. "Would you have us fight the Romans in the open?" Joab said, scornfully. "What has been done in the south? See how our people marched out from Jerusalem--under John the Essene, Niger of Peraea, and Silas the Babylonian--to attack Ascalon, held by but one cohort of Roman foot, and one troop of horse. What happened? Antoninus, the Roman commander, charged the army without fear, rode through and through them, broke them up into fragments, and slew till night time--when ten thousand men, with John and Silas, lay dead. "Not satisfied with this defeat, in a short time Niger advanced again against Ascalon; when Antoninus sallied out again, and slew eight thousand of them. Thus, eighteen thousand men were killed, by one weak cohort of foot and a troop of horse; and yet you say we ought not to hide behind our walls, but to meet them in the open!" "I would not meet them in the open, where the Roman cavalry could charge--at any rate, not until our people have learned discipline. I would harass them, and attack them in defiles, as Cestius was attacked; harassing them night and day, giving them no peace or rest, never allowing them to meet us in the plains, but moving rapidly hither and thither among the mountains--leaving the women in the cities, which should offer no resistance, so that the Romans would have no point to strike at--until at length, when we have gained confidence and discipline and order, we should be able to take bolder measures, gradually, and fight them hand to hand." "Maybe you are right, lad," Joab said, thoughtfully. "I like not being cooped up in a stronghold, myself; and methinks that a mountain warfare, such as you speak of, would suit the genius of the people. We are light limbed and active--inured to fatigue, for we are a nation of cultivators--brave, assuredly, and ready to give our lives. "They say that, in the fight near Ascalon, not a Jew fled. Fight they could not, they were powerless against the rush of the heavy Roman horse; but they died as they stood, destroyed but not defeated. Gabara and Gischala and Jotapata may fall but, lad, it will be only after a defense so desperate that the haughty Romans may well hesitate; for if such be the resistance of these little mountain towns, what will not be the task of conquering Jerusalem, garrisoned by the whole nation?" "That is true," John said, "and if our deaths here be for the safety of Jerusalem, we shall not have died in vain. But I doubt whether such men as those who have power in Jerusalem will agree to any terms, however favorable, that may be offered. "It may be that it is God's will that it should be so. Two days ago, as I journeyed hither, after going down to Sepphoris with a message from the general to some of the principal inhabitants there, I met an old man, traveling with his wife and family. I asked him whether he was on his way hither, but he said 'No,' he was going across Jordan, and through Manasseh, and over Mount Hermon into Trachonitis. He said that he was a follower of that Christ who was put to death, in Jerusalem, some thirty-five years since, and whom many people still believe was the Messiah. He says that he foretold the destruction of Jerusalem, by the Romans; and warned his followers not to stay in the walled cities, but to fly to the deserts when the time came." "The Messiah was to save Israel," Joab said, scornfully. "Christ could not save even himself." "I know not," John said, simply. "I have heard of him from others; and my father heard him preach, several times, near the lake. He says that he was a man of wondrous power, and that he preached a new doctrine. He says that he did not talk about himself, or claim to be the Messiah; but that he simply told the people to be kind and good to each other, and to love God and do his will. My father said that he thought he was a good and holy man, and full of the Spirit of God. He did works of great power, too; but bore himself meekly, like any other man. My father always regards him as a prophet; and said that he grieved, when he heard that he had been put to death at Jerusalem. If he were a prophet, what he said about the destruction of Jerusalem should have weight with us." "All who heard him agreed that he was a good man," Joab assented. "I have never known one of those who heard him say otherwise, and maybe he was a prophet. Certainly, he called upon the people to repent and turn from their sins and, had they done as he taught them, these evils might not have fallen upon us, and God would doubtless have been ready to aid his people, as of old. "However, it is too late to think about it, now. We want all our thoughts for the matter we have in hand. We have done all that we can to put this town into a state of defense and, methinks, if the Romans ever penetrate through these mountains and forests, they will see that they have a task which will tax all their powers, before they take Jotapata." The position of the town was, indeed, immensely strong. It stood on the summit of a lofty mass of rock which, on three sides, fell abruptly down into the deep and almost impassable ravines which surrounded it. On the north side, alone, where the ridge sloped more gradually down, it could be approached. The town extended part of the way down this declivity and, at its foot, Josephus had built a strong wall. On all sides were lofty mountains, covered with thick forests; and the town could not be seen by an enemy, until they were close at hand. As soon as Vespasian had arrived at Ptolemais (on the site of which city stands the modern Acre) he was met by a deputation from Sepphoris. That city had only been prevented from declaring for the Romans by the exertions of Josephus, and the knowledge that all Galilee would follow him to attack it, should it revolt. But as soon as Vespasian arrived at Ptolemais, which was scarce twenty miles away, they sent deputies with their submission to him; begging that a force might be sent, to defend them against any attack by the Jews. Vespasian received them with courtesy; and sent Placidus, with a thousand horse and six thousand foot, to the city. The infantry took up their quarters in the town; but the horsemen made raids over the plains, burning the villages, slaying all the men capable of bearing arms, and carrying off the rest of the population as slaves. The day after the conversation between Joab and John, a man brought the news to Jotapata that Placidus was marching against it. Josephus at once ordered the fighting men to assemble and, marching out, placed them in ambuscade, in the mountains, on the road by which the Romans would approach. As soon as the latter had fairly entered the pass, the Jews sprang to their feet, and hurled their javelins and shot their arrows among them. The Romans, in vain, endeavored to reach their assailants; and numbers were wounded, as they tried to climb the heights, but few were killed--for they were so completely covered, by their armor and shields, that the Jewish missiles, thrown from a distance, seldom inflicted mortal wounds. They were, however, unable to make their way further; and Placidus was obliged to retire to Sepphoris, having failed, signally, in gaining the credit he had hoped for, from the capture of the strongest of the Jewish strongholds in Upper Galilee. The Jews, on their part, were greatly inspirited by the success of their first encounter with the Romans; and returned, rejoicing, to their stronghold. All being ready at Jotapata, Josephus--with a considerable number of the fighting men--proceeded to Garis, not far from Sepphoris, where the army had assembled. But no sooner had the news arrived, that the great army of Vespasian was in movement, than they dispersed in all directions; and Josephus was left with a mere handful of followers, with whom he fled to Tiberias. Thence he wrote earnest letters to Jerusalem; saying that, unless a strong army was fitted out and put in the field, it was useless to attempt to fight the Romans; and that it would be wiser to come to terms with them, than to maintain a useless resistance, which would bring destruction upon the nation. He remained a short time, only, at Tiberias; and thence hurried up with his followers to Jotapata, which he reached on the 14th of May. Vespasian marched first to Gadara--which was undefended, the fighting men having all gone to Jotapata--but, although no resistance was offered, Vespasian put all the males to the sword; and burned the town and all the villages in the neighborhood, and then advanced against Jotapata. For four days, the pioneers of the Roman army had labored incessantly--cutting a road through the forests, filling up ravines, and clearing away obstacles--and, on the fifth day, the road was constructed close up to Jotapata. On the 14th of May, Placidus and Ebutius were sent forward by Vespasian, with a thousand horse, to surround the town and cut off all possibility of escape. On the following day Vespasian himself, with his whole army, arrived there. The defenders of Jotapata could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the long, heavy column--with all its baggage, and siege engines--marching along a straight and level road, where they had believed that it would be next to impossible for even the infantry of the enemy to make their way. If this marvel had been accomplished in five days, what hope was there that the city would be able to withstand this force, which had so readily triumphed over the defenses of nature? Chapter 5: The Siege Of Jotapata. "Well, Joab, what do you think, now?" John said, as he stood on the wall with his older companion, watching the seemingly endless column of the enemy. "It seems to me that we are caught here, like rats in a trap, and that we should have done better, a thousand times, in maintaining our freedom of movement among the mountains. It is one thing to cut a road; it would be another to clear off all the forests from the Anti-Libanus and, so long as there was a forest to shelter us, the Romans could never have overtaken us. Here, there is nothing to do but to die." "That is so, John. I own that the counsel you urged would have been wiser than this. Here are all the best fighting men in Galilee, shut up without hope of succor, or of mercy. Well, lad, we can at least teach the Romans the lesson that the Jews know how to die; and the capture of this mountain town will cost them as much as they reckoned would suffice for the conquest of the whole country. Jotapata may save Jerusalem, yet." John was no coward, and was prepared to fight to the last; but he was young, and the love of life was strong within. He thought of his old father and mother, who had no children but him; of his pretty Mary--far away now, he hoped, on the slopes of Mount Hermon--and of the grief that his death would cause to them; and he resolved that, although he would do his duty, he would strain every nerve to preserve the life so dear to them. He had no longer any duties to perform, other than those common to all able to bear arms. When the Romans attacked, his place would be near Josephus or, were a sally ordered, he would issue out with the general; but until then, his time was his own. There was no mission to be performed, now, no fear of plots against the life of the general; therefore, he was free to wander where he liked. Save the newly erected wall, across the neck of rock below the town, there were no defenses; for it was deemed impossible for man to climb the cliffs that fell, sheer down, at every other point. John strolled quietly round the town; stopping, now and then, to look over the low wall that bordered the precipice--erected solely to prevent children from falling over. The depth was very great; and it seemed to him that there could be no escape, anywhere, save on that side which was now blocked by the wall--and which would, ere long, be trebly blocked by the Romans. The town was crowded. At ordinary times, it might contain near three or four thousand inhabitants; now, over twenty-five thousand had gathered there. Of these, more than half were men; but many had brought their wives and children with them. Every vacant foot of ground was taken up. The inhabitants shared their homes with the strangers, but the accommodation was altogether insufficient; and the greater part of the newcomers had erected little tents, and shelters, of cloths or blankets. In the upper part of the town there were, at present, comparatively few people about; for the greater part had gone to the slope, whence they watched, with terror and dismay, the great Roman column as it poured down, in an unbroken line, hour after hour. The news of the destruction which had fallen on Gadara had been brought in, by fugitives; and all knew that, although no resistance had been offered there, every male had been put to death, and the women taken captives. There was naught, then, to be gained by surrender; even had anyone dared to propose it. As for victory, over such a host as that which was marching to the assault, none could hope for it. For, hold out as they might, and repel every assault on the wall, there was an enemy within which would conquer them. For Jotapata possessed no wells. The water had, daily, to be fetched by the women from the stream in the ravine and, although stores of grain had been collected, sufficient to last for many months, the supply of water stored up in cisterns would scarce suffice to supply the multitudes gathered on the rock for a fortnight. Death, then, certain and inevitable, awaited them; and yet, an occasional wail from some woman, as she pressed her children to her breast, alone told of the despair which reigned in every heart. The greater portion looked out, silent, and as if stupefied. They had relied, absolutely, on the mountains and forests to block the progress of the invader. They had thought that, at the worst, they would have had to deal with a few companies of infantry, only. Thus, the sight of the sixty thousand Roman troops--swelled to nigh a hundred thousand, by the camp followers and artificers--with its cavalry and machines of war, seemed like some terrible nightmare. After making the circuit of the rock, and wandering for some time among the impromptu camps in the streets, John returned to a group of boys whom he had noticed, leaning against the low wall with a carelessness, as to the danger of a fall over the precipice, which proved that they must be natives of the place. "If there be any possible way of descending these precipices," he said to himself, "it will be the boys who will know of it. Where a goat could climb, these boys, born among the mountains, would try to follow; if only to excel each other in daring, and to risk breaking their necks." Thus thinking, he walked up to the group, who were from twelve to fifteen years old. "I suppose you belong to the town?" he began. There was a general assent from the five boys, who looked with considerable respect at John--who, although but two years the senior of the eldest among them, wore a man's garb, and carried sword and buckler. "I am one of the bodyguard of the governor," John went on, "and I dare say you can tell me all sorts of things, about this country, that may be useful for him to know. Is it quite certain that no one could climb up these rocks from below; and that there is no fear of the Romans making a surprise, in that way?" The boys looked at each other, but no one volunteered to give information. "Come!" John went on, "I have only just left off being a boy, myself, and I was always climbing into all sorts of places, when I got a chance; and I have no doubt it's the same, with you. When you have been down below, there, you have tried how far you can get up. "Did you ever get up far, or did you ever hear of anyone getting up far?" "I expect I have been up as far as anyone," the eldest of the boys said. "I went up after a young kid that had strayed away from its mother. I got up a long way--half way up, I should say--but I couldn't get any further. I was barefooted, too. "I am sure no one with armor on could have got up anything like so far. I don't believe he could get up fifty feet." "And have any of you ever tried to get down from above?" They shook their heads. "Jonas the son of James did, once," one of the smaller boys said. "He had a pet hawk he had tamed, and it flew away and perched, a good way down; and he clambered down to fetch it. He had a rope tied round him, and some of the others held it, in case he should slip. I know he went down a good way, and he got the hawk; and his father beat him for doing it, I know." "Is he here, now?" John asked. "Yes, he is here," the boy said. "That's his father's house, the one close to the edge of the rock. I don't know whether you will find him there, now. He ain't indoors more than he can help. His own mother's dead, and his father's got another wife, and they don't get on well together." "Well, I will have a chat with him, one of these days. And you are all quite sure that there is no possible path up, from below?" "I won't say there isn't any possible path," the eldest boy said; "but I feel quite sure there is not. I have looked, hundreds of times, when I have been down below; and I feel pretty sure that, if there had been any place where a goat could have got up, I should have noticed it. But you see, the rock goes down almost straight, in most places. Anyhow, I have never heard of anyone who ever got up and, if anyone had done it, it would have been talked about, for years and years." "No doubt it would," John agreed. "So I shall tell the governor that he need not be in the least uneasy about an attack, except in front." So saying, he nodded to the boys, and walked away again. In the evening, the whole of the Roman army had arrived; and Vespasian drew up his troops on a hill, less than a mile to the north of the city, and there encamped them. The next morning, a triple line of embankments was thrown up, by the Romans, around the foot of the hill where, alone, escape or issue was possible; and this entirely cut off those within the town from any possibility of flight. The Jews looked on at these preparations as wild animals might regard a line of hunters surrounding them. But the dull despair of the previous day had now been succeeded by a fierce rage. Hope there was none. They must die, doubtless; but they would die fighting fiercely, till the last. Disdaining to be pent up within the walls, many of the fighting men encamped outside, and boldly went forward to meet the enemy. Vespasian called up his slingers and archers, and these poured their missiles upon the Jews; while he himself, with his heavy infantry, began to mount the slope towards the part of the wall which appeared the weakest. Josephus at once summoned the fighting men in the town and, sallying at their head through the gate, rushed down and flung himself upon the Romans. Both sides fought bravely; the Romans strong in their discipline, their skill with their weapons, and their defensive armor; the Jews fighting with the valor of despair, heightened by the thought of their wives and children in the town, above. The Romans were pushed down the hill, and the fight continued at its foot until darkness came on, when both parties drew off. The number of killed on either side was small, for the bucklers and helmets defended the vital points. The Romans had thirteen killed and very many wounded, the Jews seventeen killed and six hundred wounded. John had fought bravely by the side of Josephus. Joab and two others of the little band were killed. All the others were wounded, more or less severely; for Josephus was always in the front, and his chosen followers kept close to him. In the heat of the fight, John felt his spirits rise higher than they had done since the troubles had begun. He had fought, at first, so recklessly that Josephus had checked him, with the words: "Steady, my brave lad. He fights best who fights most coolly. The more you guard yourself, the more you will kill." More than once, when Josephus--whose commanding figure, and evident leadership, attracted the attention of the Roman soldiers--was surrounded and cut off, John, with three or four others, made their way through to him, and brought him off. When it became dark, both parties drew off; the Romans sullenly, for they felt it a disgrace to have been thus driven back, by foes they despised; the Jews with shouts of triumph, for they had proved themselves a match for the first soldiers in the world, and the dread with which the glittering column had inspired them had passed away. The following day, the Jews again sallied out and attacked the Romans as they advanced and, for five days in succession, the combat raged--the Jews fighting with desperate valor, the Romans with steady resolution. At the end of that time, the Jews had been forced back behind their wall, and the Romans established themselves in front of it. Vespasian, seeing that the wall could not be carried by assault, as he had expected, called a council of war; and it was determined to proceed by the regular process of a siege, and to erect a bank against that part of the wall which offered the greatest facility for attack. Accordingly the whole army, with the exception of the troops who guarded the banks of circumvallation, went into the mountains to get materials. Stone and timber, in vast quantities, were brought down and, when these were in readiness, the work commenced. A sort of penthouse roofing, constructed of wattles covered with earth, was first raised, to protect the workers from the missiles of the enemy upon the wall; and here the working parties labored securely, while the rest of the troops brought up earth, stone, and wood for their use. The Jews did their best to interfere with the work, hurling down huge stones upon the penthouse; sometimes breaking down the supports of the roof and causing gaps, through which they poured a storm of arrows and javelins, until the damage had been repaired. To protect his workmen, Vespasian brought up his siege engines--of which he had a hundred and sixty--and, from these, vast quantities of missiles were discharged at the Jews upon the walls. The catapults threw javelins, balls of fire, and blazing arrows; while the ballistae hurled huge stones, which swept lanes through the ranks of the defenders. At the same time the light-armed troops, the Arab archers, and those of Agrippa and Antiochus kept up a rain of arrows, so that it became impossible for the Jews to remain on the walls. But they were not inactive. Sallying out in small parties, they fell with fury upon the working parties who, having stripped off their heavy armor, were unable to resist their sudden onslaughts. Driving out and slaying all before them, the Jews so often applied fire to the wattles and timbers of the bank that Vespasian was obliged to make his work continuous, along the whole extent of the wall, to keep out the assailants. But, in spite of all the efforts of the Jews, the embankment rose steadily, until it almost equaled the height of the wall; and the struggle now went on between the combatants on even terms, they being separated only by the short interval between the wall and bank. Josephus found that in such a conflict the Romans--with their crowd of archers and slingers, and their formidable machines--had all the advantage; and that it was absolutely necessary to raise the walls still higher. He called together a number of the principal men, and pointed out the necessity for this. They agreed with him, but urged that it was impossible for men to work, exposed to such a storm of missiles. Josephus replied that he had thought of that. A number of strong posts were prepared and, at night, these were fixed securely, standing on the wall. Along the top of these, a strong rope was stretched; and on this were hung, touching each other, the hides of newly-killed oxen. These formed a complete screen, hiding the workers from the sight of those on the embankment. Illustration: Heightening the Walls of Jotapata under Shelter of Ox Hides. The hides, when struck with the stones from the ballistae, gave way and deadened the force of the missiles; while the arrows and javelins glanced off from the slippery surface. Behind this shelter, the garrison worked night and day, raising the posts and screens as their work proceeded, until they had heightened the wall no less than thirty-five feet; with a number of towers on its summit, and a strong battlement facing the Romans. The besiegers were much discouraged at their want of success, and enraged at finding the efforts of so large an army completely baffled by a small town, which they had expected to carry at the first assault; while the Jews proportionately rejoiced. Becoming more and more confident, they continually sallied out in small parties, through the gateway or by ladders from the walls, attacked the Romans upon their embankment, or set fire to it. And it was the desperation with which these men fought, even more than their success in defending the wall, that discouraged the Romans; for the Jews were utterly careless of their lives, and were well content to die, when they saw that they had achieved their object of setting fire to the Roman works. Vespasian, at length, determined to turn the siege into a blockade; and to starve out the town which he could not capture. He accordingly contented himself by posting a strong force to defend the embankment, and withdrew the main body of the army to their encampment. He had been informed of the shortness of the supply of water; and had anticipated that, in a very short time, thirst would compel the inhabitants to yield. John had taken his full share in the fighting, and had frequently earned the warm commendation of Josephus. His spirits had risen with the conflict; but he could not shut his eyes to the fact that, sooner or later, the Romans must become masters of the place. One evening, therefore, when he had done his share of duty on the walls, he went up to the house which had been pointed out to him as that in which lived the boy who had descended the face of the rocks, for some distance. At a short distance from the door, a lad of some fifteen years old, with no covering but a piece of ragged sackcloth round the loins, was crouched up in a corner, seemingly asleep. At the sound of John's footsteps, he opened his eyes in a quick, watchful way, that showed that he had not been really asleep. "Are you Jonas, the son of James?" John asked. "Yes I am," the boy said, rising to his feet. "What do you want with me?" "I want to have a talk with you," John said. "I am one of the governor's bodyguard; and I think, perhaps, you may be able to give us some useful information." "Well, come away from here," the boy said, "else we shall be having her--" and he nodded to the house, "--coming out with a stick." "You have rather a hard time of it, from what I hear," John began, when they stopped at the wall, a short distance away from the house. "I have that," the boy said. "I look like it, don't I?" "You do," John agreed, looking at the boy's thin, half-starved figure; "and yet, there is plenty to eat in the town." "There may be," the boy said; "anyhow, I don't get my share. Father is away fighting on the wall, and so she's worse than ever. She is always beating me, and I dare not go back, now. I told her, this morning, the sooner the Romans came in, the better I should be pleased. They could only kill me, and there would be an end of it; but they would send her to Rome for a slave, and then she would see how she liked being cuffed and beaten, all day." "And you are hungry, now?" John asked. "I am pretty near always hungry," the boy said. "Well, come along with me, then. I have got a little room to myself, and you shall have as much to eat as you like." The room John occupied had formerly been a loft over a stable, in the rear of the house in which Josephus now lodged; and it was reached by a ladder from the outside. He had shared it, at first, with two of his comrades; but these had both fallen, during the siege. After seeing the boy up into it, John went to the house and procured him an abundant meal; and took it, with a small horn of water, back to his quarters. "Here's plenty for you to eat, Jonas, but not much to drink. We are all on short allowance, the same as the rest of the people; and I am afraid that won't last long." There was a twinkle of amusement in the boy's face but, without a word, he set to work at the food, eating ravenously all that John had brought him. The latter was surprised to see that he did not touch the water; for he thought that if his stepmother deprived him of food, of which there was abundance, she would all the more deprive him of water, of which the ration to each person was so scanty. "Now," John said, "you had better throw away that bit of sackcloth, and take this garment. It belonged to a comrade of mine, who has been killed." "There's too much of it," the boy said. "If you don't mind my tearing it in half, I will take it." "Do as you like with it," John replied; and the boy tore the long strip of cotton in two, and wrapped half of it round his loins. "Now," he said, "what do you want to ask me?" "They tell me, Jonas, that you are a first-rate climber, and can go anywhere?" The boy nodded. "I can get about, I can. I have been tending goats, pretty well ever since I could walk and, where they can go, I can." "I want to know, in the first place, whether there is any possible way by which one can get up and down from this place, except by the road through the wall?" The boy was silent. "Now look here, Jonas," John went on, feeling sure that the lad could tell something, if he would, "if you could point out a way down, the governor would be very pleased; and as long as the siege lasts you can live here with me, and have as much food as you want, and not go near that stepmother of yours, at all." "And nobody will beat me, for telling you?" the boy asked. "Certainly not, Jonas." "It wouldn't take you beyond the Romans. They have got guards, all round." "No, but it might enable us to get down to the water," John urged, the sight of the unemptied horn causing the thought to flash through his mind that the boy had been in the habit of going down, and getting water. "Well, I will tell you," the boy said. "I don't like to tell, because I don't think there's anyone here knows it, but me. I found it out, and I never said a word about it, because I was able to slip away when I liked; and no one knows anything about it. But it doesn't make much difference, now, because the Romans are going to kill us all. So I will tell you. "At the end of the rock, you have to climb down about fifty feet. It's very steep there, and it's as much as you can do to get down; but when you have got down that far, you get to the head of a sort of dried-up water course, and it ain't very difficult to go down there and, that way, you can get right down to the stream. It don't look, from below, as if you could do it; and the Romans haven't put any guards on the stream, just there. I know, because I go down every morning, as soon as it gets light. I never tried to get through the Roman sentries; but I expect one could, if one tried. "But I don't see how you are to bring water up here, if that's what you want. I tell you, it is as much as you can do to get up and down, and you want both your hands and your feet; but I could go down and bring up a little water for you, in a skin hanging round my neck, if you like." "I am afraid that wouldn't be much good, Jonas," John said; "but it might be very useful to send messages out, that way." "Yes," the boy said; "but you see I have always intended, when the Romans took the place, to make off that way. If other people go, it's pretty sure to be found out, before long; and then the Romans will keep watch. But it don't much matter. I know another place where you and I could lie hidden, any time, if we had got enough to eat and drink. I will show you but, mind, you must promise not to tell anyone else. There's no room for more than two; and I don't mean to tell you, unless you promise." "I will promise, Jonas. I promise you, faithfully, not to tell anyone." "Well, the way down ain't far from the other one. I will show it you, one of these days. I went down there, once, to get a hawk I had taken from the nest, and tamed. I went down, first, with a rope tied round me; but I found I could have done it without that--but I didn't tell any of the others, as I wanted to keep the place to myself. "You climb down about fifty feet, and then you get on a sort of ledge, about three feet wide and six or seven feet long. You can't see it from above, because it's a hollow, as if a bit of rock had fallen out. Of course, if you stood up you might be seen by someone below, or on the hill opposite; but it's so high it is not likely anyone would notice you. Anyhow, if you lie down there, no one would see you. I have been down there, often and often, since. When she gets too bad to bear, I go down there and take a sleep; or lie there and laugh, when I think how she is hunting about for me to carry down the pails to the stream, for water." "I will say nothing about it, Jonas, you may be quite sure. That place may save both our lives. But the other path I will tell Josephus about. He may find it of great use." Josephus was indeed greatly pleased, when he heard that a way existed by which he could send out messages. Two or three active men were chosen for the work; but they would not venture to descend the steep precipice, by which Jonas made his way down to the top of the water course, but were lowered by ropes to that point. Before starting they were sewn up in skins so that, if a Roman sentry caught sight of them making their way down the water course, on their hands and feet, he would take them for dogs, or some other animals. Once at the bottom, they lay still till night, and then crawled through the line of sentries. In this way Josephus was able to send out dispatches to his friends outside, and to Jerusalem; imploring them to send an army, at once, to harass the rear of the Romans, and to afford an opportunity for the garrison of Jotapata to cut their way out. Messages came back by return and, for three weeks, communications were thus kept up; until one of the messengers slipped while descending the ravine and, as he rolled down, attracted the attention of the Romans who, after that, placed a strong guard at the foot of the water course. Until this discovery was made, Jonas had gone down regularly, every morning, and drank his fill; and had brought up a small skin of water to John, who had divided it among the children whom he saw most in want of it--for the pressure of thirst was now heavy. The Romans, from rising ground at a distance, had noticed the women going daily with jugs to the cistern, whence the water was doled out; and the besiegers directed their missiles to that point, and many were killed, daily, while fetching water. A dull despair now seized the Jews. So long as they were fighting, they had had little time to think of their situation; but now that the enemy no longer attacked, and there was nothing to do but to sit down and suffer, the hopelessness of their position stared them in the face. But there was no thought of surrender. They knew too well the fate that awaited them, at the hands of the Romans. They were therefore seized with rage, and indignation, when they heard that Josephus and some of the principal men were thinking of making an endeavor to escape. John, who had hitherto regarded his leader with a passionate devotion--although he thought that he had been wrong in taking to the fortified towns, instead of fighting among the mountains--shared in the general indignation at the proposed desertion. "It is he who has brought us all here," he said to Jonas--who had attached himself to him with dog-like fidelity--"and now he proposes to go away, and leave everyone here to be massacred! I cannot believe it." The news was, however, well founded for, when the inhabitants crowded down to the house--the women weeping and wailing, the men sullen and fierce--to beg Josephus to abandon his intention, the governor attempted to argue that it was for the public good that he should leave them. He might, he said, hurry to Jerusalem, and bring an army to the rescue. The people, however, were in no way convinced. "If you go," they said, "the Romans will speedily capture the city. We are ready to die, all together--to share one common fate--but do not leave us." As Josephus saw that, if he did not accede to the prayers of the women, the men would interfere by force to prevent his carrying out his intentions, he told them he would remain with them; and tranquillity was at once restored. The men, however, came again and again to him, asking to be led out to attack the Romans. "Let us die fighting," was the cry. "Let us die among our foes, and not with the agonies of thirst." "We must make them come up to attack us, again," Josephus said. "We shall fight to far greater advantage, so, than if we sallied out to attack them in their own intrenchments--when we should be shot down by their archers and slingers, before ever we should reach them." "But how are we to make them attack us? We want nothing better." "I will think it over," Josephus said, "and tell you in the morning." In the morning, to the surprise of the men, they were ordered to dip large numbers of garments into the precious supply of water, and to hang them on the walls. Loud were the outcries of the women, as they saw the scanty store of water, upon which their lives depended, so wasted; but the orders were obeyed, and the Romans were astonished at seeing the long line of dripping garments on the wall. The stratagem had its effect. Vespasian thought that the news he had received, that the place was ill supplied with water, must be erroneous; and ordered the troops again to take their station on the walls, and renew the attack. Great was the exultation among the Jews, when they saw the movement among the troops; and Josephus, ordering the fighting men together, said that now was their opportunity. There was no hope of safety, in passive resistance; therefore they had best sally out and, if they must die, leave at least a glorious example to posterity. The proposal was joyfully received, and he placed himself at their head. The gates were suddenly opened, and they poured out to the attack. So furious was their onslaught that the Romans were driven from the embankment. The Jews pursued them, crossed the lines of circumvallation, and attacked the Romans in their camp; tearing up the hides and penthouses behind which the Romans defended themselves, and setting fire to the lines in many places. The fight raged all day. The Jews then retired to the city, only to sally out again, the following morning. For three days the attacks were continued; the Jews driving in the Romans, each day, and retiring when Vespasian brought up heavy columns--who were unable, from the weight of their armor, to follow their lightly-armed assailants. Vespasian then ordered the regular troops to remain in camp, the assaults being repelled by the archers and slingers. Finding that the courage of the Jews was unabated, and that his troops were losing heavily in this irregular fighting, he determined to renew the siege, at all hazards, and bring the matter to a close. The heavy-armed troops were ordered to be in readiness, and to advance against the walls with the battering ram. This was pushed forward by a great number of men; being covered, as it advanced, with a great shield constructed of wattles and hides. As it was brought forward, the archers and slingers covered its advance by a shower of missiles against the defenders of the wall; while all the war machines poured in their terrible shower. The Jews, unable to show themselves above the battlements, or to oppose the advance of the terrible machine, crouched in shelter until the battering ram was placed in position. Then the ropes by which it swung from the framework overhead were seized, by a number of soldiers, and the first blow was delivered at the wall. It quivered beneath the terrible shock, and a cry of dismay arose from the defenders. Again and again the heavy ram struck, in the same place. The wall tottered beneath the blows; and would soon have fallen, had not Josephus ordered a number of sacks to be filled with straw, and let down by ropes from the walls, so as to deaden the blows of the ram. For a time the Romans ceased work; and then, fastening scythes to the ends of long poles, cut the ropes. The Jews were unable to show themselves above the walls, or to interfere with the men at work. In a few minutes the sacks were cut down, and the ram recommenced its work of destruction. Chapter 6: The Fall Of The City. The Roman soldiers--seeing the wall of Jotapata tremble beneath the blows of the battering ram, whose iron head pounded to powder the stones against which it struck--redoubled their efforts when, suddenly, from three sally ports which they had prepared, the Jews burst out; carrying their weapons in their right hands, and blazing torches in their left. As on previous occasions, their onslaught was irresistible. They swept the Romans before them; and set fire to the engines, the wattles, and the palisades, and even to the woodwork of the embankment. The timber had by this time dried and, as bitumen and pitch had been used as cement in the construction of the works, the flames spread with great rapidity; and the work of many days was destroyed, in an hour. All the engines and breastworks of the Fifth and Tenth Legions were entirely consumed. Just as the attack began, Eleazar--the son of Sameas, a Galilean--with an immense stone from the wall, struck the iron head of the battering ram, and knocked it off. He then leaped down from the wall, seized the iron head, and carried it back into the city. He was pierced by five arrows. Still, he pressed on and regained the walls; and held up the iron head in the sight of all, and then fell down dead. Such was the spirit with which the Jews were animated; and the Roman soldiers, trained as they were to conflict among many peoples, were yet astounded by the valor displayed by the race that they had considered as unwarlike peasants. But the Romans were not discouraged. Heavy masses of troops were brought up, the Jews were driven within their walls and, towards evening, the ram was again in position. While Vespasian was directing the attack, he was struck by a javelin in the heel. The Romans ceased from the attack and crowded round their general but, as soon as they ascertained that his wound was not serious, they returned to the attack with redoubled fury. All that night, the contest raged unceasingly. The Roman engines swept the walls with missiles. The towers came crashing down, under the blows of the huge stones; while the javelins, arrows, and the stones from the slings created terrible havoc among the defenders of the wall. But, as fast as these fell, fresh combatants took their places; and they continued hurling down stones, and blazing brands, upon the freshly-erected wattles round the battering ram. The Romans had the advantage in this strife for, while the fires on the walls--at which the Jews lighted their brands, and boiled the pitch and sulphur in which these were dipped--enabled them to aim accurately, they themselves worked in deep shadow, at the foot of the wall. The night was a terrible one. The bolts, stones, and arrows which passed over the wall spread ruin and death over the town. The din was unceasing. The thundering noise of the great stones; the dull, deep sound as the ram struck the wall; the fierce shouts of the combatants, as they fought hand to hand--for the corpses were, in places, piled so thick that the assailants could mount upon them to the top of the walls--the shrieks of the women, and the screams of the children, combined in one terrible and confused noise; which was echoed back, and multiplied, by the surrounding mountains. Morning was just breaking when the shaken wall gave way, and fell, with a crash. Vespasian called off his weary troops, and allowed them a short time for refreshment; then he prepared to storm the breach. He brought up, first, a number of his bravest horsemen; dismounted, and clad in complete armor. They were provided with long pikes, and were to charge forward, the instant the machines for mounting the breach were fixed. Behind these were the best of his infantry, while in their rear were the archers and slingers. Other parties, with scaling ladders, were to attack the uninjured part of the wall, and to draw off the attention of the besiegers. The rest of the horse extended all over the hills round the town, so that none might make their escape. Josephus prepared to receive the attack. He placed the old, infirm, and wounded to repel the attack on the uninjured parts of the wall. He then chose the five strongest and bravest men and, with them, took his place to form the front line of the defenders of the breach. He told them to kneel down and cover their heads with their bucklers, until the enemy's archers had emptied their quivers and, when the Romans had fixed the machines for mounting, they were to leap down among the enemy and fight to the last; remembering that there was now no hope of safety, naught but to revenge the fate which was impending over them, their wives and children. As the Romans mounted to the assault, a terrible cry broke out from the women. They saw the Romans still manning the lines which cut off all escape, and they believed that the end was now at hand. Josephus, fearing that their cries would dispirit the men, ordered them all to be locked up in their houses, and then calmly awaited the assault. The trumpet of the legion sounded, and the whole Roman host set up a terrible shout while, at the same moment, the air was darkened by the arrows of their bowmen. Kneeling beneath their bucklers, the Jews remained calm and immovable; and then, before the Romans had time to set foot upon the breach, with a yell of fury they rushed upon them, and threw themselves into the midst of their assailants. For a time, the Romans could make no way against the desperate courage of the Jews but, as fast as the leading files fell, fresh troops took their places; while the Jews, who were vastly reduced by their losses, had no fresh men to take the place of those who died. At last, the solid phalanx of the Romans drove back the defenders, and entered the breach. But as they did so, from the walls above and from the breach in front, vessels filled with boiling oil were hurled down upon them. The Roman ranks were broken; and the men, in agony, rolled on the ground, unable to escape the burning fluid which penetrated through the joints of their armor. Those who turned to fly were pierced by the javelins of the Jews; for the Romans carried no defensive armor on their backs, which were never supposed to be turned towards an enemy. Fresh troops poured up the breach, to take the place of their agonized comrades; but the Jews threw down, upon the planks, vessels filled with a sort of vegetable slime. Unable to retain their footing upon the slippery surface, the Romans fell upon each other, in heaps. Those rolling down carried others with them, and a terrible confusion ensued, the Jews never ceasing to pour their missiles upon them. When evening came, Vespasian called off his men. He saw that, to overcome the desperate resistance of the defenders, fresh steps must be taken before the assault was repeated; and he accordingly gave orders that the embankment should be raised, much higher than before; and that upon it three towers, each fifty feet high and strongly girded with iron, should be built. This great work was carried out, in spite of the efforts of the besieged. In the towers, Vespasian placed his javelin men, archers, and light machines and, as these now looked down upon the wall, they were enabled to keep up such a fire upon it that the Jews could no longer maintain their footing; but contented themselves with lying behind it, and making desperate sallies whenever they saw any parties of Romans approaching the breach. In the meantime, a terrible calamity had befallen the neighboring town of Japha. Emboldened by the vigorous defense of Jotapata, it had closed its gates to the Romans. Vespasian sent Trajan, with two thousand foot and a thousand horse, against it. The city was strongly situated, and surrounded by a double wall. Instead of waiting to be attacked, the people sallied out and fell upon the Romans. They were, however, beaten back; and the Romans, pressing on their heels, entered with them through the gates of the outside walls. The defenders of the gates through the inner walls, fearing that these, too, would be carried by the mob, closed them; and all those who had sallied out were butchered by the Romans. Trajan, seeing that the garrison must now be weak, sent to Vespasian, and asked him to send his son to complete the victory. Titus soon arrived, with a thousand foot and five hundred horse and, at once, assaulted the inner walls. The defense was feeble. The Romans effected their entry but, inside the town, a desperate conflict took place; the inhabitants defending every street, with the energy of despair, while the women aided their efforts by hurling down stones, and missiles, from the roofs. The battle lasted six hours, when all who could bear arms were slain. The rest of the male population were put to death, the women taken as slaves. In all, fifteen thousand were killed, two thousand one hundred and thirty taken prisoners. In another direction, a heavy blow had also been struck by the Romans. The Samaritans had not openly joined the revolt, but had gathered in great force on Mount Gerizim. Cerealis was sent by Vespasian, with three thousand infantry and six hundred horse, against them. He surrounded the foot of the mountain, and abstained from an assault until the Samaritans were weakened by thirst--many dying from want of water. Cerealis then mounted the hill, and sent to them to throw down their arms. On their refusal, he charged them from all sides, and put every soul--in number, eleven thousand six hundred--to the sword. The situation of the defenders of Jotapata was now pitiable, indeed. Scarce a man but had received wounds, more or less severe, in the desperate combats. All were utterly worn out with fatigue; for they were under arms, day and night, in readiness to repel the expected attack. Numbers of the women and children had died of thirst, and terror. Save the armed men lying in groups near the foot of the wall, in readiness to repel an assault, scarce a soul was to be seen in the lately-crowded streets. The houses were now ample to contain the vastly diminished number. Here the women and children crouched, in utter prostration. The power of suffering was almost gone. Few cared how soon the end came. The siege had now continued for forty-seven days; and the Roman army, strong in numbers, in discipline, and in arms, and commanded by one of its best generals, had yet failed to capture the little town--which they had expected to take within a few hours of their appearance before it--and so fierce was the valor of the besieged, that Vespasian did not venture to order his legions forward to renew the assault. But now, a deserter informed him that the garrison was greatly exhausted, that the men on guard could not keep awake; and that the breach could be carried, at night, by a sudden assault. Vespasian prepared for the assault, which was to take place at daybreak. A thick mist enveloped the town, and the sleeping sentries were not aroused by the silent steps of the approaching Romans. Titus was the first to enter the breach, followed by a small number of troops. These killed the sleeping guards, and the main body of the Romans then poured in. Before the Jews were conscious of their danger, the whole of the Roman army was upon them. Then the slaughter commenced. Many of the Jews killed each other, rather than fall into the hands of the Romans. Many threw themselves over the precipices, numbers took refuge in the deep caverns under the city. That day, all in the streets or houses were killed; the next, the Romans searched the caverns and underground passages, slaughtering all the men and boys, and sparing none but infants and women. During the siege and capture, forty thousand men fell. Only twelve hundred women and children were spared. So complete was the surprise, and so unresistingly did the Jews submit to slaughter, that only one Roman was killed. This was Antoninus, a centurion. He came upon a Jew in a deep cavern, and told him he would spare his life, if he would surrender. The Jew asked him to give him his hand, as a pledge of his faith, and to help him out of the cave. Antoninus did so, and the Jew at once ran him through with a spear. John was asleep when the Romans entered. He was aroused by Jonas rushing into the room. The boy was at all times restless, and suffered less than most of those within the walls; for there was an abundance of grain up to the end of the siege and, until the Romans had discovered the way down to the water, he had not suffered in any way from thirst. He was considered too young to take part in the actual fighting; but had labored with the rest in repairing the defenses, carrying food to men on the walls, and carrying away the dead and wounded. "Get up, John!" he exclaimed. "In the mist I have just run upon a mass of Roman soldiers, ranged in order. The town is taken. Quick, before they scatter and begin to slay!" John caught up his sword, and ran out. Just as he did so, a terrible shout was heard, followed by shrieks and cries. The work of butchery had begun. John's plans had been laid for some time. At night Jonas had frequently descended to the ledge, taking with him food, and jars of the water he brought up from below; and once or twice John had descended, Jonas fastening a rope round his body, and lowering it gradually for, active as he was, John could not get down without such assistance. Indeed, to any one who looked casually over the top, the descent appeared absolutely impossible. At the top of their speed, the lads ran to the spot at which the descent had to be made. The rope was hidden close at hand. John slipped the noose at the end over his shoulders. Jonas twisted the rope once round a stunted tree, which grew close by, and allowed it to go out gradually. As soon as the strain upon it ceased, and he knew John was upon the ledge, he loosened the rope and dropped the end over; and then began, himself, to descend, his bare feet and hands clinging to every inequality, however slight, in the rock. He presently stood by the side of John. The latter had coiled up the rope, and laid it by him; and had then thrown himself down, and was sobbing bitterly. Jonas sat down quietly beside him, till he had recovered his composure. "It is no use fretting," he said, philosophically. "There's no one you care about, particularly, up there; and I am sure there's no one I care about--only I should like to have peeped in, and have seen her face, when the Romans burst open the door. I don't suppose she was very sorry, though, for it will be better to be a Roman slave than to be going through what they have been, for the last month." "It is horrible!" John said, "Horrible! However, Jonas, let us thank God for having thus preserved our lives, when all besides are in such terrible danger of death." For a time, the two lads sat silent. John was the first to speak. "I am thankful," he said, "that, owing to our being down the face of the rock, the sound is carried away above our heads, and we can hear but little of what is going on there. It seems a confusion of sounds, and comes to us rather as an echo from the hills, yonder, than directly from above." Sometimes, indeed, thrilling screams and shouts were heard but, for the most part, the sounds were so blended together that they could not be distinguished one from another. As soon as the mist cleared off, the lads lay down, as far back from the ledge as they could get. "We must not lift up a head, today," John said. "The guards below, and on the hills, will have their eyes fixed on the rock, on the lookout for fugitives and, until nighttime, we must not venture to sit up. Fortunately, that outer edge of the shelf is a good deal higher than it is, back here; and I don't think that even those on the mountain, opposite, could see us as we lie." "I should think a good many may escape, like us," Jonas said, presently. "There are numbers of caverns and passages, from which they have dug the stone for the building of the houses. A lot of the people are sure to hide away, there." "I daresay they will," John agreed; "but I fear the Romans will hunt them all out." "How long do you think we shall have to stay here, John?" "Till the Romans go, whether it is one week or two; but I do not think they will stay here many days. The town is so full of dead that, in this hot weather, it will be unbearable before long. At any rate, we shall be able to pass a good deal of time in sleep. We have not had much of it, lately. Till last night, I have not been in the house, at night, for over a fortnight. But I felt, last night, as if I must have a sleep, whatever came of it. I suppose the guards at the breach must have felt the same, or the Romans could never have got in without the alarm being given." For a few minutes, John lay thinking of the terrible scenes that must be passing, on the rock above; then his drowsiness overcame him, and he was soon fast asleep. It was dark when he woke. As he moved, Jonas spoke. "Are you awake, John? Because if you are, let us have something to eat. I have been awake the last four hours, and I have been wishing you would stir." "There was no occasion to wait for my waking, Jonas. There are the grain and the water, close at hand; and no cooking is required." "I wasn't going to eat till you woke, if it had been all night," Jonas said. "Still, I am glad you are awake; they are quiet now, up above, and I have heard the Roman trumpets sounding. I expect that most of them have marched back to their camp." The next day passed like the first. Occasionally cries of agony were heard. Sometimes bodies were hurled from the top of the rock, but a short distance from where they were lying. The next two days passed more quietly, but upon that following a murmur, as of a multitude of men working, was heard. From time to time there were heavy crashes, as masses of stones, hurled down the precipice, struck against its face as they fell; and then bounded, far out beyond the stream, at its foot. All these sounds were echoed back by the surrounding hills, until it seemed as if a storm was raging, far away in the heart of the mountains. "They are destroying the town," John said, in answer to his companion's question as to the cause of the uproar. "That is the best thing possible for us. Had it remained standing, they might have left a garrison here, to prevent our people reoccupying it. If they destroy it, it is a sign that they intend to march away, altogether." Several times Jonas wished to climb up, at night, to ascertain what was going on; but John would not hear of it. "There is nothing to find out, Jonas. We know what they did at Gadara, where they slew all the males and carried off all the women, although no resistance was offered. We may be sure that there will be no more mercy shown at Jotapata, which has affronted the Roman power by keeping their great army at bay, for nearly seven weeks, and whose capture has cost them thousands of men. We know what has happened--they have slain every soul, save a few young women, who were worth money as slaves. Now they are leveling the town to its foundations. The place that defied them will cease to exist. "And yet, they talk of Roman magnanimity! Would we had five thousand fighting men, hidden here with us. We would climb then, Jonas, and fall upon them in the night, and take a mighty vengeance for the woes they have inflicted. But, being alone, we will remain here till we have reason to believe that the last Roman has left. Did one of them catch sight of you, our fate would be sealed. They have no boys among them, and the slightest glimpse of your figure would be enough to tell them that you were a Jew who had been in hiding and, in their fear that one man should escape their vengeance, they would hunt you down, as a pack of wolves might hunt down a solitary lamb." "They could never get down here, John." "Not by the way you came; but they would lower a cage full of armed men, from above, and slay us without pity." "But if I were found out, John, I would not lead them here. I would throw myself over the precipice, rather than that risk should come to you!" "But I don't want you to throw yourself over the precipice, Jonas. I want to keep you with me: in the first place because we are great friends now; in the second because, if you were killed, I might as well throw myself over, at once--for I do not think I could ever climb up this rock, without your assistance." "It is much easier going up than coming down, John." "That may be and, indeed, I have no doubt it is so; but I would rather not put the matter to the test. No; we have provision and water here, enough to last us for ten days and, until they are consumed, it were best not to stir from here." Four days later, however, they heard the sound of the Roman trumpets and, on raising their heads carefully a few inches, saw that the guards on the opposite hills had all been withdrawn. Having now less fear of being seen, they raised their heads still further, and looked up the valley to the great camp on the hillside where, at night, they had seen the fires of the Romans, blazing high. "They are going!" Jonas exclaimed, joyously. "Look at the sun sparkling on the long lines of arms and armor. Not a sound is to be heard, above--the work is done. They are about to march away." "Do not let us expose ourselves further," John said. "It may be that they have left a few watchers, to see if any who have eluded their search may show themselves, believing that they have gone. I have no doubt they are going and, by tomorrow, it will be safe for us to move." All day they heard the sound of trumpets, for the great host took a long time getting into motion but, gradually, the sound grew fainter and fainter, as the rear guard of the army took the road which they had cut through the mountains, eight weeks before. That night, when darkness fell, and the two lads sat up on their ledge and looked round, not a light was to be seen; and not a sound broke the silence of the night. "At daybreak tomorrow, Jonas, as soon as it becomes light enough for you to see your way, you shall go up and look round. They may have left a guard behind, but I should hardly think so. After the wholesale slaughter at Gadara, and here, the hatred of the Romans will be so intense that, confident as they are in their arms and discipline, they would hardly venture to leave a small body of men, in the heart of these mountains." As soon as it was daylight, Jonas prepared to climb up to the plateau above. He took with him the rope; arranging that, if he found that the place was absolutely deserted, he would lower one end to John and fasten the other to the tree above; and that he would then aid John, as much as his strength would permit, in making his way up the rock. John watched his companion making his way up, and observed exactly where he placed his feet and hands, until he was out of sight. Then he waited. In about a quarter of an hour, the end of the rope fell in front of him. He fastened it securely under his arms and then, taking off his sandals, began the ascent. It was not so difficult as it had looked; and the steady strain which Jonas kept on the rope, from above, aided him and gave him confidence. In three or four minutes, he gained the top of the rock. "There is not a soul to be seen," Jonas said. "The town has gone, and the people, and the Romans. All is desolation!" The scene was indeed changed, since John had last looked upon it. Not a wall, in the so-lately busy little town, had been left standing. The whole area was covered, three or four feet deep with a chaos of stones, mortar, and beams; forming a great grave, below which lay the bodies of forty thousand of the defenders of the place. The walls so bravely defended had disappeared; and the embankment, whose erection had cost the Romans so much labor and bloodshed, had been destroyed by fire. A dead silence hung over the place, and the air was tainted with a terrible odor of corruption. The desolation and solitude of the scene overpowered John, and he sat down on a fragment of masonry and wept, unrestrainedly, for some time. He roused himself, at last, as Jonas touched him. "I shall go down again, and get what grain there is left," the boy said. "There is no chance of finding anything to eat within a day's march of here. The Roman horse will have destroyed every village within a wide circuit." "But I cannot let you go down again, Jonas. The danger is too great." "But I have been up and down, lots of times," Jonas said. "That may be, Jonas, but you might be dashed to pieces, this time." "Well, if you like I will fasten the rope round me; then, if I should slip, I shall be safe." John consented with some reluctance, but he was so nervous and shaken that he walked some distance away, and did not turn round until he heard Jonas' footsteps again approaching him. "Now we can start," the boy said. "We have got grain here, enough for three days; and tonight we will crush it, and cook it. I have had enough of eating raw grain, for a long time to come." The boy's cheerfulness restored the tone of John's nerves and--making their way with some difficulty over the chaos of stone and timber, until they arrived at the pile of charred timber, which marked the spot where the Roman embankment had stood--they stepped out briskly, descended the hill, crossed the deserted lines of circumvallation; and then began to ascend the mountains, which had, for some distance, been stripped of their timber for the purposes of the siege. In another hour's walking they reached the forest, and pressed on until the afternoon. Not that there was any need for speed, now, but John felt a longing to place as wide a gap as possible between himself and the great charnel ground which, alone, marked the spot where Jotapata had stood. At length, Jonas urged the necessity for a halt, for rest and food. They chose a spot at the foot of a great tree, and then set to work to collect a store of firewood. John took out the box of tinder which, in those days, everyone carried about with him, and a fire was soon lighted. Jonas then looked for two large flat stones, and set to work to grind some grain. The halting place had been chosen from the vicinity of a little spring, which rose a few yards distant. With this the pounded grain was moistened and, after kneading it up, Jonas rolled it in balls and placed them in the hot ashes of the fire. In half an hour they were cooked, and the meal was eaten with something like cheerfulness. Another day's walking brought them to a little village, nestled in the forest. Here they were kindly received, though the people scarce believed them when they said that they were survivors of the garrison of Jotapata. The news of the capture of the town, and the destruction of its defenders, had already spread through the country; and John now learned, for the first time, the fate which had befallen Japha and the Samaritans on Mount Gerizim--events which filled him with consternation. The folly of the tactics which had been pursued--of cooping all the fighting men up in the walled cities, to be destroyed one after the other by the Romans--was more than ever apparent. He had never, from the first, been very hopeful of the result of the struggle; but it seemed, now, as if it could end in nothing but the total destruction of the Jewish race of Palestine. John stayed for two days in the little mountain village and then, with a store of provisions sufficient to last him for some days, pursued his way; following the lines of the Anti-Libanus, until that range of hills joined the range of Mount Hermon, north of the sources of the Jordan. He had stopped for a day at Dan, high up among the hills. Here the people had no fear of Roman vengeance; for the insurrection had not extended so far north, and the Roman garrison of Caesarea Philippi overawed the plains near the upper waters of the Jordan. Determined, however, to run no unnecessary risks, John and his companion pursued their way on the lower slopes of the hills until, after six days' walking, they arrived at Neve. Here they learned where the farm of John's kinsman was situated, and made their way thither. As they came up to the house a woman came out, gazed intently at John and, with a scream of terror, ran back into the house. It was one of Martha's maids. John stood irresolute, fearing that his sudden appearance might startle the other inmates when, suddenly, Mary appeared at the door, looking pale but resolute. She, too, gazed fixedly at John; and her lips moved, but no sound came from them. "Don't you know me, Mary?" John said. The girl gave a scream of joy, and threw herself into his arms. A moment later Martha, followed by Miriam and the other servants, came out. "It is no spirit, mother, it is John, himself," Mary exclaimed and, the next moment, John was clasped in his mother's arms. It was not surprising that the first who saw John had thought that he was a spirit. The news had already been received that the whole of the garrison of Jotapata had been put to the sword; and John's appearance was changed so greatly, within the last three months, that he would scarce have been known. Fatigue, anxiety, and the loss of blood--from several wounds which he had received, in the course of the siege--had so pulled him down that he was but a shadow of his former self. His clothes were in rags. He had washed them at the village where he had first stopped for, before that, they had been stiffened with blood; and even now, stained and ragged as they were, they gave him the appearance of a mendicant. Jonas had held back a little, while the first joyful greeting was going on, but John soon turned to him. "Mother," he said, "this must be as another son to you for, next to the protection of God, it is to him I owe my life." Martha welcomed the young stranger affectionately. "Before you tell us aught that has befallen you, John, go and change your garments, and wash, while we prepare a meal for you. The clothes of your uncle's son Silas, who is about your age, will fit you; and those of his younger brother will do for your friend." "Was the last news of my father good?" John asked. "Yes, the Lord be praised, he was well when we heard of him, a week since!" The travelers were at once conducted to a room, and supplied with water and clean garments. By the time they had changed, and returned to the general room, John's uncle and cousin had been fetched in from the farm, and he received another hearty welcome. It almost seemed to him, as he sat down to a comfortable meal, with Mary and his mother waiting upon him, that the events of the past two months had been a hideous dream; and that he had never left his comfortable home on the shore of the Lake of Galilee. As to Jonas, unaccustomed to kind treatment, or to luxury of any kind, he was too confused to utter a word. When the meal was over, John was asked to tell his news; and he related all the stirring incidents of the siege, and the manner in which he and his companion had effected his escape. "We are, no doubt," he concluded, "the sole male survivors of the siege." "Not so, my son," Martha said. "There is a report that Josephus has survived the siege; and that he is a prisoner, in the hands of the Romans." "It may be that they have spared him, to grace Vespasian's triumph, at Rome," John said. "It is their custom, I believe, to carry the generals they may take in war to Rome, to be slain there." It was not until some time afterwards that John learned the particulars of the capture of Josephus. When he saw that all was lost, Josephus had leaped down the shaft of a dry well, from the bottom of which a long cavern led off, entirely concealed from the sight of those above. Here he found forty of the leading citizens, who had laid in a store of food sufficient to last for many days. Josephus, at least, who gives his account of all these circumstances, says that he quite unexpectedly found these forty citizens in hiding there; but this is improbable in the extreme, and there can be little doubt that he had, long before, prepared this refuge with them, when he found that the people would not allow them to attempt to make their escape from the city. At night Josephus came up from the well and tried to make his escape but, finding the Romans everywhere vigilant, he returned to the place of concealment. On the third day a woman, who was aware of the hiding place, informed the Romans of it--probably in return for a promise of freedom, for the Romans were searching high and low for Josephus; who could not, they were convinced, have escaped through their lines. Vespasian immediately sent two tribunes, Paulinus and Gallicanus, to induce him to surrender by promise of his life. Josephus refused to come out, and Vespasian sent another tribune, Nicanor, a personal friend of Josephus, to assure him of his safety, if he would surrender. In the account Josephus gives of the transaction, he says that at this moment he suddenly remembered a dream--in which it was revealed to him that all these calamities should fall upon the Jews, that he himself should be saved, and that Vespasian should become emperor--and that, therefore, if he passed over to the Romans he would do so not as a renegade, but in obedience to the voice of God. It was certainly a happy coincidence that the dream should have occurred to him, at this moment. He at once announced his readiness to surrender; but his forty companions did not see the matter in the same light. The moment Josephus left them, the Roman soldiers would throw combustibles down the well, and suffocate them, if they did not come out and submit to slaughter. They urged upon Josephus that he was their leader; that they had all followed his orders, and cast in their lot with his; and that it would be treacherous and base, in the extreme, for him now to save his life by going over to the Romans, when all the inferior people had slain themselves, or had submitted to slaughter, rather than beg their lives of the Romans. Josephus argued with them, at length, but they were not convinced and, drawing their swords, threatened to kill him, if he tried to leave them. They would all die together, they said. Josephus then proposed that, in order to avoid the sin of suicide, they should draw lots which should kill each other. To this they assented; and they continued to draw lots as to which should slay the other, until only Josephus and one other remained alive. This is the story that Josephus tells. He was, of course, endeavoring to put his own case in the best light, and to endeavor to prove that he was not--as the Jews universally regarded him--a traitor to his country. It need hardly be said that the story is improbable, in the extreme; and that, had any one of the forty men survived and written the history, he would probably have told a very different tale. The conduct of Josephus, from the first outbreak of the trouble, showed that he was entirely adverse to the rising against the Romans. He himself, having been to Rome, had seen her power and might; and had been received with great favor by Poppaea, the wife of Nero, and had made many friends there. He had, therefore, at the outset, opposed as far as he was able, without going so far as to throw suspicion on his patriotism, the rebellion against the Romans. During the events in Galilee, he had shown himself anxious to keep in favor with the Romans. He had rebuked those who had attacked the soldiers traveling as an escort, with a large amount of treasure belonging to King Agrippa; and would have sent back the spoils taken, had not the people risen against it. He affected great indignation at the plunder of Agrippa's palace at Tiberias and, gathering all he could of the spoils, had handed them over to the care of the chief of Agrippa's friends there. He had protected the two officers of Agrippa, whom the Jews would have killed--had released and sent them back to the king; and when John of Gischala wished to carry off large quantities of grain, stored by the Romans in Upper Galilee, Josephus refused to allow him to do so, saying that it should be kept for its owners. It is almost certain that Josephus must, in some way, have entered into communication with the Romans; for how otherwise could he, with the principal inhabitants, have proposed to make their escape, when every avenue was closed? Josephus was a man of great talent and energy, full of resources, and of great personal bravery--at least, if his own account of his conduct during the siege is to be believed. But no one can read his labored excuses for his own conduct without feeling sure that he had, all along, been in correspondence with the Romans; and that he had, beforehand, been assured that his life should be spared. He had, from the first, despaired of successful resistance to the Romans; and his conduct in throwing himself, at the last moment, into a town about to be besieged and, as he must have known, captured--for the want of water, alone, rendered its fall a mere question of time--when his presence and leadership was so urgently required among the people to whose command he had been appointed, seems to prove that he wished to fall into their hands. It would not be just to brand Josephus as a traitor. He had done his best to induce the Galileans to form themselves into an army, and to defend the province; and it was only when that army dispersed, at the approach of the Romans, that he went to Jotapata. It was his leadership that enabled that city to continue its heroic defense. It cannot, therefore, be said that Josephus in any way betrayed the trust confided to him by the council at Jerusalem. But the conclusion can hardly be avoided that, from the first, foreseeing that utter ruin and destruction would fall upon the Jews, he had set himself to work to prepare a way of pardon and escape, for himself; and that he thought a position of honor, among the Romans, vastly preferable to an unknown grave among the mountains of Galilee. Upon being taken out of the well, Josephus was taken to Vespasian and, in the presence only of the general, his son Titus, and two other officers, announced that he was endowed with prophetic powers, and that he was commissioned by God to tell Vespasian that he would become emperor, and that he would be succeeded by his son Titus. The prophecy was one that required no more penetration than for any person, in the present day, to predict that the most rising man in a great political party would one day become prime minister. The emperor was hated, and it was morally certain that his fall would not long be delayed; and in that case the most popular general in the Roman army would, almost certainly, be chosen to succeed him. Vespasian, himself, was not greatly affected by the prophecy. But Josephus declared that he had, all along, predicted the success of the Romans, the fall of the town after forty-six days' siege, and his own safety; and as some of the female captives were brought up and, on Josephus appealing to them whether this was not so, naturally replied in the affirmative, Josephus says that Vespasian was then satisfied of his prisoner's divine mission, and henceforth treated him with great honor. It is much more easy to believe that an agreement already existed between Vespasian and Josephus; and that the latter only got up this story to enable him to maintain that he was not a traitor to his country, but acting in accordance with the orders of God. Certain it is that no similar act of clemency was shown, by Vespasian, to any other Jew; that no other thought of pity or mercy entered his mind, during the campaign, that he spared no man who fell alive into his hands, and that no more ruthless and wholesale extermination than that which he inflicted upon the people of Palestine was ever carried out, by the most barbarous of conquerors. To this day, the memory of Josephus is hated among the Jews. Chapter 7: The Massacre On The Lake. John remained for three weeks at his uncle's. A messenger, with the news of his safe arrival there, had been sent off to his father; who came up to see him, three days later. The formal act of betrothal between John and his cousin took place. Simon and Martha would have been willing that the full ceremony of marriage should take place, and the latter even urged this upon her son. "You are now more than seventeen, John, and have taken your place among men; and may well take to yourself a wife. Mary is nigh fifteen, and many maidens marry earlier. You love each other. Why, then, should you not be married? It would cheer the old age of your father, and myself, to see our grandchildren growing up around us." "Had the times been different, mother, I would gladly have had it so; but with the land torn by war, with our brethren being slaughtered everywhere, with Jerusalem and the Temple in danger, it is no time for marrying and giving in marriage. Besides, the law says that, for a year after marriage, a man shall not go to the war or journey upon business; but shall remain at home, quiet, with his wife. I could not do that, now. Did the news come, tomorrow, that the Romans were marching upon Jerusalem, assuredly I should do my duty, and take up arms and go to the defense of the Holy City; and maybe Mary would be left a widow, before the days of rejoicing for the marriage were over. "No, mother; the life of no man who can wield a weapon is his own, at present. The defense of the Temple is the first, and greatest, of duties. If I fall there, you will adopt Mary as your child; and marry her to someone who will take my place, and be a son to you. Mary will grieve for me, doubtless, for a time; but it will be the grief of a sister for a brother, not that of a wife for her husband and, in time, she will marry the man to whom you shall give her, and will be happy. Even for myself, I would rather that it were so left. I shall feel more free from cares and responsibilities; and though, if you and my father lay your orders upon me, I shall of course obey them, I pray you that, in this matter, you will suffer me to have my way." Martha talked the matter over with her husband; and they agreed that John's wishes should be carried out, and that the marriage should be postponed until the troubles were over. Neither of them believed that John would fall in the struggle. They regarded his escape from Jotapata as well-nigh miraculous, and felt assured that God, having specially protected him through such great danger, would continue to do so to the end. Contrary to expectation, Vespasian had not followed up his success at Jotapata by a march against Jerusalem. His army had suffered very heavy losses in the siege; and the desperate valor which the defenders of the town had shown had, doubtless, impressed upon his mind the formidable nature of the task he had undertaken. If a little mountain town had cost him so dearly, what would not be the loss which would be entailed by the capture of a city like Jerusalem, with its position of vast natural strength, its solid and massive fortifications; and defended, as it would be, by the whole strength of the Jewish nation, fighting with the fury of religious fanaticism and despair! His army, strong as it was, would doubtless capture the city, but at such a cost that it might be crippled for further action; and Vespasian was keeping one eye upon Rome, and wished to have his army complete, and in perfect order, in readiness for anything that might occur there. Therefore, after the fall of Jotapata he marched first to Caesarea and, after a short halt there, passed north to Caesarea Philippi--where the climate, cooled by the breezes from the mountains, was pleasant and healthful--and here he gave the army twenty days to rest, and recover from their wounds and fatigues. He then marched south again to Scythopolis, or Bethsan, lying just within the borders of Samaria, and not far from the Jordan. Here Titus, with a detached force, joined him; and they prepared to reduce the cities near the lake. Simon had by this time returned home, accompanied by John and Jonas. Simon tried to persuade his son to remain with his mother, but John had entreated that he might accompany him. "The war may last for a long time, father; and the land must be tilled, else why should you yourself return home? We are in the province of King Agrippa and, after what has befallen Jotapata and Japha, it is not likely that the people of Hippos, or of other towns, will venture to show disaffection--therefore there is no reason why the Romans should carry fire and sword through Agrippa's country, east of Jordan. It is well that my mother and Mary should not return for, if evil days should come, they could not save themselves by rapid flight; besides we risk but death, and death were a thousand times better than slavery among the Romans. If we find that they are approaching, and are wasting the land, we can fly. The boats are close by; and we can take to the lake, and land where we will, and make our way back here." "And you will not seek, John, when the Romans approach, to enter Tiberias or Gamala, or any other cities that may hold out against the Romans?" "No, father. I have had my share of defending a walled city and, save for Jerusalem, I will fight no more in cities. All these places must fall, sooner or later, if the Romans sit down before them. I will not be cooped up again. If any leader arises, and draws together a band in the mountains to harass and attack the Romans, I will join him--for it has always seemed to me that in that way, only, can we successfully fight against them--but if not, I will aid you in the labors of the farm, until the Romans march against Jerusalem." Simon yielded to his son's wishes, for the events of the last year had aged him much, and he felt the need of assistance on the farm. The men who had worked for him had--save Isaac, and one or two of the older men--gone away to Jerusalem, or to Gamala, or one or other of the fortified towns. The time for the harvest was at hand, and there would be few to gather it in. Martha would fain have accompanied them, but Simon would not hear of this. "You are in a safe refuge here, wife, and rather than that you should leave it, I would abandon our farm, altogether. If you come, Mary and the women must come also and, even for us men, the danger would be greater than were we alone." Mary also tried her power of persuasion, but Simon was not to be moved; and the three set off together--for Jonas, as a matter of course, accompanied John wherever he went. The three weeks' kindness, rest, and good feeding had done wonders for him. The wild, reckless expression, which John had noticed when he had first met him, had well-nigh disappeared; his bones had become better covered, and his cheeks filled out and, comfortably clothed as he now was, few would have recognized in him the wild goatherd of Jotapata. Simon was mounted on a donkey, the others walked. "It is well that I am off again," Jonas said. "Another month there, and I should have got fat and lazy, and should have almost forgotten how to run and climb, and should have grown like the dwellers on the plains." "There will be plenty of work for you, on the farm, Jonas," Simon said. "You need not be afraid of growing fat and lazy, there." "I don't think I am fond of work," Jonas said, thoughtfully, "not of steady work, but I will work hard now, Simon; you have all been so good to me that I would work till I dropped for you. I wouldn't have worked before, not if they had beaten me ever so much; because they were always unkind to me, and why should one work, for those who do nothing for you but beat and ill-use you?" "You should always do your duty, Jonas," Simon said. "If others do not do their duty to you, so much the worse for them; but that is no excuse for your not doing your duty, as far as you can." Jonas, being a little behind Simon, made a little face expressive of his disagreement with this opinion; but he said nothing. They followed the course of the river Hieromax down to Capitolias; where they slept, that night, in the house of some friends of Simon and, on the following evening, arrived at the farm. John received a hearty greeting, from Isaac and the other men; and several of the fishermen, when they heard of his return, came in to see him. For the next fortnight, John and Jonas worked from daylight till dark and, by the end of that time, the greater part of the corn was gathered in the granary. A portion was stored away in a deep pit, straw being laid over it when the hole was nearly full, and earth being thrown in level to the surface; so that, should the Romans come and sack the granary, there should still remain a store which would carry them on until the next harvest. Then the news came, from across the lake, that the Romans were breaking up their camp at Scythopolis, and were moving towards Tiberias. No resistance was expected to be offered there. The greater part of the inhabitants had, all along, been well affected to the Romans; and had only been compelled, by a small faction in the city and by the fear of the country people of Galilee, to join in the insurrection. It was, too, the richest city in the dominions of King Agrippa for, although these lay for the most part east of Jordan, the towns of Tiberias and Tarichea were included in them. Tiberias was, in fact, his chief city. Here he had his richest palace; and the city, which greatly benefited by being the seat of his government, was Roman rather than Jewish in its hopes and feelings. So confident was Vespasian that no resistance would be offered that, when he arrived within half a mile of the town, he sent forward an officer, with fifty horse, to exhort the people to open their gates. When he got near the town, the officer dismounted and went forward to speak; when a party of the war faction, headed by Jesus the son of Shaphat, charged out upon him. The officer, having had no orders to fight the Jews, fled on foot; with five of his men, who had also dismounted. Their assailants seized the horses, and carried them in triumph into the city. The senate of Tiberias at once issued out from the city, and hurried to the camp of Vespasian; and implored him not to visit the crime of a small body of desperate men upon the whole city, whose inhabitants had always been favorably disposed towards Rome. Agrippa added his entreaties to theirs; and Vespasian, who had just given orders for the troops to advance to storm and sack the city, recalled them. The insurgents under Jesus fled to Tarichea and, the gates being opened, the Romans entered Tiberias; Vespasian issuing strict orders against plundering, and the ill treatment of the inhabitants. At Tarichea were assembled not only the insurgents from Tiberias, but fighting men from all the towns on the lake, and from the country on the east. The city had been carefully fortified by Josephus and, as the inhabitants had a very large number of vessels in the port, they relied upon these for escape, in case the town should be reduced to extremities. No sooner did the Romans appear before their walls, and begin to lay out their siege works, than the Tiberians and others, under the command of Jesus, sallied out and dispersed the workmen. When the Roman troops advanced, in regular order, some of the Jews retired into the city. Others made for their boats, which were ranged along on the shore; and in these, putting out a little distance, they cast anchor, and opened fire with their missiles upon the Romans. In the meantime, a large number of Jews had just arrived from the farther side of Jordan. Vespasian sent Titus, with six hundred chosen horse, to disperse them. The number of the Jews was so large that Titus sent for further succor, and was reinforced by Trajan, with four hundred horse; while Antonius Silo, with two thousand archers, was sent by Vespasian to the side of a hill opposite the city, to open fire thence upon the defenders of the walls, and thus prevent them from harassing the Roman horsemen as they advanced. The Jews resisted the first charge of the cavalry; but they could not long withstand the long spears, and the weight and impetus of the horses, and fled in disorder towards the town. The cavalry pursued and tried to cut them off from it but, although great numbers were slaughtered, the rest--by pure weight of numbers--broke through, and reached the city. A great dissension arose within the walls. The inhabitants of the town--dismayed by the defeat inflicted, by a small number of Romans, upon the multitude in the field--were unwilling to draw upon themselves the terrible fate which had befallen the towns which had resisted the Romans, and therefore clamored for instant surrender. The strangers--great numbers of whom were mountaineers from Peraea, Ammonitis, and the broken country of Mount Galaad and the slopes of Hermon, who knew little of what had been passing in Galilee--were for resistance, and a fray arose in the town. The noise of the tumult reached Titus; who called upon his men to seize the moment, while the enemy were engaged in civil discord, to attack. Then, leading his men, he dashed on horseback into the lake, passed round the end of the wall, and entered the city. Consternation seized the besieged. The inhabitants attempted no resistance, still hoping that their peaceful character would save them from ill treatment; and many allowed themselves to be slaughtered, unresistingly. Jesus and his followers, however, fought gallantly; striving, but in vain, to make their way down to the ships in the port. Jesus himself, and many of his men, were killed. Titus opened the gates, and sent word to his father that the city was captured; and the Roman army at once entered. Vespasian placed a number of his troops in the large vessels in the port, and sent them off to attack those who had first fled to the boats. These were, for the most part, fishermen from the various towns on the lake. The cavalry were sent all round the lake, to cut off and slay those who sought to gain the land. The battle--or rather the slaughter--went on for some time. The fishermen, in their light boats, could do nothing against the soldiers in the large vessels. These slew them with arrows or javelins, from a distance; or ran them down, and killed them as they struggled in the water. Many of the boats were run ashore; but the occupants were slain, there, by the soldiers on the lookout for them. Altogether, six thousand perished in the slaughter. In the meantime, Vespasian had set up a tribunal in Tarichea. The inhabitants of the town were separated from the strangers. Vespasian himself was, as Josephus said, unwilling to shed more blood--as he had promised, when he had entered the city, to spare the lives of all--but he yielded to the arguments of those who said that the strangers were mountain robbers, the foes of every man. Accordingly, they were ordered to leave the city, by the road to Tiberias. As soon as they had left the town, the troops surrounded them, headed by Vespasian in person. Twelve hundred of the aged and helpless he ordered to be slain, at once; six thousand of the most able-bodied he sent to Nero, to be employed on the canal he was digging across the isthmus of Corinth; thirty thousand four hundred were sold as slaves; and a large number were bestowed upon Agrippa, who also sold them as slaves. This act, after the formal promise of pardon, disgraces the memory of Vespasian even more than the wholesale massacres of the garrisons of the towns which resisted to the last. The news of this act of wholesale vengeance spread such terror through the land that the whole of the cities of Galilee at once opened their gates; and sent deputations to Vespasian to offer their submission, and ask for pardon. Gamala, Gischala, and Itabyrium--a town on Mount Tabor, which had been strongly fortified by Josephus--alone held out. Itabyrium lay some ten miles to the west of Tiberias. Standing back among the trees, at a short distance from the lake, Simon, John, and the workers on the farm watched with horror the slaughter of the fishermen on the lake. None of their neighbors were among those who had gone out to aid in the defense of Tarichea; for Simon had gone among them, to dissuade them from launching their boats and joining the flotilla, as it proceeded down the lake in the morning. He urged upon them that, if they took part in the affair, they would only bring down vengeance upon themselves and their families. "There is no lack of men," he said, "in Tiberias and Tarichea. Such aid as you can give would be useless and, whether the cities fall at once, or whether they resist, the vengeance of the Romans will fall upon you. In a few hours, their horsemen can ride round the shores of the lake, and cut off all who are absent from returning to their homes, and give the villages to fire and sword. Those who can point to their boats, drawn up at the side of the lake, will be able to give proof to the Romans that they have not taken part against them. So far, we have escaped the horrors of war on this side of Jordan. "If the strong cities of Galilee cannot resist the Roman arms, what hope should we have on this side, where the population is comparatively scanty, and where there are few strong places? Do not let us provoke the Romans, my friends. If they go up against Jerusalem, let those who will, go, and die in defense of the Temple; but it would be worse than folly to provoke the wrath of the Romans, by thrusting yourselves into the quarrel here." Warmly did the fishermen congratulate themselves, when they saw the combat proceeding on the lake, and when a strong body of Roman horse rode along the shore, leaving parties at regular intervals to cut off those who might try and land. A body of twenty were posted down by the boats, and two came into the village and demanded food for the party. Simon, when he saw them coming, ordered all the able-bodied men to retire, and remain in the olive groves on the slopes, at a distance from the lake, until the Romans had gone; while he, and Isaac, and some other old men, went down and met the soldiers. "Are any of the people of this place out there on the lake?" the officer in command of the twenty men asked; as Simon and his party, bringing bread, fruit, and wine, came down to the waterside. "No, sir," Simon replied. "We have but eight boats belonging to the village, and they are all there. We are peaceable people, who till the soil and fish the lake, and take no part in the doings of the great towns. We are subjects of King Agrippa, and have no cause for discontent with him." "A great many other people have no cause for discontent, old man," the officer said; "but they have, nevertheless, risen in rebellion. However, as your boats are here, and your people seem to have taken no part in this matter, I have naught to say against you; especially as your wine is good, and you have brought down plenty of it." Simon and his companions withdrew and, with aching hearts, watched from a distance the massacre upon the lake. The fury, however, produced among the men in the towns and villages on the shore, at the sight of the numerous corpses washed ashore, was so great that many of the young men left their avocations and started for Gamala; which, relying upon the strength of its position--which was even stronger than that of Jotapata--was resolved to resist to the last. Several of the young men of the village, and many from the villages near, were determined to take this course, maddened by the slaughter of many friends and relations. John himself was as furious as any, especially when the news came of the violation of faith at Tarichea, and of the selling of nigh forty thousand men into slavery. "Father," he said, that evening, "I had thought to stay quietly with you, until the Romans advanced against Jerusalem; but I find I cannot do so. The massacre at Jotapata was bad enough, but the slaughter of defenseless men, on the lake, is worse. I pray you, let me go." "Would you go into Gamala, and die there, John?" Simon asked. "Better to die at the Temple, than to throw away your life here." "I do not intend to go into Gamala, father, nor to throw away my life--though I care little for it, except for the sake of you and my mother and Mary--but I would do something; and I would save the sons of our neighbors, and others, from the fate that assuredly waits them if they enter Gamala. They know not, as I do, how surely the walls will go down before the Roman engines; but even did they know it, so determined are they to fight these slayers of our countrymen that they would still go. "What I propose to do is to carry out what I have always believed to be the true way of fighting the Romans. I will collect a band, and take to the mountains, and harass them whenever we may find opportunity. I know the young men from our village will follow me, if I will lead them; and they will be able to get their friends along the shore to do the like. In that way the danger will not be so great for, in the mountains, the Romans would have no chance of overtaking us while, if we are successful, many will gather round us, and we may do good service." "I will not stay you, John, if you feel that the Lord has called upon you to go; and indeed, you may save, as you say, the lives of many of our neighbors, by persuading them to take to the hills with you, instead of shutting themselves up in Gamala. Go down, then, to the village, and talk to them; and see what they say to your plan." John had little doubt as to his proposal being accepted by the younger men of the village. The fact that he had been chosen as one of the bodyguard of Josephus had, at once, given him importance in the eyes of his neighbors; and that he should have passed through the siege of Jotapata, and had escaped, had caused them to regard him not only as a valiant fighter, but as one under the special protection of God. Since his return, scarce an evening had passed without parties coming, from one or other of the villages along the shore, to hear from his lips the story of the siege. As soon, then, as he went down to the fishing village, and told the young men who had determined to leave for Gamala that he thought badly of such action--but that he intended to raise a band, and take to the mountains and harass the Romans--they eagerly agreed to follow him, and to obey his orders. There were eight of them, and John at once made them take an oath of obedience and fellowship; swearing in all things to obey his orders, to be true to each other to death, to be ready to give their lives, when called upon, for the destruction of the Romans; and never, if they fell into the hands of the enemy, to betray the secrets of the band, whatever might be the tortures to which they were exposed. John could have obtained more than eight men in the village, but he would only take quite young men. "I want only men who can undergo fatigue and watching; who can climb mountains, and run as fast as the Roman horse can gallop. Besides, for work like this it is necessary that there should be one leader, and that he should be promptly obeyed. If I take older men, they will naturally wish to have a voice in the ordering of things. I have seen enough of military matters to know that, for prompt decision and swift execution, one head--and one head only--is necessary. Besides, we may find difficulties in the way of getting food and, at first, I wish for only a small band. If success attends us, we shall increase rapidly. Twenty will be quite enough, to begin with." As soon as the eight young men--of whom all but two were under twenty years old--had taken the oath, they started at once to the villages round. "Do each of you gather in two, but no more," John said; "and let them be those whom you know to be strong and active. Do not bring more; and if four of you bring but one, so much the better. If you find many more eager to join, you can tell them that we will send for them, when the time comes, to increase our numbers; and pray them to abide here, and not to go into Gamala. "Let each bring his arms and a bag of meal; and meet me, tomorrow evening at sundown, on the Hieromax River, three miles below Capitolias--that will be opposite to Abila, which lies on the mountain side. Let all travel singly, for the Roman horse may be about. However, as we shall be walking east, while Gamala lies to the west of south, they will not take us--should we come upon them--for men going thither to aid in the defense of the town." The young men started at once on their missions, full of confidence in John; and feeling certain that, under his leadership, they should soon come to blows with the Romans; being also, in their hearts, well satisfied that their warfare would be in the open country, and they should not be called upon to fight pent up in walls from which there was no escape. Having seen his followers off, John returned home, and told Simon the progress he had made. The old man sighed. "I do not seek to keep you, John; for your duty to your country stands, now, in the first rank of all; and it may be that the Lord preserved you, at Jotapata, because he intends you to do great deeds for him, here. I do not say spare yourself, or avoid danger, for our sakes. I only say, do not throw away your life by rashness. Remember that, young as you are, you are a leader, and be prudent as well as brave. "After Gamala has fallen--as fall I fear it will--and the Romans have moved away from these parts--as they will then do, for there is no resistance to them, on this side of Jordan, save at that town--I shall bring your mother and Mary back again; and you will find us waiting here to welcome you, if you return. If not, my son, I shall mourn for you, as Jacob mourned for Joseph--and more, seeing that you are the only prop of my old age--but I shall have the consolation of knowing that you died for your country." "You will find in Mary a daughter, father; and you must find a husband for her, who will take my place. But it may be that if the Romans march not direct upon Jerusalem--and they say that Vespasian has arranged that two of the legions shall winter on the sea coast, at Caesarea, and the third at Scythopolis--it is probable that he will not move against Jerusalem till the spring. In that case I may be often here, during the winter. For I will not go down to Jerusalem until the last thing; for there all is turmoil and disturbance and, until the time comes when they must lay aside their private feuds and unite to repel the invader, I will not go down." Father and son talked until late in the night. In the morning John made his preparations for departure. He had told Jonas of his intentions. The boy listened silently, only saying, "Wherever you go, John, I am ready to go with you; it makes no difference to me;" and afterwards went down to the lake side, where he filled his pouch with smooth pebbles, each of which he selected with great care for, when herding his goats among the mountains, Jonas had been always practicing with a sling, and many a cony had fallen before his unerring aim. All the lads in the mountains were accustomed to the use of the sling, but none in Jotapata had approached Jonas in their skill with this weapon. During the siege he had often astonished John by the accuracy of his aim; and had several times compelled the Romans to cease working one of their machines, which specially harassed the defenders of the wall, by striking down one after another of those who directed it--his stones seldom failing to strike them full in the face, the only spot unprotected by their armor. In the morning, John prepared to start. He and Jonas each carried a small sack, supported by a strap passing over the shoulders, and containing some eight pounds of meal and a gourd of water. Jonas carried no weapon, save a long knife hidden under his garment, and his sling and pouch of stones. John carried a sword and buckler, and a horn. Before they started, John knelt before his father and received his blessing; and Simon, as he bade him adieu, gave him a small bag of money. "You will need to buy things in the mountains, lad; and I would not that you should be driven, like the robber bands, to take food by force. It is true that they who go not to the war should support those who risk their lives for their country; but there are many aged men who, like myself, cannot fight, there are many women whose husbands are away in Gamala or Jerusalem, and these may not be able to afford to assist others. Therefore, it is well that you should have means of paying for what you require; otherwise the curse of the widow and fatherless may fall upon you. "And now, farewell, my son! May God have you in his keeping, and send you home safe to your mother and me!" Chapter 8: Among The Mountains. Jonas was in high spirits as they started from the farm. He was leaving no friends behind and, so long as he had John with him, he was perfectly contented. He was delighted to be on the move again for, although he had worked steadily in getting in the harvest, regular labor was distasteful to him and, accustomed as he had been to wander, for weeks, free and unchecked with his goats among the mountains, the regular life and order of the farm were irksome to him. John, on the other hand, was silent; replying briefly to the boy's questions. He felt the danger of the enterprise upon which he had embarked, and his responsibility as leader; and the thought of the grief which his father and mother would feel, did ought befall him, weighed on his mind. Presently, however, he roused himself. "Now, Jonas, you must keep a sharp lookout round for, if we see any Roman soldiers in the distance, I must hide my sword and buckler before they discover us, and you must stow away your sling and pouch; then we will walk quietly on. If they question us, we are going to stay with friends at Capitolias and, as there will be nothing suspicious about us, they will not interfere with us. After they have passed on, we will go back for our arms. We are not traveling in the direction of Gamala, and they will have no reason to doubt our story." They did not, however, meet any of the parties of Roman horse who were scouring the country, carrying off grain and cattle for the use of the army; and they arrived, in the afternoon, on the bank of the Hieromax. Upon the other side of the river rose the steep slopes of Mount Galaad, high up on whose side was perched the little town of Abila. "Here we can wait, Jonas. We are nearly opposite the town. The others will, doubtless, soon be here." It was not long before the band made their appearance, coming along in twos and threes as they had met on the river bank. By sunset the last had arrived, and John found that each of his first recruits had brought two others. He looked with satisfaction at the band. The greater part of them had been fishermen. All were strong and active; and John saw that his order that young men, only, should be taken had been obeyed, for not one of them was over the age of twenty-three and, as he had laid it down, as an absolute rule, all were unmarried. All were, like himself, armed with sword and buckler; and several had brought with them bags with javelin heads, to be fitted to staves, later on. All their faces bore a look of determination and, at the same time, of gladness. The massacre on the lake had excited the inhabitants of the shore to fury, and even those who had hitherto held back from the national cause were now eager to fight against the Romans; but many shrunk from going to Gamala--which was, indeed, already as full of fighting men as it could hold--and John's proposal to form a band, for warfare in the mountains, had exactly suited the more adventurous spirits. All present were known to John, personally. Many of them were sons of friends of Simon; and the others he had met at village gatherings, or when fishing on the lake. There were warm greetings, as each accession to the party arrived; and each member of the band felt his spirits rise higher, at finding that so many of those he knew, personally, were to be his comrades in the enterprise. When the last comer had arrived, John said: "We will now be moving forward. We had best get well up the mountain, before night falls. It matters not much where we camp, tonight; tomorrow we can choose a good spot for our headquarters." It being now the height of the dry season, the river was low, and they had no difficulty in wading across. Then they struck up the hill, to the right of Abila, until they had fairly entered the forests which clothed the lower slopes of the mountains. Then John gave the word for a halt. Dead wood was soon collected, and a fire made. Cakes of meal were baked in the ashes and, after these had been eaten, the party lay round the fire and, a few minutes later, John rose to his feet. Illustration: John Incites his Countrymen to Harass the Romans. "You all know the reason for which we are gathered together here. We all long for vengeance on the oppressors of our country, the murderers of our kinsmen and friends, the men who carry off our women to shame and slavery in Rome. We are all ready to die, for our country and our God; but we would fain die doing as much harm to the Romans as we can, fighting like freemen in the open, instead of rats slaughtered in a cage. That is why, instead of going into Gamala, we have gathered here. "I am the youngest among you; but I have so far assumed the leadership because, in the first place, I have been much with Josephus, who--although he may now, most unworthily, have gone over to the Romans to save his life--was yet a wise governor, and a great leader. From him, I have learned much of the Romans. In the second place, I have seen more of their warfare than any of you, having passed through the terrible siege of Jotapata. Lastly, I believe that God, having saved me almost alone of all the host that defended the town, has intended me as an instrument for his service. "Therefore have I taken upon myself the command, in the first place, of this band; but at the same time, if you think that I am too young, and would rather place another at your head, I will stand aside, and release from their oath those who have already sworn. I am not self seeking. I crave not the leadership over you, and will obey whomsoever you may choose for your chief. But to whomsoever is the leader, prompt obedience must be given; for there must, even in a band like this, be order and discipline. We work for a common good, but we must yield to the direction of one will, and one head. "Now, what say you? I will walk away, to leave you free to consult one with another; and will abide by your decision, whatever it be. Only the decision, once made, must be adhered to. There must be no after grumbling, no hesitation or drawing back. You must have absolute confidence, and give absolute obedience, to him whom you choose. For only so can we hope to succeed in our enterprises." John had gone but a short way among the trees, when he was called back again. All had come prepared to follow him. His father had always been a man of weight and position among the villagers on the shore and, democratic as were the Jewish institutions, there was yet a certain respect paid to those of position above their fellows. John's experience and, especially, his escape from Jotapata, seemed specially to mark him as one destined to play an important part. And his quiet resolute bearing, now--the feeling that he knew what was to be done, and how to do it; that he was, in fact, their natural leader--came home to all, and it was with sincerity that they assured him that they accepted him as their leader. "Very well," John said, quietly. "Then let those who have not already taken the oath stand up, and do so." This was done, and John then said: "Now, I will tell you more of my plans; although these, of course, cannot be in any way settled until we see how things turn out. It is by watching for opportunities and seizing the right moment, only, that we can hope for success. We are all ready to give our lives for our country, but we do not wish to throw them away. We want each of us to do as much as possible. We want to live, so as to share in the defense of the Temple; therefore, we have to combine prudence with daring. "As for an attack upon any strong body of Roman troops, it would be impossible--unless they attempt to follow us among the mountains. One of our first duties will be to learn the country well, so that we may know where to defend ourselves, should they come up after us; where, from eminences, we can cast down rocks upon them; where there are crags which we can climb, but up which their heavy-armed soldiers cannot follow us. This is our first task for, as yet, they have not commenced the siege of Gamala. When they do so, we must draw down near them and hide ourselves, mark the position of their camp, see how their tents are arranged, and where their sentries are placed. "Then we can begin work: sometimes falling upon their guards; at other times creeping in past their sentries, scattering through the camp and, at a given signal, firing their tents with the brands from their fires; slaying those who first rush out, and then making off again to the hills. "Then, too, they will be sending great numbers of men up the hills, to cut timber and branches for their embankments, their breastworks, and the construction of the wattles to protect their machines. We shall be in hiding and, when a party of men separates from the rest, we will fall upon these; we will harass their workers from a distance, always avoiding a regular combat, but hindering their work, and wearing them out. Thus we may do better service, to the defenders of Gamala, than if we were within the walls. "At present we have only swords, but we must get bows and arrows. It would not have been safe to have carried them across the plains; but we can procure them at Abila, or Jabez Galaad. I fear that we shall not be able to interfere with the provisioning of the army--for upon the plains we shall have no chance with their cavalry--but, here in these mountains, stretching away over Peraea into Arabia and Moab, we can laugh at pursuit by the Romans; and even Agrippa's light-armed Arabs will have difficulty in following us, and of them we need have little fear. At Jotapata we proved ourselves a match for the Romans; and their light-armed troops will not care to venture against us, alone, as they will not know our numbers, and will fear being led into ambushes. "There is one question which we have to consider, and that is food; as to flesh, we shall have it in abundance. There will be many flocks of goats, belonging to those in Gamala, straying among the mountains without an owner; therefore of goats' milk and flesh we can take abundance, but there will be a scarcity of grain. I have some money with me, with which we can purchase it at Abila, and the villages. As for Jabez Galaad, it is too close to Gamala; and the Romans will probably ascend the hill and destroy it, or place a guard there. At any rate, the money will be sufficient to purchase meal for us, for some time--much longer, probably, than Gamala will be able to hold out--and when that has fallen, it will be time to arrange about the future. Only let us take nothing without payment; let us not be like the robber bands, which prey upon the people, until they long for the Romans as masters. "Only we must remember that, while we desire now to do the Romans as much harm as possible, this is but the beginning of our work; and that we must save ourselves for the future. Gamala is but one town; and we shall have plenty of opportunities for striking at the enemy, in the future. We have put our hands to the plow now and, so long as the war lasts, we will not look back. It may be that our example may lead others to follow it and, in that case, the Romans' difficulties will thicken, every day. Were there scores of bands of determined men, like us, hanging around them; ready to attack small bodies, whenever they venture away from their camps to gather in provisions and forage, and to harass them, at night, by constant alarms, we could wear them out. "Only, we must always avoid a pitched battle. In irregular fighting we are as good as they--better, for we can move more quickly--but when it comes to fighting in order of battle, we have no chance with them, whatever. Their cavalry, the other day outside Tarichea, were like wolves among a flock of sheep. Nothing but disaster can come of fighting in the plain. Every people should fight in the way that suits them best, and an attempt to meet an enemy in their own way of fighting is sure to lead to disaster. Let the Roman keep the plain, with his cavalry and his heavy infantry; let the Jew, light footed and swift, keep to the hills. He is as much superior, there, as is the Roman in the plains. "And now, we must establish signals. We will get horns, at Abila; and I will fix upon signals. One long note will mean, gather to me; two, fall back gradually; three, retire at once with all speed, to the spot agreed upon, before setting out in the morning. Two short notes will mean, advance and attack in the manner arranged; one short note, oft repeated, will tell you the Romans are advancing, sound your horns--for it were well that each provided himself with a cow's horn, so that the signals can be repeated. If we are scattered over a hillside among the trees, and the Romans hear horns sounded in many quarters, they will think that there must be a large body of men assembled. This will make them slow and cautious in all their movements; will force many to stand prepared, with their arms, to guard those at work; and will altogether confuse and puzzle them. "And now, we will lie down and sleep; as soon as it is dawn, we will be on foot again." The next two days were spent in exploring that part of the mountains: examining the direction, and extent, of each valley and ravine; seeing where steep precipices afforded an opportunity for rolling down rocks upon an enemy passing along the valley, or trying to storm the height; in searching for pools in dried watercourses; and in deciding upon a spot favorable for the camp. They fixed upon a spot high up on the mountains, two miles east of Abila, as their headquarters. It was in a pass between two peaks, and gave them the option of descending either to the north or south, or of skirting along the mountains towards the sources of the Jabbok river, and thence crossing the Hermon range beyond the limits of Peraea. Jonas was sent, the first thing, to discover whether the Romans had taken possession of Jabez Galaad; which lay but five miles from Gamala, and on the southern side of the range of hills on whose western spur Gamala was built. He returned, in a short time, saying that he had found the inhabitants in a state of great alarm; for that a Roman force could be seen, coming up the road from the plain. Most of the fighting men of the town were in Gamala; the rest, with the young women, were leaving, so that only old people and children would be found in the town when the Romans arrived. Jonas also brought word that Vespasian's whole army was moving against Gamala. John had given Jonas money, before he started, to purchase bows and arrows. He had brought back bows for the whole party, and as many arrows as he could carry. "I paid nothing for them," he said, as he threw them down. "The man who sold them was praying those who were leaving the town to take them--for he thought that, if the Romans found them in his house, they would destroy it--but no one listened. All were too busy, in carrying off such of their household goods as they could take, to burden themselves further; so he gladly gave me as many as I could take. I carried off nearly all his bows; and I left him breaking up the rest, and his store of arrows, in order to burn them before the Romans arrived. "A boy, carrying a bag of arrowheads, came with me some little distance. I paid the man for them, and they are now hidden in the forest. You can fetch them when you will, but I could not carry more with me than I have got." "You have done well, Jonas," John said, as the men seized each a bow, and divided the arrows among them; and then stood waiting, expecting orders from John to proceed, at once, to harass the Roman column as it ascended the hill. John said, in answer to their looks: "We will not meddle with them, today. Did we shoot at them, they would suppose that we belonged to Jabez Galaad; and would, in revenge, destroy the town and all those they may find within it; and our first essay against them would bring destruction upon thousands of our countrymen." The others saw the justness of his reasoning, and their faith in him as their leader was strengthened by his calmness, and readiness of decision. "Is the bag of arrowheads heavy, Jonas?" "It is as much as the boy, who was about my own age, could carry," Jonas replied. "Then do you, Phineas, and you, Simeon, go with Jonas to the place where the bag is hidden, and carry it to the place we have fixed upon for our camp. If, on the way, you come across a herd of goats, shoot two or three of them and take them with you, and get fires ready. The day is getting on, but we will go across the mountains, and see where the Romans are pitching their camp and, by sunset, we will be with you." Making their way along the mountain the band came, after an hour's walking, to a point where they could obtain a view of Gamala. The city stood on the western extremity of the hill which, after sloping gradually down, rose suddenly in a sharp ridge like the hump of a camel--from which the town had its name, Gamala. On both sides, this rock ended abruptly in a precipitous chasm; in which ran the two branches of the Hieromax, which met at the lower end of the ridge, and ran together into the end of the lake at Tarichea, three miles away. Thus, Gamala was only accessible from behind, where the ridge joined the mountains. Across this neck of land a deep fosse had been dug, so as to cut off all approach. The houses were crowded thickly on the steep slope of the ridge, which was so abrupt that the houses seemed to overhang one another. On the southern crag, which was of immense height, was the citadel of the town. There was a spring, supplying abundance of water, within the walls. Had it been defended by a garrison as brave and numerous as that of Jotapata, it would have been well-nigh impregnable; but Cheres and Joseph, who commanded, had none of the genius of Josephus, although they were brave and determined. The city was crowded with fugitives from all parts; and had already, for seven months, resisted a besieging force which Agrippa had sent against it. It was impossible to blockade the whole circuit of the town; but Vespasian took possession of all the neighboring heights, and established his camp, with that of the Fifteenth Legion, on the hill facing the city to the east. The Fifth Legion threw up works, opposite the center of the city; while the Tenth set to work to fill up ditches and ravines, in order to facilitate the approaches. Agrippa approached the wall, to persuade the inhabitants to surrender; but was struck on the right elbow by a stone from a sling, and forced to retire. This insult to the native king, who came in the character of an ambassador, enraged the Romans; and they set about the operations for the siege with great vigor. In spite of the efforts of the Jews, the fosse which protected the wall on the east was speedily filled up; and the Romans then began, as at Jotapata, to raise an embankment facing the wall. The day after the Romans had established their camp, John and his followers advanced along the mountain until they could look down upon it and, for a long time, watched the Romans at work, and learned all the details of the camp. "You must fix them in your minds," John said, "in order that, even on a dark night, you may be able to make your way about it without difficulty; so that you may be able, after striking a blow, to fly directly to the mountain--for any who get confused, and miss their way, will assuredly be killed. You see, the enemy have placed a strong guard, halfway up the hillside, in order to protect themselves from surprise; but it will be possible, by moving down to the streams, and then mounting again, to reach the camp without passing through them. And by the same way we must make our retreat for, if we succeed in setting the camp on fire, the flames will enable the guard on the mountains to see us approaching them. "I had hoped that we might be able to penetrate, unobserved, to the tent of Vespasian, and to slay him and some of his generals but, by the bustle that we see round that tower on the hillside, and by the strong force of cavalry picketed round it, it is evident that he has taken up his quarters there and, indeed, from the top of the tower he can look down upon the town, and on all that is passing there, and issue his directions to his troops accordingly; so we must give up that idea. Another time, we may be more fortunate. "But see, a great number of troops are ascending the hill towards us, doubtless to cut timber for their works. As soon as they are at work, we will attack them." The party retired into the forest and, as soon as they heard the sound of the Roman axes, they crept quietly forward; moving noiselessly, with their sandaled feet, among the trees. When within a short distance of the Romans, John ordered them to halt; and crept forward, with Jonas, to reconnoiter. There was little fear of their being heard, for several hundred men were at work, felling trees; a line of sentries, at ten paces apart, standing under arms to prevent a surprise. The Romans were working too thickly to permit of any successful action, by so small a party; and John saw that the idea of an attack must be abandoned, and that he must confine himself, for the present, to harassing the sentries. Rejoining his men, he told them what he had discovered; and bade them scatter along the line and, crawling up under the protection of the trees, to approach as near as they could to the line of sentries; and then to shoot at them--or at the workmen, many of whom, having thrown off their heavy armor to enable them the better to work, offered more favorable marks for the arrows than the sentries--whose faces, only, were exposed. They were on no account to come to close quarters with the Romans. If the latter advanced, they were instantly to retire, approaching again as soon as the Romans recommenced their work; and so to continue, until he blew the signal for them to draw off, altogether. They were not to begin until they heard his signal for attack. After allowing some little time to elapse for the men to get into position, John blew his horn. A moment, and cries and shouts were heard along the whole Roman line. The sound of chopping instantly ceased, and the Roman trumpets blew to arms. John had advanced sufficiently near to see the Roman workmen before he gave the signal. Jonas was a little in advance of him and, as the horn sounded, he saw him step out from behind a tree, whirl his sling round his head and discharge a stone and, almost simultaneously, a Roman sentinel, some forty paces away, fell with a crash upon the ground. The Roman soldiers who had retained their armor ran instantly forward, to support their sentries. The others hastily buckled on their breastplates, caught up their bucklers and helmets, and joined their comrades. Arrows continued to fall among them from their invisible foes and, although most of these fell harmless from their armor, several soldiers fell, in addition to the seven or eight who had been killed by the first volley. The centurion in command soon saw that the number of his assailants was small but, afraid of being drawn into an ambush, he hesitated to give orders for an advance; but dispatched a messenger instantly to camp, contenting himself with throwing out strong parties a hundred yards in advance of his line. These now became the objects of attack, while arrows ceased to fall among the main body of the troops. John moved round the flank, till he gained a position whence he could observe the camp. The trumpets above had been heard there, and the troops had already taken up their position under arms. As he looked on, he saw the messenger run up to a party of mounted officers. A minute later a trumpet sounded, and a strong body of Arabian archers advanced, at a run, up the slope. John at once withdrew to his first position, and sounded the order for instant retreat; and then, hurrying back half a mile, sounded the note for his followers to assemble at the spot where he was standing. In a few minutes, all had joined him. They were in high spirits at the success of this first skirmish; and wondered why they had been so suddenly called off, when the Romans had shown no signs of advancing against them. "There are fully a thousand Arab archers in the forest, by this time," John said. "They are as fleet of foot as we are, and it would be madness to remain. We have stopped their work, for a time; and have killed many, without a scratch to ourselves. That is well enough, for today. Tomorrow we will beat them up, again." At daybreak, two of the party were sent forward to the edge of the wood, to see with what force the Romans went out to work. They brought back the report that they were accompanied by a strong body of archers; and that, as soon as they reached the forest, the archers were scattered in front of them for a long distance, and that it would be impossible to approach them, unobserved. On the previous afternoon, John had dispatched Jonas to Abila, and he had returned with a number of cows' horns. Round the fire in the evening, the men had set to work to pierce the points with heated arrowheads, and had converted them into instruments capable of giving a deep, prolonged sound. On the return of the scouts, John set his men in motion. "We cannot fight them, today, but we can hinder their work. We will scatter through the forest and, as we approach them, each is to sound his horn; and continue to do so, from time to time. The Romans will think that a great force is advancing against them." This was done, with the effect John had anticipated. Hearing the sound of horns, all over the mountainside, the Romans concluded that a great force was advancing to attack them; and the archers were at once recalled. The troops all stood to arms and, for several hours, remained waiting an attack. Then, after strong bodies of heavy-armed troops--preceded by the archers, skirmishing before them--had pushed some distance into the forest without meeting with an enemy, the work recommenced; a considerable number still standing to their arms, as protectors to the rest. Although a certain amount of time had been gained, for the city, by the interruption of the work of bringing in timber, John had undertaken these sham attacks rather with the purpose of accustoming his band to work together, and to give them confidence, than with the view of troubling the Romans. In this he was perfectly successful. The band, when they reached their camp, that evening, were in high spirits. They had, for two days, puzzled and baffled a large Roman force; had inflicted some loss upon them, and forced them to desist from their work. They were pleased with themselves, and their leader; and had lost much of the dread of the Romans which the capture of Jotapata, Japha, and Tarichea, and the tales of their cruelty and ferocity, had excited among the whole population. A reverse, at the commencement of their work, would have been fatal; and John had felt that, however earnest the men were, in their determination to die fighting for their country, the loss of a few of their number at the outset would have so dispirited the rest that the probability was that the band would disperse--or would, at any rate, be unwilling to undertake any desperate operation. But in their present mood they were ready for any enterprise upon which he might lead them; and he, accordingly, told them that he should abstain, next day, from a continuance of his attacks upon the working party; but that, at night, he would carry out the design of setting fire to their camp. Accordingly, the following day, the Romans pursued their work unmolested; although they still continued the precaution of keeping a force of archers, and parties of heavy-armed troops, in advance of those working in the wood. John did not move till the afternoon; and then, descending the hill to the right, he skirted along in the lower forest until within two miles of Gamala. Here he halted until nightfall. While waiting for the hour of action, he gave final instructions to his men, and assigned to them the order in which they should ascend from the river towards the rear of the camp. When they approached the spot where they would probably find Roman sentries posted, they were to advance singly, crawling along upon the ground. Those who first went through were to keep straight on until they reached the further end of the camp; stopping, as near as they could judge, fifty paces apart. They were then to wait for half an hour, so as to be sure that all would have gained their allotted positions. Then, when they saw a certain star sink below the horizon (a method of calculating time to which all were accustomed) they were to creep forward into the Roman camp; and each to make his way, as noiselessly as possible, until he came within a few paces of one of the smoldering fires of the Romans, and to wait until they heard a single note from John's horn. Each was at once to spring forward, seize a lighted brand and fire the nearest tent; and then to crawl away--cutting, as they went, the ropes of the tents, so as to bring them down, and create as much confusion as possible. Then, either by crawling or, if discovered, by leaping to their feet and making a sudden rush, all were to make their way down to the river again; to follow its banks for half a mile, and then wait in a body for an hour. At the end of that time they were to make their way back to their camp in the mountain; certain, by that time, that all who were alive would have rejoined them. Should he himself not be with the party, they were at once to proceed to the election of another leader. At about ten o'clock they again moved forward and, descending to the river, followed its banks until they arrived at the spot they had fixed on; then, in single file, they began to climb the hill. John placed himself in the middle of the line, in order to have a central position when the attack began. As soon as they reached the top of the slope, they lay down and, one by one, crawled forward into the darkness; two or three minutes being allowed to elapse between the departure of each man. They could hear the call of the Roman sentries as they answered each other, every half hour; and knew that the line was but a hundred yards or so in front of them. The night was very dark, and no sudden shout proclaimed that those ahead had been noticed. When John's turn came to advance, Jonas was to follow next behind him. All had left their bows, arrows, bucklers, and swords behind them, and carried only their knives; for they had not come to fight, and the knives were required only for cutting the tent ropes or, in case of discovery, to enable them to take a life or two before they fell, fighting. Each had sworn to kill himself, if he found escape impossible, in order to escape a death by torture if he fell alive into the hands of the Romans. John, on approaching the line of sentries, was guided by sound, only, in trying to avoid them. He could not see their figures; but could hear the sound of their footsteps, and the clash of their arms, as they tramped a few yards backwards and forwards. He was, like his comrades, stripped to the waist--having only on a short garment, reaching halfway down the knee--as it was upon speed, and activity, that his life would depend. Without interruption, he crawled through the lines of sentries and continued his course until he was, as near as he could tell, opposite the center of the long line of tents; then he lay quiet, watching the setting of the star. No sound was heard from the camp in front; although from down the hillside beyond it came a confused noise, as of a host of men at work; and the glare of many fires reddened the skies for, there, five thousand men were at work raising the embankment against the doomed city; while the archers and slingers maintained a never-ceasing conflict, of missiles, with the defenders on the walls. The star seemed, to John, as if it hung on its course; so long was it in sinking to the horizon. But at last it sank; and John, crawling noiselessly forward, made his way into the Roman camp. It was arranged with wide and regular streets, laid out with mechanical accuracy. Here and there, in front of a tent of a commanding officer, sentries paced to and fro; the sound of their footsteps and the clash of their arms, each time they turned, giving warning of their positions. In the center of the streets the fires--round which the soldiers had, shortly before, been gathered--still glowed and flickered for, although the days were hot, the cold at night rendered fires desirable; and there was an abundance of fuel to be obtained, from the hills. John crawled along with the greatest care. He had no fear of being seen, but had he come roughly against a tent-rope he might have brought out some wakeful occupant of the tent to see who was moving. He continued his course until he found himself opposite a fire, in which some of the brands were burning brightly; while there was no sentry on guard, within a distance of fifty yards. So far, everything had gone well; neither in passing through the lines of the sentries, nor in making their way into the camp, had any of the band been observed. It was certain now that some, at least, would succeed in setting fire to the tents, before they were discovered; and the wind, which was blowing briskly from the mountains, would speedily spread the flames; and a heavy blow would be inflicted upon the enemy. Chapter 9: The Storming Of Gamala. At last, John made sure that all his followers must have taken up a favorable position. Rising to his feet he sounded a short note on his horn; then sprang forward and seized one of the blazing brands, and applied it to a tent. The canvas, dried by the scorching sun, lit in an instant and, as the flame leaped up, John ran further among the tents, lighted another and, leaving the brand there, sprang twenty yards away and then threw himself down. By this time, although not twenty seconds had elapsed since he had given the signal, a sudden uproar had succeeded the stillness which had reigned in the camp. The sentries had started on their posts, as they heard the note of the horn; but had stood a moment, irresolute, not knowing what it meant. Then, as the first flash of flame shot up, a simultaneous shout had arisen from every man on guard; rising louder and louder as the first flame was followed, almost instantly, by a score of others in different parts of the camp. It was but a few seconds later that the first trumpeter who rushed from his tent blew the alarm. Before its notes ceased, it was answered all over the camp and, with a start, the sleeping soldiers sprang up, caught up their arms, and rushed out of their tents. Startled, as they were, with the suddenness of the awaking, and the sight of the blazing tents, there was none of that confusion that would have occurred among troops less inured to warfare. Each man did his duty and--buckling on their arms as best they might, stumbling over the tent ropes in the darkness, amazed by the sound of the fall of tents, here and there, expecting every moment to be attacked by their unseen foe--the troops made their way speedily to the wide streets, and there fell in together, in military array, and waited for orders. These were not long in coming. As soon as the generals reached the spot, they told off a number of men to endeavor to extinguish the flames; sent other parties to scour the camp, and search for the enemy; while the rest, in solid order, awaited any attack that might be made upon them. But, short as was the time that had elapsed since the first alarm, it had sufficed to give the flames such hold and power that they were beyond control. With extraordinary rapidity the fire had leaped from tent to tent, and threatened to overwhelm the whole camp. The soldiers tried, in vain, to arrest the progress of the flames; rushing among the blazing tents, cutting the ropes to bring them to the ground, and trying to beat out the masses of fire as they fell. Many were terribly burnt, in their endeavors, but in vain; and the officers soon called them off, and set them to work pulling down the tents which the fire had not yet reached. But even this was useless: the flakes of fire, driven before the wind, fell on the heaps of dried canvas; and the flames spread almost as rapidly as they had done when the tents were standing. Nor were the parties in search of the incendiaries more successful. John had lain quiet, where he threw himself down, for a minute or two; by which time the tents had emptied of their occupants. Then, pausing only occasionally to circle a tent and cut away its ropes, he made his way to the edge of the camp. By this time the sheet of flame had extended well-nigh across the camp; extending high above it, and lighting it almost as if by day. But between him and the fire lay, still, a dark mass of tents; for the wind was blowing in the opposite direction and, light as it was elsewhere, in the black shadow of the tents it was still dark in the extreme. John made his way along, until he came to the end of the next street, and then paused. Already, three or four active figures had run past him at the top of their speed, and he wished to be the last to retreat. He stayed till he heard the tramp of troops coming down--driven out by the spreading flames--and then sprang across the end of the road and dashed along at full speed, still keeping close to the line of tents. A shout, which rose from the leading files of the Roman column, showed that he was seen. As he neared the end of the next opening, the Roman soldiers were pouring out; and he turned in among the tents again. Through these he made his way; dashing across the open spaces and, once, rushing through the midst of a Roman column--through which he passed before the troops had time to strike at, or seize him. At last, he reached the extremity of the camp. The slope down to the river was but fifty yards away and, once over the brow, he would be in darkness and safe from pursuit. But already the Romans had drawn up a column of men along the edge of the plateau, to cut off any who might try to pass. John paused among the last row of the tents, hesitating what course to adopt. He could not make directly up the mountain, for the space between it and the camp was now covered by the Roman cavalry--the greater portion of their infantry being still engaged in trying to save at least some portion of the camp. Suddenly he heard a footstep among the tents, close behind him. He drew back into the tent by which he was standing, and peered cautiously out. A Roman soldier came hastily along, and entered the next tent--doubtless to fetch some article of value, which he had left behind him as he rushed out, on the first alarm. A sudden idea flashed across John's brain. He waited till the soldier came out, followed him with silent steps; and then sprang upon him at a bound, hurling him to the ground, and burying his knife again and again in his body. Illustration: The Roman Camp Surprised and Set on Fire. Not a cry had escaped the Roman. The instant he was sure he was dead, John rose to his feet, placed the helmet of the fallen man on his head, secured the breastplate by a single buckle round his neck, took up his buckler and sword; and then, emerging from one of the tents, ran towards the Roman line, making for one of the narrow openings between the different companies. Several other soldiers--who had, like the man whom John had killed, gone back to their tents to fetch armor, or arms, left there--were also hurrying to take their places in the ranks. Therefore, no special attention was paid to John until he was within a few yards of the opening. Then a centurion at the end of the line said sternly: "You will be punished, tomorrow, for not being in your place. What is your name?" for, as John was between him and the sheet of flame rising from the camp, the Roman was unable to see his face. Instead of halting, as he expected, John sprang past him and, throwing down his helmet and buckler, dashed through the space between the companies. "Seize him! Cut him down!" the centurion shouted; but John was already descending the slope. As he ran, he swung the loosely buckled breastplate round on to his back; and it was well he did so for, a moment later, a Roman javelin rang against it, the force of the blow almost throwing him on his face. But, in a moment, he continued his course. He was in total darkness now and, though the javelins were flying around him, they were thrown at random. But the descent had now become so steep he was obliged to pause in his course, and to make his way cautiously. He undid the buckle, and left the breastplate behind him; threw down the sword; and climbed down until he stood by the side of the river. He could hear shouts above him, and knew that the Romans were searching the hillside, hoping that he had been killed or wounded by their darts. But he had no fear of pursuit. He swam the river--for he had struck upon a deep spot--and then, at full speed, ran along on the bank--knowing that some of the Roman cavalry were encamped upon the plain, and would soon be on the spot. However, all was quiet, and he met no one until he arrived opposite the place where it had been arranged that the party should meet. Then he waded across. "Is that you, John?" a voice exclaimed. "It is I, Jonas. Thank God, you have got back safely! How many are with you?" There was a loud cry of satisfaction and, as he made his way up the bank, a number of his followers crowded round him; all in the highest state of delight at his return. Jonas threw his arms round his neck, crying with joy. "I thought you must have fallen, John. I have been here ten minutes. Most of the others were here before me. Only three have arrived since and, for the last five minutes, none have come." "I fear no more will come," John said. "The Romans have cut off all retreat. "How many are missing?" "We were nineteen, here, before you came," one of the men replied. "Then there are six missing," John said. "We will not give them up. Some may have made their way straight up the mountain, fearing to be seen as they passed the ends of the open spaces. Some may have made their way, down the opposite slope, to the other arm of the river. But, even if all are killed, we need not repine. They have died as they wished--taking vengeance upon the Romans. "It has been a glorious success. More than half the Roman camp is assuredly destroyed; and they must have lost a prodigious quantity of stores, of all kinds. "Who are missing?" He heard the names of those absent. "I trust we may see some of them, yet," he said; "but if not, Jonas, tomorrow, shall carry to their friends the news of their death. They will be wept; but their parents will be proud that their sons have died in striking so heavy a blow upon our oppressors. They will live, in the memory of their villages, as men who died doing a great deed; and women will say: "'Had all done their duty, as they did, the Romans would never have enslaved our nation.' "We will wait another half hour, here; but I fear that no more will join us, for the Romans are drawn up all along the line where, alone, a descent could be made in the valley." "Then how did you escape, John," Jonas asked; "and how is it that you were not here, before? Several of those who were in the line beyond you have returned." "I waited till I hoped that all had passed," John said. "Each one who ran past the open spaces added to the danger--for the Romans beyond could not but notice them, as they passed the spaces lighted by the flames--and it was my duty, as leader, to be the last to go." "Six of those who were beyond you have joined us," one of the men said. "The other six are those that are missing." "That is what I feared," John answered. "I felt sure that those behind me would have got safely away, before the Romans recovered from their first confusion. The danger was, of course, greater in proportion to the distance from the edge of the slope." "But how did you get through, John, since you say that all escape is cut off?" John related how he had slain the Roman soldier, and escaped with his armor; and the recital raised him still higher in the estimation of his followers--for the modern feeling, that it is right to kill even the bitterest enemy only in fair fight, was wholly unknown in those days when, as was done by the Romans at Jotapata, men would cut the throat of a sleeping foe, with no more compunction than if they were slaughtering a fowl. Perceiving, by John's narration, that there was no chance of any of their comrades getting through to join them, now, the party struck off into the hills and, after three hours' march, reached their encampment. They gave a shout of joy, as they approached it; for a fire was burning brightly, and they knew that some of their comrades must have reached the spot before them. Four men rose, as they approached, and joyful greetings were exchanged. Their stories were soon told. As soon as they heard--by the shouts of the Romans on the hillside, and of the outer sentries--that they were discovered as they passed the spaces lit up by flames, they had turned back. Two of them had made their way up a deep watercourse, past the Roman guard on the hill--the attention of the soldiers being fixed upon the camp. The other two had climbed down the precipitous rocks on the other side of the hill. "It was terrible work, in the darkness," one of them said. "I fell, once, and thought I had broken my leg; but, fortunately, I had caught on a ledge, and was able to go on after a time. I think two of our party must have perished there; for twice, as I was descending, I heard a sudden cry, and then a sound as of a body falling from rock to rock." "Better so than to have fallen into the hands of the Romans," John said, "and to have been forced to slay themselves by their own hands, as we agreed to do. "Well, my friends, we have done a glorious deed. We have begun well. Let us trust that we may strike many more such blows against our tyrants. Now, let us thank God that he has fought by our hands, and that He has brought so many of us back from so great a danger! "Simeon, you are the oldest of the party; do you lift up your voice for us all." The party all stood listening reverently, while Simeon said a prayer of thanksgiving. Then one of them broke out into one of the psalms of triumph, and all joined at once. When this was done, they gathered round the fire, prepared their cakes of meal, and put meat on long skewers on the flames. Having eaten, they talked for hours, each in turn giving his account of his share in the adventure. They then talked of their missing friends; those from the same village telling what they knew of them, and what relations they had left behind. At last, just as morning was breaking, they retired into the little bowers of boughs that had been erected to keep off the cold--which was, at this elevation, sharp at nights. They were soon fast asleep. The first thing the next morning, Jonas set off to explore the foot of the precipices on the south side of the Roman camp, and to search for the bodies of their two missing comrades. He found one, terribly crushed; of the other he could find no sign, whatever. On his returning to the mountain camp, one of the young men was sent off to bear, to the relatives of the man whose body had been found, the certain news of his death; and to inquire, of the friends of the other, whether he had any relations living near the mountains to whom he might have made his way, if hurt or disabled by his fall. The messenger returned, on the following day, with the news that their missing comrade had already arrived at his home. His fall had not been a very deep one and, when he recovered consciousness, some hours before daybreak, he found that one of his legs was useless, and an arm broken. Thinking that, in the morning, the Romans might search the foot of the precipices, he dragged himself with the greatest difficulty a few hundred yards and, there, concealed himself among some bushes. A man came along, in search of an ass that had strayed. He called to him and, on the man hearing that he was one of the party who had caused the great fire in the Roman camp--the sight of whose flames had caused such exultation in the heart of every Jew in the plains around--he hurried away, and fetched another with a donkey. Upon this the injured man was lifted, and carried down to the lake; passing, on the way, several parties of Roman soldiers, to whom the idea did not occur that the sick man was one of the party who had inflicted such a terrible blow upon them on the previous night. Once by the side of the lake, there was no difficulty in getting him on board a boat, in which he was carried to his native village. The Romans were furious at the blow which had been struck them. More than half their camp and camp equipage had been destroyed; a great part of the baggage of the officers and soldiers had been burned, and each man had to deplore losses of his own, as well as the destruction of the public property. But, more than this, they felt the blow to their pride. There was not a soldier but felt humiliated at the thought that a number of the enemy--for, from the fire breaking out simultaneously, it was certain at least a score of men must have been engaged in the matter--should penetrate unseen into the midst of their camp; and worse still that, after effecting all this damage, all should have succeeded in making their escape--for, so far as they knew, the whole of the Jews got safely away. But not for a moment did they relax their siege operations. The troops engaged upon the embankment were relieved at the usual hour; and half a legion went up into the mountains, as usual, to procure timber; while four thousand archers, divided into parties two hundred strong, extended themselves all over the hills, and searched the forest for miles for some sign of their enemy--who were, they were now convinced, comparatively few in numbers. The news of the daring attack on the Roman camp spread far and wide among the towns and villages of the plains; and aroused the drooping spirits of the people, who had begun to think that it would be worse than useless to offer any opposition to the Roman power. Whence came the party which had accomplished the deed, or who was its leader, none knew; and the inhabitants of the villages near Hippos who, alone, could have enlightened them, were careful to maintain an absolute silence; for they knew that if, by any chance, a rumor reached the Romans of the locality from which their assailants had come, they would have carried fire and sword among all the villages by the lake. Titus was away, being absent on a mission in Syria; and Vespasian himself went among the troops, exhorting them not to be downcast at the disaster that had befallen them, for that the bravest men were subject to sudden misfortunes of this kind; and exhorted them to push on the siege with all the more vigor, in order that they might the sooner remove to camping grounds where they would not be exposed to such attacks by a lurking foe. The soldiers replied with cheers; and the next day, the embankment being completed, they opened so terrible a fire from their war engines upon the defenders of the walls that these were forced to retire into the city. The Romans at once pushed forward their battering rams to the walls and, setting to work with the greatest vigor, speedily made three breaches; through which they rushed, with exulting shouts. The Jews ran down to oppose them, and a desperate conflict took place in the narrow streets; but the Romans, pouring in in great numbers through the breaches, pressed them step by step up the steep hill. The Jews, animated by despair, again turned, and fell upon them with such fury that the Romans could not withstand the assault, and were driven down the steep lanes and paths, with great slaughter. But those who fled were stopped by the crowd of their own men, pressing up the hill from below; and the Roman soldiers--jammed, as it were, between the Jews above, and their own countrymen below--took refuge in the houses, in great numbers. But these were not constructed to bear the weight of so many men, in heavy armor. The floors fell in and, as many of the Romans climbed up on to the flat roofs, these also fell, bringing the walls down with them. Standing, as they did, almost one above another, each house that fell brought down the one below it and, thus, the ruin spread--as one house of cards brings down another--until the whole of the town standing on the steep declivity, on its eastern side, was a mass of ruins. The confusion was tremendous. The dust of the falling houses so thickened the air that men could not see a yard in front of them. Hundreds of the Roman soldiers were buried among the ruins. Some were killed, at once. Others, jammed between fallen timbers, strove in vain to extricate themselves, and shouted to their comrades to come to their assistance; but these--enveloped in darkness, ignorant of the ground, half suffocated with dust--were powerless to aid them. In the confusion, Romans fell by the swords of Romans. Many who could not extricate themselves slew themselves, with their own swords; while the exulting Jews--seeing, in this terrible disaster, a miracle effected in their favor--crowded down from above, slaying with their swords, hurling masses of stone down on the foe, killing those unable to retreat, and adding to the confusion and terror with their yells of triumph, which rose high above the confused shouts of the Romans. Vespasian himself, who had entered the town with his soldiers, and had pushed forward with them up the hill, was nearly involved in the common destruction; but, as the houses came crashing down around him, he shouted loudly to the soldiers near to gather round him, and to lock their shields together to form a testudo. Recognizing the voice of their beloved general, the soldiers near rallied round him and, sheltered beneath their closely-packed shields, resisted the storm of darts and stones from above and, gradually and in good order, made their way down over the ruins and issued safely from the walls. The loss of the Romans was great. The soldiers were greatly dispirited by their defeat, and especially by the thought that they had deserted their general in their retreat. Vespasian, however, was wise enough to see that this was no time for rebuke; and he accordingly addressed them in language of approbation. He said that their repulse was in no way due to want of valor on their part, but to an accident such as none could foresee; and which had been brought about, to some extent, by their too impetuous ardor, which led them to fight rather with the desperate fury of the Jews than with the steady discipline that distinguished Roman soldiers. The defenders of the city were full of exultation at their success and, setting to work with ardor, soon repaired the breaches and strengthened the walls. But all knew that, in spite of their momentary success, their position was desperate, for their provisions were almost exhausted. The stores which had been laid up were very large; but the siege had lasted for many months before the arrival of the Romans, and the number of the people assembled within the walls far exceeded the usual population. The Romans, on their part, increased the height of their embankment, and prepared for a second assault. In the meantime, Itabyrium had fallen. The hill of Tabor was inaccessible, except on the north side; and the level area, on the top, was surrounded by a strong wall. Placidus had been sent, with six hundred horse, against the place; but the hill was so steep, and difficult, that he hesitated to attack it. Each party pretended to be anxious to treat, each intending to take advantage of the other. Placidus invited the garrison to descend the hill, and discuss terms with him. The Itabyrians accepted the invitation, with the design of assailing the Romans, unawares. Placidus, who was on his guard, feigned a retreat. The Itabyrians boldly pursued on to the plain; when the Roman horse, wheeling round, dashed among them, inflicting terrible slaughter and cutting off their retreat towards the city. Those who escaped the slaughter fled to Jerusalem. The town, weakened by the loss of so many fighting men, and being much distressed by want of water, again opened negotiations; and surrendered upon the promise that the lives of all within it should be spared. Hunger was now doing its work among the people of Gamala. The inhabitants suffered terribly, for the provisions were all taken for the use of the fighting men; and the rest had to subsist, as best they could, on any little hoards they might have hidden away, or on garbage of all kinds. Numbers made their escape through the sewers and passages which led into the ravines, where the Romans had placed no guards. Still the assaults of the Romans were bravely repelled until, on the night of the 22d of September, two soldiers of the Fifteenth Legion contrived to creep, unobserved, to the foot of one of the highest towers of the wall; and began, silently, to undermine its foundations. Before morning broke, they had got in so far that they could not be perceived from the walls. Still they worked in, leaving a few stones in their place, to support the tower until the last moment. Then they struck these away, and ran for their lives. The tower fell with a terrible crash, with the guards upon it. In their terror, the defenders of the walls leaped up and fled in all directions; and many were killed by the Romans' darts--among them Josephus, one of their two leaders--while Chares, who was lying in the height of a fever, expired from the excitement of the calamity. The confusion in the town was terrible. Deprived of their two leaders, and with the town open to assault, none knew what was to be done. All expected instant destruction, and the air was filled with the screams and wailings of the women; but the Romans, mindful of their last repulse, did not at once advance to the assault. But in the afternoon Titus--who had now returned--taking two hundred horse, and a force of infantry, crossed the breach and entered the town. Some of the defenders rushed to meet him. Others, catching up their children, ran with their wives to the citadel. The defenders fought bravely, but were driven steadily up the hill by the Romans--who were now reinforced by the whole strength of the army, led by Vespasian. Quarter was neither asked nor given. The defenders contested every foot of the hill, until the last defender of Gamala, outside, the citadel had fallen. Then Vespasian led his men against the citadel itself. It stood on a rugged rock, of great height, offering tremendous difficulties to the assailants. The Jews stood upon the summit, rolling down great stones and darts upon the Romans, as they strove to ascend. But the very heavens seemed to fight against the unfortunate Jews, for a terrific tempest suddenly broke upon the city. So furious was the wind that the Jews could no longer stand on the edge of the crag, or oppose the progress of the enemy; while the Romans, sheltered from the wind by the rock, itself, were able to press upwards. The platform once gained, they rushed upon the Jews, slaying all they met, men, women, and children. Vast numbers of the Jews, in their despair, threw themselves headlong, with their wives and children, over the precipices and, when the butchery was complete, five thousand bodies were found at the foot of the rocks. Four thousand lay dead on the platform above. Of all those in Gamala when the Romans entered, two women, alone, escaped. They were the sisters of Philip, a general in Agrippa's army. They managed to conceal themselves until the carnage was over, and the fury of the Romans had subsided; and then showed themselves, and proclaimed who they were. Gischala now, alone of the cities of Galilee, defied the Roman arms. The people themselves were, for the most part, tillers of the soil, and were anxious to make their submission; but John--the rival and bitter enemy of Josephus--with the robber band he had collected, was master of the town, and refused to allow any talk of submission. The city had none of the natural strength of Jotapata and Gamala, and Vespasian sent Titus against it with a thousand horse; while he ordered the Tenth Legion to take up its winter quarters at Scythopolis; and himself moved, with the other two legions, to Caesarea. Titus, on his arrival before Gischala, saw that the city could be easily taken by assault but, desirous of avoiding any more shedding of blood, and learning that the inhabitants were desirous of surrendering, he sent an officer before it to offer terms of capitulation. The troops of John of Gischala manned the walls and, when the summons of Titus was proclaimed, John answered that the garrison accepted willingly the generous terms that were offered; but that, the day being the Sabbath, nothing could be concluded, without an infringement of the law, until the next day. Titus at once granted the delay, and drew off his troops to a neighboring town. In the night, John of Gischala marched away with all his armed men; followed by many of the inhabitants, with their wives and children--fearing to remain in the city, exposed to the anger of Titus, when he found he had been duped. The women and children soon began to drop behind; but the men pressed on, leaving the helpless and despairing women behind them. In the morning, when Titus appeared before the town, it opened its gates to him at once; the people hailing him as their deliverer from the oppression they had so long suffered, at the hands of John and his bands of ruffians. Titus entered Gischala amidst the acclamations of the people; and behaved with great moderation, injuring no one, and contenting himself with throwing down a portion of the walls; and warning the inhabitants that, if they again rose in rebellion, the same mercy would not be extended to them. He had at once dispatched a troop of horse in pursuit of the fugitives. They overtook them, and slew six thousand of the men, and brought three thousand women and children back into the city. John himself, with the strongest of his band, were not overtaken, but made their way to Jerusalem. The fame of the successful exploit, of the destruction of the Roman camp, brought large numbers of young men flocking to the hills, as soon as the Romans retired from Gamala, all eager to join the band; and John could have recruited his numbers to any extent but, now that all Galilee had fallen, and the Romans retired to their winter quarters, he did not see that there was anything to be done, until the spring. It would be madness to attack either of the great Roman camps, at Scythopolis or Caesarea; and although, doubtless, the garrisons left in Tiberias, Tarichea, and other towns might have been driven out, this would only have brought upon those cities the anger of the Romans, and involved them in ruin and destruction. Still less would it have been of any advantage to go down, at present, into Judea. That province was suffering woes, as great as the Romans could inflict upon it, from the action of the factions. Under the pretense of punishing all who were supposed to be favorable to making terms with Rome, bands of armed men pervaded the whole country, plundering and slaying the wretched inhabitants. Law and order were at an end. Those in Jerusalem who claimed, for themselves, the chief authority in the country had done nothing to assist their countrymen, in the north, in their struggle with the Romans. Not a man had been dispatched to Galilee. The leaders were occupied in their own desperate feuds, and battles took place in the streets of the city. The peaceful inhabitants were plundered and ill treated, and the condition of those within the walls was as terrible as was that of those without. Anarchy, plunder, and carnage extended throughout Judea and, while the destruction of Jerusalem was threatened by the Roman army in the north, the Jews made no preparation, whatever, for its defense, but spent their whole time and energy in civil strife. When, therefore, the numerous band who had now gathered round him urged him to lead them down to Jerusalem, John refused to do so. Getting upon an elevated spot, where his voice could be heard by them all, he said: "My friends, you have heard, as well as I, what is taking place in Jerusalem and the country round it. Did we go down there, what good could we do? We should be drawn into the strife, on one side or another; and the swords which should be kept for the defense of the Temple against the Romans would be stained with Jewish blood. Moreover, we should aid to consume the food stored away in the granaries. "Nor can we, through the winter, attempt any enterprise against the Romans here. The woes of Galilee are over. Tens of thousands have fallen, but those that survive can go about their business and till their fields in peace. Were we to renew the war, here, we should bring upon them a fresh outburst of the Roman vengeance. "Therefore, there is naught for us to do, now; but in the spring, when the Romans get into motion against Jerusalem, we will march to its defense. We have naught to do with the evil deeds that are being performed there; we have but to do our duty, and the first duty of every Jew is to die, if need be, in the defense of the Temple. Therefore, let us now disperse to our homes. When the first news comes that the Romans are stirring, those of you who are disposed to follow me, and obey my orders, can assemble here. "But let only such come. Let the rest make their way, singly, to Jerusalem. I am resolved to have only such with me who will follow me as one man. You know how the factions rage in the city. A compact body of men, true to themselves and their leader, can maintain themselves aloof from the strife, and make themselves respected by both parties; but single men must take sides with one faction or other, or be ill treated by both. "We are wanted, at home. The fields are lying untilled, for want of hands; therefore let us lay aside our arms until the spring, and do our duty to our families until we are called upon to aid in the defense of the Temple. When the hour comes, I shall be ready to lead, if you are ready to follow." John's address received general approval, and the gathering dispersed; all vowing that they would assemble in the spring, and follow John wherever he chose to lead them--for he was already regarded with an almost superstitious admiration in the country around. His deliverance at Jotapata and the success that he, alone of the Jewish leaders, had gained over the Romans, marked him in their eyes as one specially chosen by God to lead them to victory; and in a few hours the hill above Gamala was deserted, and John and his followers were all on their way towards their homes. Chapter 10: Captives. John was received with great joy by his father; who had already heard the story brought by the injured member of the band from Gamala, and was filled with pride that his son should so have distinguished himself. He at once agreed to John's proposal that he should start, on the following day, to fetch the women from Neve, as there was no longer any fear of trouble from the Romans. Galilee was completely subdued and, whatever events might take place in Judea, those in the north would be unaffected by them. The day after his return, then, John set out with Jonas for Neve. John charged his companion on no account to say anything of their doings at the siege of Gamala; and as communication was difficult, and they had not heard from Simon since John had left him, his friends at Neve were not aware that he had been absent from the farm. Martha and Mary were delighted to see him, and to hear that all was well at home. They had been greatly alarmed at the news of the slaughter of the fishermen on the lake, fearing that John might have gone across to Tarichea with some of his friends in the village. Their fears on this head, however, abated as time passed on and they did not hear from Simon; who, they felt assured, would have brought the news to Martha, had aught happened to their son. They had mourned over the siege and massacre of Gamala, and had been filled with joy when the news had arrived, three days before, that the Roman army had marched away to take up its quarters for the winter; and they had looked for the summons, which John brought, for their return home. "And does your father think, John, that there will be trouble again in the spring? Shall we have to leave home again, as soon as the winter is past?" "He hopes not, mother. Gamala was the only town on this side of the Jordan that resisted the Roman authority and, as all the territories of Agrippa are now peaceful, there is no reason why the Romans should enter these again; and indeed, all Galilee has now surrendered. As Vespasian moved towards the sea, deputies came to him from every town and village; and I think, now, that there will be no more trouble there." "It has been terrible enough, my son. What tens of thousands of men have perished, what destruction has been wrought! We have been mourning, for months now, for the woes which have fallen upon our people." "It has been most terrible, mother; and yet, it might have been worse. Nigh a hundred and fifty thousand have fallen, at Gadara, Jotapata, Japha, Tarichea, and Gamala; besides those who were slain in the villages that had been sacked, and destroyed. Still, considering all things, it might have been worse and, were it all over now--did no more dangers threaten our nation--we might even rejoice that no greater evils have befallen us, for our revolt against Rome. But what has been done is but a preparation for the siege of Jerusalem. "However, do not let us begin to mourn over the future. The storm has, for the present, passed away from us and, whatever misfortunes have befallen our countrymen, we have happily escaped. The farm stands uninjured, and no harm has come to any of us." "And all the villagers have escaped, John? Did none of our neighbors go out in their boats to Tarichea? We feared, when we heard of the sea fight, that some must have fallen." "No, mother. Fortunately, they listened to the counsels of my father, who implored them not to put out on the lake for that, did they do so, they would only bring misfortune and ruin upon themselves." "And have you heard, John," Mary asked, "anything of the champion who they say has arisen? We have heard all sorts of tales of him--how he harassed the Romans before Gamala and, with his followers, burned their camp one night and well nigh destroyed them; and how, when he goes into the fight, the Roman javelins drop off without harming him; and how, when he strikes, the Romans fall before his blows like wheat before a sickle." John burst into a laugh. "I wonder, Mary, that the reports didn't say also that he could fly through the air when he chose; could render himself invisible to the enemy; and could, by a wave of his hand, destroy them as the hosts of Sennacherib were destroyed. The Romans were harassed somewhat, at Gamala, by John and his followers, who crept into their camp at night and set it on fire, and had a few skirmishes with their working parties; but when you have said that, you have said all that there is to say about it." "That is not like you, John," Mary said, indignantly, for the tales that had circulated through the province had fired her imagination. "Everyone is talking of what he has done. He, alone of all our leaders, has checked the Romans; and has shown wisdom, as well as valor, in fighting. I should have thought you would have been one of the first to praise him. Everyone is talking about him and, since we heard of what he has been doing, mother and I pray for him, daily, as we pray for you and your father; and now you want to make out he has done nothing." "I do not want to make out that he has done nothing, Mary, for doubtless the Lord has been with him, and has enabled him to give some trouble to the Romans; but I was laughing at the fables you have heard about him, and at the reports which had converted his skirmishes with the Romans into all sorts of marvelous actions." "I believe they were marvelous actions," Mary said. "Why should what people say be all wrong? "We believe in him, don't we, mother?" "Yes, Mary. It is true that the tales we have heard may be, as John says, exaggerated; but assuredly this new champion of our people must be a man of wisdom and valor, and I see not why, as God raised up champions for Israel in the old time, he should not do so now, when our need is so great." "There is no reason, mother," John said, more quietly, "but I fear that the champion of Israel is not yet forthcoming. We have heard of the doings of this John and, as I said, he has merely had some skirmishes with the Romans--his band being too small to admit of any regular fighting. He interrupted their work, and gave them some trouble; and his men, creeping down into the camp, set it on fire, and so caused them a good deal of loss; but more than this cannot be said of him." "At any rate," Mary said disdainfully, "he has done more than your Josephus, John--for he brought ruin on all who took his advice, and went into the cities he had fortified. It may please you to make little of what this champion has done. Others do not think so. Everywhere he is talked of, and praised--the old men are talking of him, the Jewish maidens are singing songs in his honor. I heard them, yesterday, gathered round a well near Neve. His father must rejoice, and his mother be proud of him, if they are alive. "What do they say down by the lake, Jonas, of this captain? Are not the tales we have heard believed, there?" "I have heard nothing about the Roman javelins not harming him," Jonas said; "but he certainly got safely out of the hands of the Romans, when they had well-nigh taken him; and all say that he is brave and prudent, and men have great confidence and trust in him." "Ridiculous, Jonas!" John exclaimed angrily, and Mary and his mother looked at him in surprise. "Truly, John," his mother said, "what Mary said is just. This is not like you. I should have thought you would have been one of the first to admire this new leader, seeing that he is fighting in the way I have heard you advocate as being that in which the Romans should be fought, instead of the Jews being shut up in the cities." "Quite so, mother! No doubt he is adopting the proper way of fighting, and therefore has naturally had some success. I am only saying that he has done nothing wonderful; but has given the Romans some trouble by refusing to fight, and by merely trying to harass them. If there were a thousand men who would gather small bands together, and harass the Romans night and day in the same manner, they would render it well-nigh impossible for them to make any progress. As it was, he merely aided in delaying the fall of Gamala by a day or two. "And now, let us talk of something else. Our father has succeeded in getting in the principal part of the harvest, but I fear that this year you will be short of fruit. We have had no time to gather in the figs, and they have all fallen from the trees; and although we have made enough wine for our own use, there will be but little to sell." "It matters not at all," Martha said. "God has been very merciful towards us and, so that we have but bread to eat and water to drink, until next harvest, we shall have nothing to repine about, when ruin and destruction have fallen upon so many." That evening, when Mary and Martha had retired to their apartments, the former, who had been very silent all the evening, said: "I cannot understand, mother, why John speaks so coldly of the doings of this brave leader; and why he was almost angry at our praises of him. It seems altogether unlike him." "It is unlike him, Mary; but you must never be surprised at men, they do not like to hear each other praised; and though I should have thought, from what I know of my son, that he was above the feeling of jealousy, I cannot but think that he showed some signs of that feeling today." "But it seems absurd, mother. I can understand John being jealous of any one his own age who surpassed him in any exercises--though I never saw him so for, when in rowing on the lake, or in shooting with bows and arrows, or in other sports, some of our neighbors' sons have surpassed him, he never seemed to mind at all; and it seems almost absurd to think that he could be jealous of a great leader, who has done brave deeds for our people." "It does seem so, Mary, and I wonder myself; but it has been ever one of our national faults to be jealous of our leaders. From the time the people vexed Moses and Aaron, in the wilderness, it has ever been the same. I grieve to see it in John, who has distinguished himself greatly for his age, and of whom we are proud; but no one is perfect, my child, and you must not trouble because you find that your betrothed husband is not free from all weaknesses." "I don't expect him to be free from all weaknesses, mother; but this is one of the last weaknesses I should have expected to find in him, and it troubles me. When everything seemed so dark, it was a pleasure to think that a hero, perhaps a deliverer, had arisen; and now John seems to say that he has done nothing." "My dear child," Martha said, "something may have occurred to vex John on the way and, when men are put out, they will often show it in the strangest manner. Probably John will, another time, speak just as warmly in praise of our new leader as you would, yourself." "Perhaps it may be so, mother," Mary assented. "I can hardly believe that John is jealous--it does seem so unlike himself." "I would not speak on the subject again, Mary, if I were you; unless he, himself, brings it up. A wise woman keeps silence on subjects which may lead to disagreement. You will learn, when you have married, that this is the easiest and best way." "I suppose so, mother," Mary said, in a tone of disappointment; "but somehow it never seemed to me, before, that John and I could have any subject on which there would be disagreement." "My dear Mary," Martha said, smiling, "John and you are both mortal; and although you may truly love each other--and will, I trust, be very happy as husband and wife--subjects will occur upon which you will differ; and then, as you know, the wisest plan is for the wife to be silent. It is the wife's duty always to give way to the husband." Mary gave a little shrug of her shoulders, as if to intimate that she did not regard altogether favorably this view of a wife's duties; however, she said no more, but kissed Martha, and retired to bed. The next morning they started early, and journeyed to Capitolias, where they stayed at the house of some friends. In the evening, the talk again turned upon the new leader, who had burned the Roman camp. When they did so, John at once made some excuse, and went out. He regretted, now, that he had not at once told his mother what he had been doing. He had intended, in the first place, to give her a little surprise; but had no idea of the exaggerated reports that had been spread about and, when Mary broke out into praise of the unknown leader, it seemed to him that it would have been absurd to say that he, himself, was the person of whom she had formed so fantastically exalted an opinion. Not having said so at first, he did not see how he could say so, afterwards; and so left the matter as it stood, until they should return home. While John was out, he heard news which caused him some uneasiness. It was said that parties of Roman horse, from Scythopolis, had been scouring the country; burning many villages--under the pretext that some Roman soldiers, who had straggled away marauding on their own account, had been killed by the peasants--slaughtering the people, and carrying off as slaves such young women and men as were likely to fetch good prices. He told his mother what he had heard; and asked her whether she did not think that it would be better to stay where they were, for a time, or return to Neve. But Martha was anxious to be at home, again; and the friend with whom they were stopping said that these reports were a week old, and that doubtless the Romans had returned to their camp. She determined, therefore, that she and Mary would continue their journey; but that the maids should remain with their friend, at Capitolias, until the Roman excursions ceased. They accordingly set out in the morning, as before--the two women riding, and John and Jonas walking by the side of the donkeys. Following the road by the side of the Hieromax they kept on, without meeting anything to cause alarm, until they reached the angle of the stream, where the road to Hippos branched off from that which followed the river down to Tarichea. They had gone but a short distance, when they saw a cloud of dust rising along the road in front of them, and the sparkle of arms in the sun. "Turn aside, mother," John exclaimed. "Those must be the Romans ahead." Turning aside, they rode towards some gardens and orchards at no great distance but, before they reached them, two Roman soldiers separated themselves from the rest, and galloped after them. "Fly, John!" Martha said, hurriedly. "You and Jonas can escape." "It would only ensure evil to you if we did, mother. No, we will keep together." The Roman soldiers rode up, and roughly ordered the party to accompany them back to the main body, which consisted of fifty men. The leader, a young officer whose garments and armor showed that he belonged to a family of importance, rode forward a few paces to meet them. "Some more of this accursed race of rebels!" he exclaimed. "We are quiet travelers," John said, "journeying from Capitolias to Tarichea. We have harmed no one, my lord." "You are all the same," the Roman said, scowling. "You speak us fair one day, and stab us in the back the next. "Pomponius," he said to a sergeant, "put these two lads with the rest. They ought to fetch a good price, for they are strong and active. As to the girl, I will make a present of her, to the general, to send to his wife in Rome. She is the prettiest Jewess I have seen, since I entered the country. The old woman can go. She is of no use to anyone." Illustration: Mary and the Hebrew Women in the Hands of the Romans. Martha threw her arms round Mary; and would have striven to resist, with her feeble strength, the carrying out of the order, when John said in Hebrew: "Mother, you will ruin us all, and lose your own life! Go home quietly, and trust to me to save Mary." The habit of submitting to her husband's will, which Martha had practiced all her life, asserted itself. She embraced Mary passionately, and drew aside as the Roman soldiers approached; and then, tottering away a short distance, sank weeping on the ground. Mary shed no tear but, pale as death, walked by the side of a soldier, who led her to the rear of the cavalcade, where four or five other young women were standing, in dejected attitudes. John and Jonas were similarly placed, with some young men, in the midst of the Roman soldiers. Their hands were tied behind them, and the troop resumed its way. They were traveling by the road along which the little party had just come. Whenever a house or small village was seen, half of the troop galloped off. Flames were soon seen to rise, and parties of wretched captives were driven in. When about halfway to Capitolias, the troop halted. The horses were turned into a field of ripe corn, to feed. Half the men sat down to a meal, while the remainder stood on guard over the captives. John had whispered to Jonas to work his hands so as to loosen his cords, if possible; and the lad, whose bones were very small, soon said that he could slip the ropes off without difficulty. It was harder work for John and, indeed, while on the march he did not venture to exert himself, fearing that the movements would be noticed by his guards. But when they halted, he got into the middle of the group of captives, and tried his best to loosen the cords. Jonas was close beside him. "It is of no use, Jonas," he said. "The cords are cutting into my flesh, and they will not yield in the slightest." "Let me try, John. "Stand round close," Jonas said to the other captives, in Hebrew. "I want to loosen my friend's knots. If he can get away, he will bring rescue to you all." The others moved so as to completely cover the movements of Jonas; and the lad, stooping down, applied his teeth to the knot in John's cords, and soon succeeded in loosening it. "That will be enough, Jonas. I can draw my hand through, now." Jonas again stood up. "When I make an effort to escape, Jonas, do you dash between the horsemen, and run for it. In the confusion you will get a start, and they will not overtake you until you are across the river. Once on the hill, you are safe. If you remain behind and I get away, as likely as not one of the soldiers would send a javelin through you, as being my companion." After half an hour's halt, the Romans again mounted their horses and turned to retrace their steps. Two Romans rode on either side of the captives, who were about fifty in number; and John gradually made his way to the front of the party, between the two leading horsemen. The officer, talking to his sergeant, rode a few paces ahead, in the middle of the road. Since the cords had been loosened, John had continued to work his fingers until the circulation was restored. Suddenly he slipped his hands from their fastenings, gave three bounds forward, and vaulted on to the back of the horse behind the officer. He had drawn the knife which had been hidden in his girdle; and he threw one arm round the officer, while he struck the knife deep into the horse's flank. The animal reared in the air and then, at a second application of the knife, sprang forward at the top of his speed, before the astonished Roman knew what had happened. John held him in his arms like a vice and, exerting all his strength, lifted him from the saddle and hurled him headlong to the ground; where he lay, bleeding and insensible. John had now time to look round. Struck with astonishment at the sudden incident which had passed under their eyes, the Romans had, at first, instinctively reined in their horses. The sergeant had been the first to recover himself and, shouting to the five leading soldiers on each side to follow him, had spurred in pursuit, just as his officer was hurled to the ground. But John was already some fifty yards away, and felt sure that he could not be overtaken. He had remarked the horse ridden by the officer, while they were eating; and saw that it was of far higher blood and swifter pace than any of those ridden by the soldiers. His own weight, too, was far less than that of the heavy-armed men in pursuit of him and, with a shout of scornful defiance, and a wave of his hand, he continued his course. Before a mile had been passed he had left his pursuers far in the rear and, seeing the hopelessness of the pursuit, they presently reined up and returned to the main body. Jonas had carried out John's instructions and, the instant the latter sprang on the officer, he slipped under the belly of the horse next to him and ran, at the top of his speed, for the river. It was but a hundred yards away, and he had gone three quarters the distance before any of the soldiers--confused at the attack upon their officer, doubtful whether the whole of the captives were not about to fall upon them, and without orders how to act, set out in pursuit. Jonas plunged into the stream, dived to the other side, and then sprang forward again, just as three or four soldiers reached the bank he had left. Their javelins were hurled after him, but without effect and, with a shout of triumph, he sprang up the hillside, and was soon safe from pursuit. As soon as he saw that the Romans had turned back, John sprang from his horse, unstrapped the heavy armor which covered its chest and sides, and flung it away; and then, mounting, resumed his course. At the first house he came to he borrowed a shepherd's horn and, as he approached the first village, sounded his signal for the assembly. Two or three young men ran out from their houses, as he dashed up; for there was not a village in those parts from which some of the young men had not gone up to the mountains to join him, after the fall of Gamala, and all were ready to follow him anywhere. He rapidly gave them orders to go to all the villages round; and instruct the young men to assemble, with all speed possible, at their old trysting place near Jabez Galaad; and to spread the news as they went, some from each village being sent as messengers to others. Then he pursued his way at full speed and, by sunset, had issued his orders in some twenty villages. Being convinced that, by night, a sufficient number of men would have gathered in the mountain for his purpose, he rode back to the river, swam his horse across; and then, leaving it to shift for itself, made his way up the mountain. Some seventy or eighty men had already arrived at the appointed place, and fresh parties were coming in every minute. Jonas was already there, John having arranged with him to watch the movements of the Romans until the sun set, and then to bring word to the place of meeting as to their movements. "Well, Jonas, what is your news?" "The Romans have halted, for the night, at a spot about a mile this side of where we left them. They remained where they were, until the party who had ridden after you returned; then they went slowly back, after having made a litter with their spears, on which four of them carried the officer you threw from his horse--what a crash he made! I heard the clang of his arms, as I was running. They stopped near one of the villages they burned as we went past; and when I turned to make my way here their fires were burning, so there's no doubt they mean to halt there for the night." "That is good news, indeed!" John said. "Before morning we will rouse them up in a way they little expect." John's followers arrived eager for the fight, for the news of the devastations committed by this party of Romans had roused the whole district to fury. As a rule the Romans, except when actually on a campaign, abstained from all ill treatment of the inhabitants--the orders against plundering and injuring the people being here, as in other countries held by the Roman arms, very stringent. In the present case, there was no doubt that Roman soldiers had been killed; but these had brought their fate upon themselves, by their ill treatment and insult of the villagers, and no notice would have been taken of the slaying of men while acting in disobedience of orders, had it not been that they belonged to the company of Servilius Maro. He was a young noble, possessed of great influence in Rome, and of a ferocious and cruel disposition; and he had urged the general so strongly to allow him to go out, to inflict punishment upon the country people, that consent had reluctantly been given. But even at this time, although the Jews were not aware of it, a messenger was on his way to Servilius with peremptory orders to him to return at once to Scythopolis, as most serious reports as to his cruelty to peaceful inhabitants had come to the general's ears. But that message Servilius was never to receive. By midnight, upwards of four hundred men had gathered at the rendezvous in the mountains. John divided the force into four bodies, and gave each their orders as to the part that they were to take; and then marched down the hill, crossed the river, and advanced towards the Roman bivouac. When within a quarter of a mile of the fires, the band broke up into sections and proceeded to surround the enemy. When each company reached the position John had marked out for it, the men began to crawl slowly forward towards the Romans. John sounded a note on his horn and, with a shout, the whole band rushed to their feet and charged down upon the enemy. Before the latter could spring to their feet, and mount their horses, the Jews were among them. John, with a picked band of twenty men, at once made his way to the center of the camp; where the captives, ignorant of the cause of this sudden alarm, stood huddled together. Placing his men around them, to prevent any Roman soldier injuring them, John joined in the fray. It was short. Taken by surprise, unable to get together and form in order of defense, the Roman soldiers were surrounded and cut down, each man fighting stubbornly to the last. One of the first to fall was their leader who, springing to his feet at the alarm, had rushed just as he was, without helmet or armor, among his soldiers, and was stabbed in a dozen places before he had time to draw his sword. The moment the conflict was over, and the last Roman had fallen, John ordered his men to disperse, at once. "Regain your homes before morning," he said. "There may be other parties of Romans out, and it is as well that none, even of your friends, should see you return; and then the Romans will have no clue as to those who have taken part in this night's business. Take not any of their arms, or spoils. We have fought for vengeance, and to relieve our friends, not for plunder. It is well that the Romans should see that, when they hear of the disaster and march out to bury the dead." The men were already crowding round the captives, relieving them from their bonds and, in many cases, embracing and weeping on their necks, for among them were many friends and relations of the rescuing party. John soon found Mary. "Is this a miracle you have performed, John?" the girl said. "Can it be true that our captors have been slain, and that we are free?" "Yes, dear, we can continue our journey." "But how has it happened, John; how has it all come about?" "Jonas and I escaped, as I suppose you know, Mary." "There was a great confusion and stir upon the road," Mary said, "but I did not know what had happened, until we got here. Then some of the men said that two of the captives had escaped; and that one of them jumped on to the horse of the officer and overthrew him, and had ridden off. They said they were both young and, as I missed you both from among the party, I thought it must have been you. "But how did all these men come together?" "I rode round the country, calling upon the young men in the villages to take up arms, to rescue their friends who had been carried away captive into slavery, and to revenge the destruction which this band of ruffians had caused. There were plenty of brave men ready to undertake the task and, as you see, we have carried it out. "And now, Mary, we had best be going. You see, the others are dispersing fast; and it is as well to be as far from here, by morning, as possible. A troop of Roman horse may come along, journeying between Scythopolis and Capitolias; and if they came upon this camp, they might scour all the country." "I am ready, John. What a fate you have saved me from! I have seemed in a dream, ever since the Romans met us this afternoon. I have tried to think of what my life was going to be, but could not. When we got here I tried to weep, but no tears would come. I have been sitting there, as still and cold as if frozen, till I heard the notes of a horn. "Oh, John, do you know John of Gamala was there?" "How do you know, Mary?" John asked, in surprise. "One of the young men who was a captive was lying near, and he leaped to his feet when the horn sounded, and shouted, 'There is John of Gamala's horn; we are saved.' Did you know he was with you?" "Yes, I knew he was," John said. "You won't say anything against him, again," Mary said. "Why did you not bring him here to us, that we might thank him?" "Certainly I will not say anything against him, in future, Mary. "And now, let us be going. I am very anxious about my poor mother. We will follow the road to the spot where we left her. By the time we get there, morning will be breaking. We will inquire for her, at every village we pass through; for I am sure she cannot have gone far. The Romans did not take the asses but, even with them, she could not have traveled far, and probably took shelter at the first place which she came to." This proved to be the case. At the first village they arrived at after passing the spot at which they had been taken captives, they heard that, late the evening before, a woman had arrived in sore distress. She was leading two asses, which she seemed too feeble to mount. She stated that her son and daughter had been carried away by the Romans; and she had been received, for the night, in the principal house in the village. Martha's delight, when John and Mary entered the house where she had been sheltered, was beyond words. She fell on their neck and kissed them, with broken sentences of thankfulness to God at their deliverance; and it was some time before she was sufficiently calm to hear how their escape had been effected, by the night attack upon the Romans by the country people. She was scarcely surprised when she heard that John had effected his escape, and summoned the people to rise to rescue them. "You told me to trust to you to save Mary, John; and I have kept on saying your words, over and over again, to myself. It seemed to me as if I did not quite understand them, and yet there was comfort in them. I could not even think what you could do to help Mary; and yet it appeared as if you, yourself, must have some hope." As soon as Martha was sufficiently recovered from her emotions to resume their journey, the party again started. They made a detour to avoid Hippos for, as John said, there might be inquiries as to everyone who was noticed coming from the direction of the scene of the struggle. They made many halts by the way, for Martha was scarcely able to retain her seat on the donkey, and even Mary was greatly shaken by the event of her captivity and rescue. During the heat of the day they remained under the shade of some trees, and the sun was setting when they approached the farm. Simon and the men hurried out, when the sound of the asses' feet was heard. Martha burst into tears, as he assisted her to alight. "What ails you, wife? I trust that no evil has befallen you by the way. Where are the maids? "Why, Mary, my child, you look pale, too!" "No wonder, uncle, that aunt is shaken, and that I look pale. For John, and I, and Jonas were taken captives by the Romans, who carried us off to sell as slaves, leaving poor mother behind." "And how then have you escaped, child?" "John and Jonas got away from them, and raised all the country; for the Romans had done much harm, killing, and carrying away captives, and burning. So when he called them the men took up arms, and fell upon the Romans at night and slew them all, and rescued me, and some fifty other captives who had fallen into their hands." Simon asked no further questions, for the time, but helped Martha into the house, and then handed her over to the care of Mary and, half an hour later, she had recovered sufficiently to return to the room; and sit there, holding Simon's hand in quiet happiness, and watching Mary as she resumed her accustomed tasks, and assisted old Isaac in preparing supper. "Everything looks just as it was, mother. I could hardly have believed things would have got on so well, without me to look after them. And there are quantities of grapes on the vines, still. They are too ripe for wine, but they will last us, for eating, for months, and that is ever so much better than making them into wine--" She stopped, for Simon had taken his place at the head of the table; and offered up thanks, in the name of the whole household, for the mercies that had been vouchsafed to them; and especially that they were all, once again, assembled together in their house, without there being one vacant place. Then the meal began. While it was eaten, many questions were asked, on both sides; Simon inquiring about his brother-in-law, and his family, and the life they had led at the farm; Martha asking after their neighbors--who had suffered, and who had escaped without loss or harm. When Isaac and the men retired, Jonas rose also to go, but Simon stopped him. "Remain with us, Jonas. Your life has been strangely cast in that of John's, and I would that, henceforth, you take your place as one of the family. You saved his life at Jotapata, and you will henceforth be as an adopted son to me. "Martha, I know that you will spare some of your affection for the lad, who is as a younger brother to John; and who would, I believe--nay I feel sure--if need be, give his life for his friend." "I would do so, indeed," Jonas said, simply. "He found me an outcast, whom none cared for. He has treated me like a brother, and I would gladly die for him." Martha said a few kind words to Jonas, whose quiet and somewhat subdued manner, and whose evident affection for John, had greatly pleased her; and Mary gave him a little nod, which signified that she gladly accepted him as one of the family. "And now, Martha," Simon said, "you have not yet told me how proud you must feel, in the doings of our son. Our friends here are never weary of congratulating me; and truly I feel thankful that a son of mine should have done such deeds, and that the Lord should have chosen him, to use him as an instrument of his will." "My dear father," John interrupted, "I have told you that there is nothing at all out of the way in what we have done. Jonas and the others did just as much as I did, and methinks that some of them make much more than is needful of our skirmishes, and praise me because in so doing they praise themselves, who did as much as I did." "But I do not understand you, Simon," Martha said. "I know that John fought bravely at Jotapata, and that it was marvelous that he and Jonas escaped, when so many fell. Is it this that you are speaking of?" "What! Has John said nothing about what he has been doing, since?" Simon asked, in surprise. "No, father, I said nothing about it," John said, before his mother could speak. "I thought, in the first place, that you would like to tell them; and in the next, the people there had heard such magnified reports that I could not, for very shame, lay claim to be the hero they had pictured to themselves." "But what has he done?" Martha asked, more and more surprised; while Mary, at his last words, sprang to her feet, and stood looking at him with an intent and eager face. "He should have told you, Martha," Simon said. "It is no light thing that this son of ours has done. Young as he is, the eyes of the people are upon them. For with a small band, which he gathered here, he harassed the enemy several days and, boldly entering their camp, destroyed it by fire." "Oh, John!" Mary said, in a low voice; while Martha exclaimed: "What! Is the John, of whom we have heard so much--the young man, of whom the people speak as their future leader--our boy? You cannot mean it, Simon!" "There is no mistake about it, Martha. The lad came to me; and said he thought that, with a small band, he could cause much trouble to the Romans. So I told him he could go, not knowing whether he spoke from the restlessness of youth, or because it was the will of the Lord that he should go and fight for the country. Indeed, it seemed to many that his marvelous escape from Jotapata showed that God had need of him. So I did not withstand him. There were many from the villages round who were ready to join themselves to him, and follow him, for the fame of his escape had made him much talked of. "So he went, with twenty-four followers and, of course, Jonas here; and truly he did, as all men say, great things. And though he saved not Gamala--as indeed could not have been done, save by a miracle of God, with so small a band--he did much and, by the burning of their camp, not only struck a heavy blow upon the Romans, but he inspired the people with hope. "Before, it seemed that to resist the Romans was to bring certain destruction upon those who adventured it; now men see that with prudence, united with bravery, much may be done and, in the spring, John will be followed by a great gathering of fighting men, from all the country round." Martha sat, in speechless surprise, looking at her son. "My dear mother," John said, "what I told you before, when you were praising the unknown John, is equally true now that it is John your son. We acted with common sense which, so far, no one seems to have exercised in our struggle with the Romans. We just kept out of their reach, and took good care never to come to actual blows with them. We constantly threatened them; and compelled them, who knew nothing of our numbers or strength, to cease working. "As to the burning their camp, of course there was a certain amount of danger in it, but one cannot make war without danger. We crept through their sentries into the camp, in the night, and set it on fire; and then made our escape, as best we could. As only one of our number was killed; and he from falling over a precipice, and not by the sword of the Romans, you see the peril could not have been very great. "It was just as I said, that because we did not throw away our lives, but were prudent and cautious, we succeeded. People have made a great fuss about it, because it is the only success, however small, that we have gained over the Romans but, as my father says, it has certainly had a good effect. It has excited a feeling of hopefulness and, in the spring, many will take the field with the belief that, after all, the Romans are not invincible; and that those who fight against them are not merely throwing away their lives." It was some time before Martha could realize that the hero, of which she had heard so much, was the quiet lad standing before her--her own son John. "Simon," she said, at last, "morning and night I have prayed God to protect him of whom we heard so much, little thinking that it was my own son I was praying for. Tonight, I will thank him that he has so blessed me. Assuredly, God's hand is with him. The dangers he has run and the success that he has gained may, as he says, be magnified by report; nevertheless he has assuredly withstood the Romans, even as David went out against Goliath. Tomorrow I will hear more of this; but I feel shaken with the journey, and with this strange news. "Come, Mary, let us to bed!" But Mary had already stolen away, without having said a single word, after her first exclamation. John was at work soon after daybreak, next morning, for there was much to be done. The men were plowing up the stubble, ready for the sowing, Jonas had gone off, with Isaac, to drive in some cattle from the hills; and John set to work to dig up a patch of garden ground, near the house. He had not been long at work, when he saw Mary approaching. She came along quietly and slowly, with a step altogether unlike her own. "Why, Mary, is that you?" he said, as she approached. "Why, Miriam herself could not walk slower. "Are you ill this morning, child?" he asked, with a change of voice, as he saw how pale she was looking. Mary did not speak until she came quite close; then she stopped, and looked at him with eyes full of tears. "Oh, John," she began, "what can I say?" "Why, my dear Mary, what on earth is the matter with you?" he said, throwing down his spade, and taking her hands in his. "I am so unhappy, John." "Unhappy!" John repeated. "What is making you unhappy, child?" "It is so dreadful," she said, "to think that I, who ought to have known you so well--I, your betrothed wife--have been thinking that you were so mean as to be jealous; for I did think it was that, John, when you made light of the doings of the hero I had been thinking about so much, and would not allow that he had done anything particular. I thought that you were jealous, John; and now I know what you have done, and why you spoke so, I feel I am altogether unworthy of you." "Well, Mary, I never thought you were a little goose, before. What nonsense you are talking! It was only natural you should have thought I was jealous; and I should have been jealous, if it had been anyone else you were praising so much. It was my fault, for not telling you at once. Concealments are always stupid; but I had thought that it would give you a pleasant surprise, when you got home, to hear about it; but instead of causing you pleasure, I have caused you pain. I was not vexed, in the slightest; I was rather amused, when you answered me so curtly." "I think it was cruel of you, John, to let me go on thinking badly of you, and showing yourself in so unworthy a light. That does not make it any the less wrong of me. I ought to have believed in you." "You are making a mountain out of a molehill, Mary, and I won't hear any such nonsense. You heard an absurd story, as to what someone had been doing, and you naturally made a hero of him. You were hurt by my speaking slightingly of this hero of yours, and naturally thought I was jealous at hearing such praises of another from my betrothed wife. It was all perfectly natural. I was not in the least offended with you, or put out in any way; except that I was vexed with myself for not telling you, at once, that all these fables related to your cousin John. "Now, dry your eyes, and don't think any more about it. Go and pick two of the finest bunches of grapes you can find, and we will eat them together." But it was some time before Mary recovered her brightness. The changes which the last few months had made almost depressed her. It was but a year ago that John and she had been boy and girl, together; now he had become a man, had done great deeds, was looked upon by many as one chosen for the deliverance of the nation. Mary felt that she, too, had aged; but the change in her was as nothing to that in her old playfellow. It was but a year ago she had been gravely advising him; treating him, sometimes, as if she had been the elder. She would have treated him now, if he would have let her, with something of the deference and respect which a Jewish maiden would usually pay to a betrothed husband--one who was shortly to become her lord. But the first time he detected this manner, John simply laughed at her, and said: "My dear Mary, do not let us have any nonsense of this sort. We have been always equals, you and I; friends and companions. You know, just as well as I do, that in all matters which we have had in common, you have always had quite as much sense as I and, on a great many matters, more sense. "Nothing has occurred since then to alter that. I have grown into a young man, you into a young woman; but we have advanced equally. On matters concerning warfare, I have gained a good deal of knowledge; in other matters, doubtless, you have gained knowledge. And if, dear, it is God's will that I pass through the troubles and dangers that lie before us, and we become man and wife, I trust that we shall always be the friends and comrades that we have been, as boy and girl together. "It is all very well, when young men and maidens have seen nothing of each other until their parents bring them together as man and wife, for the bride to affect a deep respect--which I have not the least doubt she is generally far from feeling, in her heart--for the man to whom she is given. Happily, this has not been the way with us. We have learned to know each other well; and to know that, beyond the difference in strength which a man has over a woman, there is no difference between us--that one will rule the house, and the other will rule the farm, but that in all things, I trust, we shall be companions and equals. I do hope, Mary, that there will be no change in our ways, the few months we have to be together, now. "In the spring, I go up to help to defend Jerusalem; and it is no use hiding the fact from ourselves that there is but little chance of my returning. We know what has befallen those who have, hitherto, defended cities against the Romans; and what has happened at Jotapata, and Gamala, will probably happen at Jerusalem. But for this reason, let us have no change; let us be as brother and sister to one another, as we have been, all along. If God brings me back safe to you, and you become my wife, there will be plenty of time to settle exactly how much deference you shall pay me; but I shall expect that, when the novelty of affecting the wifely obedience, which is enjoined upon the females of our race, is past, you will be quite ready to take up that equality which is, after all, the rule in practice." "I shall remember your words," Mary said, saucily, "when the time comes. It may be you will regret your expressions about equality, some day." So, during the winter, Mary tried to be bright and cheerful; and Martha, whose heart was filled with anxiety as to the dangers and trials which lay before them--Jerusalem and the Temple threatened, and John away, engaged in desperate enterprises--often wondered to herself, when she heard the girl's merry laugh as she talked with John, and saw how completely she seemed to put aside every sort of anxiety; but she did not know how Mary often spent the entire night in weeping and prayer, and how hard was her struggle to keep up the brave appearance which was, she knew, a pleasure to John. He was not much at home, being often absent for days together. Strangers came and went, frequently. John had long conversations with them; and sometimes went away with them, and did not return for three or four days. No questions were asked, by his parents, as to these visitors or his absence. They knew that they had reference to what they considered his mission; and as, when he returned home, he evidently wished to lay aside all thought of other things, and to devote himself to his life with them, they asked no questions as to what he was doing. He spoke, sometimes, of these things to Mary, when they were together alone. She knew that numbers of young men were only waiting his signal to join him; that parties of them met him among the hills, and were there organized into companies, each with officers of their own choice over them; and that, unknown to the Romans at Scythopolis, there were daily held, throughout the country on both sides of the Jordan, meetings where men practiced with their arms, improved their skill with the bow and arrow, and learned to obey the various signals of the bugle, which John had now elaborated. John was resolute in refusing to accept any men with wives and families. There were other leaders, he said, under whom these could fight; he was determined to have none but men who were ready to sacrifice their lives, and without the care of others dependent upon them. He was ready to accept youths of fifteen, as well as men of five-and-twenty; believing that, in point of courage, the one were equal to the other. But each candidate had to be introduced by others, who vouched for his activity, hardihood, and courage. One of his objects was to avoid increasing his band to too great dimensions. The number of those ready to go up to defend Jerusalem, and eager to enroll themselves as followers of this new leader--whose mission was now generally believed in, in that part of the country--was very large; but John knew that a multitude would be unwieldy; that he would find it impossible to carry out, with thousands of men, tactics dependent for success upon celerity of movement; and, moreover, that did he arrive in Jerusalem with so great a following, he would at once become an object of jealousy to the leaders of the factions there. He therefore limited the number to four hundred men; urging upon all others who presented themselves, or sent messages to him, to form themselves into similar bands; to choose leaders, and to act as independent bodies, hanging upon the rear of the Romans, harassing them with frequent night alarms, cutting off their convoys, attacking their working parties; and always avoiding encounters with strong bodies of the Romans, by retreating into the hills. He said that, although he would not receive more men into his own force than he thought could be easily handled, he should be glad to act in concert with the other leaders so that, at times, the bands might all unite in a common enterprise; and especially that, if they entered Jerusalem, they might hold together, and thus be enabled to keep aloof from the parties of John of Gischala, or Eleazar, who were contending for the mastery of the city. His advice was taken, and several bands similar to his own were formed; but their leaders felt that they needed the prestige and authority which John had gained, and that their followers would not obey their orders with the faith which was inspired, in the members of John's own band, by their belief in his special mission. Their representations on this subject were so urgent that John, at their request, attended a meeting at which ten of these chiefs were present. It was held in a farmhouse, not far from the spot where Gamala had stood. John was embarrassed at the respect which these men, all of them several years older than himself, paid him; but he accepted the position quietly, for he felt that the belief that existed, as to his having a special mission, added greatly to his power of utility. He listened to their representations as to their want of authority, and to the rivalries and jealousies which already existed among those who had enrolled themselves. When they had finished, he said: "I have been thinking the matter well over. I am convinced that it is absolutely necessary that none of the commands shall exceed the numbers I have fixed upon--namely, four hundred men, divided into eight companies, each with a captain--but at the same time, I do not see any reasons why all our corps should not be nominally under one leader. If, then, you think it will strengthen your position, I am ready to accept the general leadership, and to appoint you each as commanders of your troops. Then you will hold my commissions; and I will support you, in your commands, with any authority I may have. "At the same time you will understand that you will, in reality, act altogether independently of me; save and except when, it seems to me, that we can unite in any enterprise. If we enter Jerusalem, we will then hold together for mutual protection from the factions; but even there you will each command independently for, did I assume a general command, it would excite the jealousy of the leaders of the factions, and we should be forced to take part in the civil strife which is devastating the city." A cordial consent to this proposition was given by the other leaders, who said that the knowledge that they were John's officers would add immensely to their authority; and would also raise the courage and devotion of their men, who would not believe that they were being led to victory, unless they were acting under the orders of John, himself. "Remember," John said, "that if misfortune befalls us, I have never laid claim to any divine commission. We are all agents of God, and it may be that he has specially chosen me as one of his instruments; but this I cannot say, beyond the fact that, so far, I have been carried safely through great dangers, and have been enabled to win successes over the Romans. But I do not set up as a specially-appointed leader. "I say this for two reasons: in the first place, that you should not think that I am claiming authority and command on grounds which may not be justified; and in the second place that, if I should fall early in the fighting, others should not be disheartened, and believe that the Lord has deserted them. "I am but a lad among you, and I recognize that it is God who has so strangely brought me into eminence but, having done that much, he may now choose some other instrument. If this should be so--if, as may well be, one of you should obtain far greater success than may attend me--I shall be only too glad to lay aside this authority over the rest, with which you are willing to invest me, and to follow him as cheerfully as you now propose to follow me." The meeting soon afterwards broke up, and the news that John of Gamala--as he was generally called, from the success he had gained over the Romans before that town--had assumed the supreme command of the various bands which were being raised, in eastern Galilee and on the east of Jordan, spread rapidly; and greatly increased the popular feeling of hope, and confidence. Fresh bands were formed, the leaders all receiving their appointments from him. Before the spring arrived, there were twenty bands formed and organized, in readiness to march down towards Jerusalem, as soon as the Roman legions got into motion. Chapter 11: A Tale Of Civil Strife. Towards the spring, Simon and his family were surprised by a visit from the Rabbi Solomon Ben Manasseh. It was a year since they had last seen him, when he called to take leave of them, on starting for Jerusalem. They scarcely recognized him as he entered, so old and broken did he look. "The Lord be praised that I see you all, safe and well!" he said, as they assisted him to dismount from the donkey that he rode. "Ah, my friends, you are happy, indeed, in your quiet farm; free from all the distractions of this terrible time! Looking round here, and seeing you just as I left you--save that the young people have grown, somewhat--I could think that I left you but yesterday, and that I have been passing through a hideous nightmare. "Look at me! My flesh has fallen away, and my strength has gone. I can scarce stand upon my legs, and a young child could overthrow me. I have wept, till my tears are dried up, over the misfortunes of Jerusalem; and yet no enemy has come within sight of her walls, or dug a trench against her. She is devoured by her own children. Ruin and desolation have come upon her." The old man was assisted into the house, and food and wine placed before him. Then he was led into the guest chamber, and there slept for some hours. In the evening, he had recovered somewhat of his strength, and joined the party at their meal. When it was concluded, and the family were alone, he told them what had happened in Jerusalem during the past year. Vague rumors of dissension, and civil war, had reached them; but a jealous watch was set round the city, and none were suffered to leave, under the pretext that all who wished to go out were deserters who sought to join the Romans. "I passed through, with difficulty," the rabbi said, "after bribing John of Gischala, with all my worldly means, to grant me a pass through the guards; and even then should not have succeeded, had he not known me in old times, when I looked upon him as one zealous for the defense of the country against the Romans--little thinking, then, that the days would come when he would grow into an oppressor of the people, tenfold as cruel and pitiless as the worst of the Roman tribunes. "Last autumn when, with the band of horsemen, with steeds weary with hard riding, he arrived before the gates of Jerusalem--saying that they had come to defend the city, thinking it not worth while to risk their lives in the defense of a mere mountain town, like Gischala--the people poured out to meet him, and do him honor. Terrible rumors of slaughter and massacre, in Galilee, had reached us, but none knew the exact truth. Moreover, John had been an enemy of Josephus and, since Josephus had gone over to the Romans, his name was hated and accursed among the people; and thus they were favorably inclined towards John. "I don't think anyone was deceived by the story he told, for it was evident that John and his men had fled before the Romans. Still, the tidings he brought were reassuring, and he was gladly received in the city. He told us that the Romans had suffered very heavily at the sieges of Jotapata and Gamala, that they were greatly dispirited by the desperate resistance they had met with, that a number of their engines of war had been destroyed, and that they were in no condition to undertake the siege of a strong city like Jerusalem. But though all outwardly rejoiced, many in their hearts grieved at the news, for they thought that even an occupation by the Romans would be preferable to the suffering they were undergoing. "For months, bands of robbers, who called themselves Zealots, had ravaged the whole country; pillaging, burning, and slaying, under the pretense that those they assaulted were favorable to the cause of Rome. Thus, gradually, the country people all forsook their homes, and fled to Jerusalem for refuge and, when the country was left a desert and no more plunder was to be gained, these robber bands gradually entered Jerusalem. As you know, the gates of the holy city were always open to all the Jewish people; and none thought of excluding the strangers who entered, believing that every armed man would add to the power of resistance, when the Romans appeared before it. "The robbers, who came singly or in small parties from all parts of the country, soon gathered themselves together in the city, and established a sort of terror over the peaceable inhabitants. Men were robbed, and murdered, openly in the street; houses were broken open, and pillaged; none dare walk in the street, without the risk of insult or assault. Antipas, Levias, and Saphias--all of royal blood--were seized, thrown into prison, and there murdered; and many others of the principal people were slain. "Then the robbers proceeded to further lengths. They took upon themselves to appoint a high priest; selected a family which had no claim whatever to the distinction and, drawing lots among them, chose as high priest one Phannias--a country priest, ignorant, boorish, and wholly unable to discharge the function of the office. Hitherto, the people had submitted to the oppression of the Zealots, but this desecration of the holy office filled them with rage and indignation; and Ananus--the oldest of the chief priests, a man of piety and wisdom--was the head of the movement and, calling the people together, exhorted them to resist the tyranny which oppressed them, and which was now desecrating the Temple--for the Zealots had taken refuge there, and made the holy place their headquarters. "The people seized their arms, but before they were ready for the attack the Zealots, learning what was going on, took the initiative and fell upon them. The people were less accustomed to arms than their foes, but they had the superiority of numbers, and fought with fury. At first the Zealots gained the advantage, but the people increased in numbers. Those behind pressed those in front forward, and the Zealots were driven back into the Temple, and the Quadrangle of the Gentiles was taken. "The Zealots fled into the inner court, and closed the gates. Thither their wounded had already been carried, and the whole place was defiled with their blood. But Ananus, having the fear of God before his eyes, did not like to attack them there and, leaving six thousand chosen men on guard in the cloisters, and arranging that these should be regularly relieved, retired. "Such was the state of things, when John of Gischala arrived. He at once professed complete agreement with the party of Ananus, and was admitted into all their councils; but all the time, as we afterwards learned, he was keeping up a secret correspondence with the Zealots, and betrayed to them all that took place at the council. There was some distrust of him but, in addition to the party that had entered the city with him, he had speedily gathered together many others and, distracted as we already were with our troubles, none cared to add to the number of their enemies by openly distrusting John--who took many solemn oaths of fidelity to the cause of order. "He at length volunteered to enter the inner Temple, on a mission to the Zealots; and to persuade them to surrender, and leave the city. But no sooner was he among them than he threw off the mask, and told the Zealots that the offers to allow them to depart in peace were blinds, and that they would at once be massacred if they surrendered. He therefore advised them to resist, and to send for assistance without--recommending them especially to send to the Idumeans. Eleazar and Zacharias--the chiefs of the Zealots--felt sure that they, above all, would be sacrificed if they surrendered; and they embraced John's counsel, and sent off swift-footed messengers to the Idumeans, urging them to come to their assistance. "The Idumeans had, since their conquest by Hyrcanus, been incorporated with the Jews. They were a fierce and warlike people--of Arab descent--and, immediately the messengers of the Zealots arrived, they embraced the proposal, anticipating the acquisition of great plunder in Jerusalem. Marching with all speed, they appeared, twenty thousand strong, before the walls of Jerusalem. "Although taken completely by surprise--for none knew that messengers had gone over to the Idumeans--the people manned the walls; and Jesus, a colleague of Ananus, addressed the Idumeans. He asked them to take one of three courses: either to unite with the people, in punishing the notorious robbers and assassins who were desecrating the Temple; or to enter the city unarmed, and arbitrate between the conflicting parties; or to depart, and leave the city to settle its own difficulties. Simon, the leader of the Idumeans, answered that they came to take the part of the true patriots, against men who were conspiring basely to sell the people into the hands of the Romans. "At this answer Jesus left the wall, and we held debate upon the situation. Before the arrival of this new enemy, we felt certain of overpowering the Zealots; and Ananus would, ere long, have been persuaded to lay aside his scruples and attack them for, as they were desecrating the sanctuary, it would be better to shed their blood there and, when these wicked men were slain, to offer up atonement and purify the Temple--as had been done before, in the days of the Maccabees, after the Temple had been defiled. "We redoubled our guards round the Temple, so that none could issue out thence to communicate with the Idumeans. At night a terrible storm set in, with lightning, thunder, and rain, so that the very earth seemed to shake. A great awe fell upon all, within and without the city. To all, it seemed a sign of the wrath of God at the civil discords; but though, doubtless, it was the voice of the Almighty, it was rather a presage of further evils. "Under shelter of the storm--which drove all the guards to take refuge--some of the Zealots cut asunder the bars of the gate, and crept along the street to the wall. Then they sawed through the bars of the gate that faced the Idumeans, who were trembling with terror in the storm. Unseen by anyone, the Idumeans entered the gate, marched through the city, and approached the Temple. Then they fell upon our guards, while the Zealots attacked them from behind. "Furious at the hours they had passed exposed to the tempest, ashamed of their fears, and naturally pitiless and cruel, the Idumeans gave no quarter; and a terrible carnage took place among the ten thousand men who had been placed in the outer court of the Temple. Some fought desperately, others threw themselves down from the wall into the city and, when morning dawned, eight thousand five hundred of our best fighting men had been slain. "As soon as it was daylight, the Idumeans broke into the city, pillaging and slaying. The high priests, Ananus and Jesus, were among those who were slain; and in that terrible night were extinguished the last hopes of saving Jerusalem. "Ananus was a man of the highest character. He had labored unceasingly to place the city in a posture of defense; believing, and rightly, that the stronger were its walls, and the more formidable the resistance it could offer, the better chance there was of obtaining favorable terms from the Romans. Ananus was the leader and hope of the peace party, which comprised all the respectable classes, and all the older and wiser men in Jerusalem. His death left the conduct of affairs in the hands of the thoughtless, the rash, and the desperate. "The massacre continued for days, the Idumeans hunting the citizens in the streets. Vast numbers were killed, without question. The young men of the upper classes were dragged to prison, and were there scourged and tortured to force them to join the Zealots, but not one would do so. All preferred death. Thus perished twelve thousand of the best and wisest in Jerusalem. "Then the Zealots set up a tribunal and, by proclamation, assembled seventy of the principal citizens remaining to form a court; and before it brought Zacharias, the son of Baruch--an upright, patriotic, and wealthy man. Him they charged with entering into correspondence with the Romans, but produced no shadow of evidence against him. Zacharias defended himself boldly, clearly establishing his own innocence, and denouncing the iniquities of his accusers. The seventy unanimously acquitted the prisoner, preferring to die with him, to condemning an innocent man. The Zealots rushed forward, with cries of rage, and slew Zacharias and, with blows and insults, turned the judges out of the Temple. "The Idumeans at length began to weary of massacre, and were sated with pillage and, declaring that they had been deceived by the Zealots, and that they believed no treason had been intended, they left the city; first opening the prisons, and releasing two thousand persons confined there, who fled to Simon the son of Gioras, who was wasting the country toward Idumea. "The Zealots, after their departure, redoubled their iniquities; and seemed as if they would leave none alive, save the lowest of the people. Gorion, a great and distinguished man, was among the slain. Niger of Peraea, who had been the leader in the attack on the Romans at Ascalon--a noble and true-hearted patriot--was also murdered. He died calling upon the Romans to come to avenge those who had been thus murdered; and denouncing famine, pestilence, and civil massacre, as well as war, against the accursed city. "I had lain hidden, with an obscure family, with whom I had lodged during these terrible times. So great was the terror and misery in the city that those who lived envied the dead. It was death to bury even a relative, and both within and without the city lay heaps of bodies, decaying in the sun. "Even among the Zealots themselves, factions arose. John of Gischala headed one party, and that the more violent. Over these he ruled with absolute authority, and occupied one portion of the city. The other party acknowledged no special leader. Sometimes, then, the factions fought among themselves; but neither side ceased from plundering and murdering the inhabitants. "Such, my friends, was the condition of Jerusalem when I left it; having, as I told you, purchased a permission from John of Gischala to pass through the guards at the gates. "As I traveled here, I learned that another danger threatens us. The sect called the Assassins, as you know, seized the strong fortress of Masada, near the Dead Sea, at the beginning of the troubles. Until lately, they have been content to subsist on the plunder of the adjacent country but, on the night of the Passover, they surprised Engaddi, dispersed all who resisted, and slew seven hundred women and children who could not escape. They carried off the contents of the granaries, and are now wasting the whole region. "What hope can there be of success, my friends, when, with an enemy close to their gates, the Jews are slaying more of their fellow countrymen than the Romans themselves? Did ever a country present so humiliating and terrible a spectacle? Were such atrocities ever perpetrated by men upon their brothers? And yet, the madmen still believe that the Almighty will deliver them--will save from destruction that Temple which they have polluted, the altars that they have deluged with blood." When the rabbi had finished his narration, there was a long silence. Martha was in tears, at the recital of the misery which was endured by the inhabitants of Jerusalem; Simon sat with his face covered with his hands; John had scarce moved, since the rabbi had begun his story, but sat with a heavy frown on his face, looking straight before him; while Mary anxiously watched him, to see the effect of the recital upon him. Simon was the first to speak. "It is a tale of mourning, lamentation, and woe that you have told us, rabbi. Not even in the days of our captivity in Babylon were the Jewish people fallen so low. Let us to bed now. These things are too terrible to speak of, until we have laid them before the Lord, and asked his guidance. I wonder not, now, rabbi, that years seem to have rolled over your head since we last met." The others rose. Mary, as she passed John, laid her hands on his shoulder with a caressing action--which was very rare to her, for she generally behaved to him as to a brother, holding any exhibition of greater affection unmaidenly, until the days of betrothal were ended. The action seemed to recall John from his gloomy thought, and he smiled down at her anxious face; then, when the others went off to their apartments, he went out into the night air and stood for hours, nearly immovable, with his eyes fixed on the stars. In the morning, Mary joined him in the garden; as had come to be their custom, this being the only time in the day when they were alone together. "Well, John?" she asked. He understood her question. "I have thought it over, Mary, in every way; but I cannot see that my duty is changed by what we heard last night. Affection for you, and my parents, would keep me here; and I wish that I could see that my duty could go hand in hand with my wishes. I have been sorely tempted to yield--to resign the struggle, to remain here in peace and quiet--but I should never be happy. I do not believe that I am, as so many think, specially called to be a deliverer--though God has assuredly specially protected and aided me--but, did I draw back now, it would be a grievous discouragement to many. I have put my hand to the plow, and cannot look back. "God has permitted these miseries to fall upon Jerusalem, doubtless, as a punishment for the sins of the people. It may be yet that his wrath will be abated, and that he will remember the mercies of old. He has suffered his Temple to be profaned, but it may not be his purpose to allow it to be destroyed, utterly. The evil doings, therefore, of evil men do not release us from our duty; and it has always been held the chief duty of all Jews to die, if need be, in defense of the Temple. Never, so long as that stands, can we say that the Lord has wholly turned his face from us--that he purposes another period of exile, and captivity, to befall his people. "Therefore, Mary, I shall go on as I have intended; warring against the Romans, and doing what I can to hinder their advance against Jerusalem. I think that the war may last longer than I had expected. Vespasian will have heard--from those who, like the rabbi, have escaped from Jerusalem--what is going on within the city; and knowing the great strength of its walls; and judging, from what he saw at Jotapata and Gamala, how desperate would be its resistance, were he to appear before it, he may well decide to leave it for the present; suffering the population to prey upon each other, to consume their provisions and waste their strength till, when he marches against it, there will be no longer men left to man the walls." "I thought you would decide so, John," Mary said, quietly; "and much as I love you--for I do love you, John--I would rather part with you so, never to see you again, than that you should draw back now. I set you up on a pedestal, before I knew that it was you who was my hero; and I would not have it said that he, of whom such high hopes were cherished, drew back from the enterprise he had taken up. Rather would I mourn for you, all my life, than that men should say of you: "'This is he of whom we said, he is the deliverer; but who shrank from the dangers of battle, and threw down his country's sword.'" "Thank you, Mary. I am glad to hear you say so. I thought that I was right, but it was very hard so to decide. And, now that you agree with me, my chief cause for hanging back is removed. Henceforth, I shall trouble no more over it. My conscience tells me that I am right to go. You say go, also. Therefore now, whatever betides, I shall not blame myself; but shall feel that I could not have taken any other course." "I have faith, John, that you will come back to me, when the troubles are over. I believe that, whatever may happen at Jerusalem, you will be spared to me. I think that it was either for the country, or for me, that your life was spared, alone of all those that fought at Jotapata; and I mean to keep on thinking so. It will keep up my spirits, while you are away, and will help me to cheer our mother." "If the Romans do not move upon Jerusalem, I may be able to be often at home. Our policy will be to strike a blow; and then, when the Romans gather in force, to scatter and disappear; so that I may often be home, until the time comes when the enemy gather round Jerusalem. "But at any rate, Mary, I shall try and believe that your hope is well founded; and that, in the end, I shall return alive to you. Certainly I shall not spare my life; for, when one takes up the post of a leader of his fellows, he must never hang back from danger, but must be always in the front. At the same time, I shall never forget that you are thinking and praying for me, and will never throw away my life recklessly; and if the time comes when I see that all is lost--that fighting is no longer of avail--I will neither rush into the enemy's ranks to die, nor will I throw down my arms and die unresisting, nor will I slay myself with my own weapons; but I will strive, in every way, to save my life for your sake, having done all that I could for our country, and the Temple." "That is all I ask, John. I am quite content to wait here, until the day comes that you shall return; and then, though our cause be lost, our country ruined, and God's Temple destroyed, we can yet feel that God has been good and merciful to us--even if we be driven out of our home, and have to become exiles, in a far land." A week later, the news came that the Romans were preparing to take the field. The young men of the village at once started, as messengers, through the country. At night, a vast pile of brushwood was lighted on the hill above Gamala; and answering fires soon blazed out from other heights. At the signal, men left their homes on the shores of Galilee, in the cities of the plains, in the mountains of Peraea and Batanaea. Capitolias, Gerisa and Pella, Sepphoris, Caphernaum and Tiberias--and even the towns and villages almost within sight of Caesar's camp, at Caesarea--sent their contingents and, in twenty-four hours, eight thousand armed men were gathered on the slopes of Mount Galaad. Each man brought with him grain, sufficient for a week's consumption; and all had, according to their means, brought money, in accordance with the instructions John and the other commanders had issued. For John held that although--as they were fighting for the country--they must, if necessary, live upon the country; yet that, as far as possible, they should abstain from taking food without payment, and so run the risk of being confounded with the bands who, under the cloak of patriotism, plundered and robbed the whole country. The bands assembled, each under their leaders. It was easy to see that they had come from different localities. Tarichea and Tiberias had both sent two companies, and the aspect of these differed widely from that of the companies of peasants, raised in the villages on the slopes of Hermon or among the mountains of Peraea; but all seemed animated by an equal feeling of devotion, and of confidence in their young leader. John, after carefully inspecting his own band, visited the camps of the other companies; and was everywhere received with acclamations. He addressed each company in turn--not only urging them to show bravery, for that every Jew had shown, who had fought against the Romans--but pointing out that far more than this was required. While they must be ready to give their lives, when need be; they must be equally ready to shun the fight, to scatter and fly, when their leaders gave the orders. It was not by bravery that they could hope to overcome the Romans; but by harassing them night and day, by attacking their camps, cutting off their convoys, and giving them no rest. Above all, obedience was required. "Look at the Roman soldiers," he said. "They have no wills of their own. They advance, or retreat; they attack, when they know that those who first attack must die; they support all hardships and fatigues; they accomplish marvels, in the way of work; they give themselves up, in fact, to obey the orders given them, never questioning whether those orders are the best, but blindly obeying them; and so it must be, here, if we are to fight the Romans with a chance of success. "The most useful man here--the man who will do best service to his country--is not he who is strongest, or bravest, but he who is most prompt in his obedience to orders. The true hero is he who gives up his will and, if need be, his life, at the order of his leader. You have chosen your own officers, and I have confirmed the choice that you have made. It is for you, now, to give them your support and assistance. There will be hardships, these must be borne without complaint; there will be delays, these must be supported with patience; there will be combats and dangers, these must be met with confidence and courage--believing that God will give you success; and that, although the issue of the strife is in his hands, each of you should do his best, by his conduct and courage, to gain success. "We shall not act in one great body, for we could not find food, in the villages, for so large a number. Moreover, to do so would be to give the Romans an opportunity of massing their forces against us, of surrounding and destroying us. On great occasions, and for a great object, we may gather together and unite our forces. At other times, although acting upon a general plan, and in concert with each other, each company will work independently. So we shall elude the Romans. When they strike at us, we shall be gone. When they try to inclose us, we shall disperse. When they pursue one body, others will fall upon them. When they think that we are in one part of the country, we will be striking a blow in another. When they fancy themselves in security, we will fall upon them. We will give them no rest, or peace." John's addresses were received with shouts of approval. By the great majority of those present, he was now seen for the first time; but his appearance, the tone of authority with which he spoke, his air of confidence, and the manner in which he had evidently thought out the plans of action, and prepared for all contingencies, confirmed the reports which they had heard of him; and the conviction that he was a specially appointed leader was deepened, and strengthened. How otherwise could one who was a mere youth speak with such firmness, and authority? The memories of the Jews were stored with legends of the prowess of Judas the Maccabean, and his brothers; and of other leaders who had, from time to time, arisen and enabled them to clear their country of oppressors; and they were thus prepared to accept, willingly, those who appeared to them specially sent as leaders, and the question of age and experience weighed but little with them. Moreover, as none had been trained as soldiers, there were none who had to set aside superior claims. Samuel had been chosen as a child, Saul was the youngest of his brethren, and David a lad when he slew the champion of the Philistines. Such being the case, the youth of John was no drawback, in the eyes of his followers; and indeed the fact that, being still a youth, he had yet escaped from Jotapata, where all his elders had died; and that he had inflicted a heavy blow upon the Romans, when all others who had opposed them had perished, seemed in itself a proof that he was under special protection. John probably believed in himself less than did any man among his followers. Piously and devoutly brought up, he saw in the two escapes that he had had, from death at the hands of the Romans, signs of a special protection of God. But, while he hoped that he might be able to do the Romans much harm, he had not any conviction that he was destined to deliver his country. He had none of the fervent enthusiasm of men who are convinced that they have a divine mission, and that miracles would be wrought in his favor. He had seen the tremendous strength of the Roman army, as it defiled from the mountains before Jotapata. He had learned the power of their war engines, and had evidence of their discipline, their bravery and perseverance; and had no idea that such a force as that gathered round him could cope with the legions of Rome. Still, that firm and pious belief, which was so deeply ingrained in the heart of the Jews, that God specially interested himself in them--that he personally directed everything that befell them, and intervened in every incident of their history--had its natural effect upon him. His training taught him that he was an instrument in God's hands and, although he hardly even hoped that he was destined to be a deliverer of Jerusalem, he thought that God might intend him to do great things for his people. At any rate, while never claiming any special authority--or to have, more than those around him, any special mission--he was careful not to damp the enthusiasm of his followers, by disclaiming the mission they attributed to him; knowing how much such a belief added to his authority, and to the efficiency of the force under his command. Chapter 12: Desultory Fighting. After having gone through the camps of the whole of the companies, John assembled the leaders round him, and held a council as to future operations. It was agreed that it would be best to leave alone, for the present, the legion at Scythopolis; for rumors of the gathering would almost certainly have reached that city, and the Romans might be on their guard against attack. It was resolved, therefore, to cross the Jordan a few miles below Tarichea, to traverse the hills between Endor and Gelbus and, by a long march, to gain the range of hills extending from Carmel to Samaria, and forming the boundary between the latter province and Galilee. They would then be looking down upon the camp of Vespasian, at Caesarea. The country, between these hills and the city, was too flat for them to engage with any hopes of success; for although, by a surprise, they might inflict great damage on the Romans, they would be wholly unable to withstand the charges of the Roman horse. They would, therefore, maintain a lookout from the mountains; and attack the Roman camp the first time it was pitched on ground whence a rapid retreat could be effected, to the hills. As the Jordan was unfordable, between Scythopolis and the lake, all who could not swim were ordered to carry with them, on their march down to the river, logs of light wood sufficient to support them in crossing. Those who could swim were to assist in piloting over those unable to do so. This would be a work of no great difficulty, for the width of the Jordan is not great, and it was only for a short distance in the center that it would be unfordable. As was to be expected, the companies raised near the shores of the lake contained but few men unable to swim, while those from the mountain districts were almost wholly ignorant of the art. The bands were, therefore, linked together for the purpose of crossing; one of those from the plains, and a company of mountaineers, marching down to the stream together. The preparations were all complete by the afternoon and, just as it was becoming twilight, the leading bands arrived on the banks of the Jordan. The crossing was effected without difficulty and, in two hours, all were over. Then the companies formed up under their leaders, and started independently; men who knew the country well being assigned, as guides, to each. They crossed the hill between Endor and Gelbus, marched through Jezrael; and then, just as morning was breaking, ascended the slopes of Mount Carmel, leaving Legio on their right. It was a march of about fifty miles; but the men were all active and vigorous, lightly armed, and sustained by enthusiasm and excitement, and not a man dropped behind during the journey. Once among the hills, they threw themselves down for a rest of some hours. From the crest of the hill, it was but some twelve miles down to Caesarea; and the blue line of the sea extended, right and left, as far as the eye could reach. In the afternoon Jonas was sent down to the city, to learn how matters stood there, and when Vespasian was going to move. He was to remain there that night, and return with the news on the following morning. He came back, however, at midnight; saying that the Romans had marched on the previous day, that they had taken the southern road which skirted the mountains for some distance, and would probably cross the central range at Sichem, and either proceed to Scythopolis, or join the legion thence on the plain of Aulon, west of the Jordan. This was a disappointment but, at daybreak, the companies were afoot. It was decided they should march separately; each taking its own line to the east, following unfrequented roads, and keeping among the hills as far as possible, so that no report of the passage of any large gathering of men should reach the Romans. Although no time had been lost, John, when he approached the Jordan, learned that Vespasian had already joined the legion from Scythopolis, and had crossed the river into Peraea, and was marching with all speed against Gadara, its chief city. Halting for the night near the Jordan; John crossed the river by a ford, next morning, and then moved forward, cautiously, to commence operations as soon as the Romans were engaged upon the siege of the city. But, ere many hours had passed, he learned that the inhabitants had sent forward a deputation to Vespasian; and that the war party, taken by surprise by the rapid advance of the Romans, had hastily evacuated the city, after slaying many of those who were willing to admit the Romans. When Vespasian arrived, he had been received with acclamations by the inhabitants; who had already destroyed a portion of their walls, to prove that they never thought of resistance. Having thus established the Roman authority in Peraea, Vespasian left a garrison there; and set out, with the main body of his army, for Caesarea, leaving a garrison in the town; and dispatching Placidus, with five hundred horse and three thousand foot, in pursuit of the fugitives who had fled from Gadara before he entered it. As Vespasian marched back, the band under John began their work. Wherever the road led through the mountains, they rolled down rocks upon the column. The light-armed allies of the Romans were sent out on each flank and, climbing the hills, attacked their assailants. As soon, however, as they neared the crests--which were, as they believed, held by small parties, only, of the enemy--the Jews rushed upon them with fury, overthrew them, and drove them down the hills; until the heavy-armed troops were obliged to advance to their assistance, upon which the Jews at once fell back to the higher slopes. Growing bolder by success, they even ventured to rush down upon the baggage; breaking through its guard, and killing great numbers of the animals. A party of Roman horse which came up at full gallop was charged, just as they reached the spot, by two more companies from the hill; and these, before the Romans could face about and oppose their line of long spears to their assailants, were among them--stabbing the horses, leaping up behind the soldiers and slaying them with their knives, and throwing the whole into confusion. Then the sound of a horn was heard on the hillside, and the whole of the Jews instantly relinquished their work and took to the mountains, just as a large body of cavalry, headed by Titus, came thundering up. At night, the Romans were disturbed by constant alarms. Men crept up to the sentries, and slew them in the darkness. Numbers of the enemy penetrated into the camp; killing the soldiers as they slept, hocking the horses, and setting fire to the camp in several places; and it was not until the whole army got under arms that the attack ceased. The next day, they were similarly harassed upon the march; and it was not until they had crossed the mountains, and descended on to the western plain, that the Jews drew off, highly satisfied with the result of their first encounter with the Romans. Their loss had been slight--not more than twenty having fallen--while they had killed more than two hundred of the light-armed troops, had inflicted some loss upon the Romans themselves, had slain numbers of baggage animals; and had shown the enemy that, however formidable the Roman soldiers might be on the plains, the legions of Vespasian were no more invincible than was that of Cestius, among the hills. They regretted however that, instead of engaging the main army, they had not followed the force under Placidus--of whose dispatch from Gadara they had not learned, until it was too late. The fugitives, of whom Placidus was in pursuit, had taken possession of the village of Bethennabris. He pursued the stratagem which had already succeeded so well. He feigned a retreat, and the Jews sallied out and attacked him. He cut off the greater part from returning to the village and, at night, attacked Bethennabris, captured it, and put all within it to the sword. Those who had escaped were joined by great numbers of the country people; and made for the Jordan, intending to cross by the ford opposite Jericho. But the river was swollen with rain, and they were unable to cross. Placidus overtook and attacked them. Vast numbers were killed, and more were driven into the river and drowned. Fifteen thousand fell. Two thousand five hundred were taken prisoners, with a vast number of animals, of all kinds. Placidus then reduced the whole of Peraea, and the coast of the Dead Sea, as far as Machaerus. Vespasian soon moved down from Caesarea, keeping near the sea, and capturing Antipatris, Lydda, and Thamna, and blocking Emmaus. Then, continuing his course southward, he wasted the country to the frontier of Idumea, and captured the towns Betaris and Caphartobas, putting to the sword about ten thousand men. Then he marched back, by Emmaus and Sichem, descended the hills and marched to Jericho; where he was joined by Placidus, with the troops from Peraea. The city had been deserted by its inhabitants, and the Roman army rested here for some time until, just as Vespasian was about to march upon Jerusalem, the news arrived of the death of Nero and, unwilling to weaken his army by besieging the city--strong in itself, and defended by a host--Vespasian withdrew to Caesarea and, for another two years, Jerusalem had time for preparation, or submission. As Vespasian's march had, except when he was crossing the mountains from Emmaus to Sichem, lain entirely in the plains, John had been able to do but little. Half the force had been sent across the Jordan, and its operations had greatly added to the difficulties Placidus had met with in subduing Peraea. The other companies had closely followed the march of Vespasian, had made many attacks upon parties dispatched to pillage the country and, after the Romans marched north again, besieged and captured some of the small places in which they had left garrisons. They had united when the two Roman armies met at Jericho; and were prepared to defend, desperately, the rugged mountain roads leading thence to Jerusalem when, to their surprise, they saw the Roman host moving away to the north again. As soon as they ascertained that Vespasian had, for the present, entirely abandoned the idea of attacking Jerusalem, and that his troops had gone into permanent quarters, John held a council with the other commanders. Some were in favor of remaining in arms, and of constantly attacking the Roman garrisons. Others were for scattering and returning to their homes--from which they had now been absent three months--until the Romans again set themselves in motion against Jerusalem. Opinions were about equally divided, and John remained silent until all had spoken. Then he said: "I think that we had better disperse. If we remained in arms, we might gain some successes, we might surprise and slay some Roman garrisons; but the others would speedily prepare themselves against attack, by strengthening their walls and taking every precaution. But, did we succeed in destroying the garrisons in every one of the towns they have captured, of what benefit would it be? It would rather excite the Romans yet more against the people. Yet more would they march through the land, burning, destroying, and slaying. They would turn the country into a desert; and either slay, or carry away all the people captives. We should irritate without seriously injuring the Romans; and the very people, whose sufferings we should heighten by our work, would turn against us. "Now that the whole country has been scoured, all the towns which have resisted destroyed, and all the men who defended them put to the sword, there may be breathing space for the land, until the Romans advance against Jerusalem. It may be that those in Jerusalem may come to terms with the Romans, in which case there need not be any more bloodshed. Therefore, I say that it seems to me that it would be wrong to continue the war, so long as the Romans rest peacefully in their camps; but should Jerusalem have need of us in her defense, every one of us will again take the field." John's counsel was finally adopted. Many of the men were longing to return to their homes, where they knew that they would be welcomed, and honored, for the deeds they had performed; for although they had achieved no grand successes, they had done much by compelling the Romans to keep together, and had thus saved many towns from plunder and destruction. Their operations, too, had created a fresh sensation of hope, and had aroused the people from the dull despair in which they were sinking. Had messengers been now sent out on all sides, a great multitude of men would have collected; but John knew well that numbers would be of no avail, and that in a pitched battle the Romans could defeat many times their number of the undisciplined and ill-armed Jews. John himself stood even higher, in the estimation of his followers, than he did at the commencement of the campaign. His own band had been particularly successful, and had several times encountered parties of the Romans almost equal to themselves in numbers. His plans had been always well laid, and on no occasion had the Romans cut off and killed any numerous parties. Altogether, the justness of his views had been established by experience, the men had gained confidence in themselves and in him, and now only regretted that they had had no opportunity of attacking the Romans in anything like equal numbers. Therefore, when the news spread that John was of opinion that the wisest course was for them to return to their homes, and there to hold themselves in readiness to reassemble, whenever the Romans moved against Jerusalem; the decision was willingly accepted and, a few hours after the Roman column had marched out from Jericho, the Jewish companies started for their respective homes, all promising to take up arms again, when the signal was given. Although the success that had attended them had not been so great as they had hoped, it had been sufficiently marked to inspire them with confidence in themselves, and their leader. But few lives had been lost; and they had learned that, so long as they persisted in the tactics their leader had laid down, there was but little chance of the Romans striking a heavy blow at them. Surprise was mingled with joy, in the greetings John received on his return home. "No disaster has befallen your bands, I hope, John?" Simon asked, anxiously. "We heard that the Romans had reached Jericho; and we have been praying the Lord, night and day, for his protection for you--believing that you would doubtless fall upon the enemy, as they marched through the mountains towards Jerusalem." "We should have done so, father, and already had taken up a position on the heights commanding the roads; but there was no fighting, simply because Vespasian has marched away with his army to Caesarea, and will not, as we believe, make any movement against Jerusalem this year." "The Lord be praised!" Simon said, piously. "There is time yet for the city to repent, in sackcloth and ashes, for its sins; and to come to such terms with the Romans as may save the Temple." "So far as I have heard, father, Jerusalem is little likely either to repent or to negotiate. The news of what is passing there is even worse than that which the Rabbi Solomon told us; but I will not pain you by talking of these matters, now. "You have heard what we have been doing. We have done no great deeds, but we have harassed the Romans sorely, so that they could not say that they held the country beyond the flight of their arrows. We have taken many cities where they had left small garrisons. We have cut off very many small parties, have captured many flocks and herds which they had carried off, and have lost but few men while inflicting much damage. Moreover, we have gained experience and confidence and, when the time comes for fighting hand-to-hand with the Romans, we shall enter upon the struggle without fear." "But what can have induced the Romans to retire, when almost within sight of Jerusalem?" "Partly, no doubt, because Vespasian considered it better to let the Jews go on slaying each other, than to waste his strength in killing them; but partly, I believe, because of news from Rome. We heard a rumor that a messenger had arrived in the Roman camp, with news that Nero is dead; and Vespasian may well wish to keep his army together, to watch the course of events." This was, indeed, Vespasian's main object in retiring; and for nearly two years he kept his army in hand, waiting for his opportunity, while Galba, Otho, and Vitellius in turn gained and lost the imperial crown. John remained at home, except that he went out with the companies in the spring of 69; when Vespasian, for a time, set his troops in motion. As before, the Romans marched down into the south of Judea, and reduced the country on the western shore of the Dead Sea; while Cerealis entered Idumea and completely subdued it, so that there now remained only the towns of Herodium, Masada, Machaerus, and Jerusalem itself which still remained unconquered. John's troops had pursued precisely the same tactics as in the previous year; and had contented themselves with harassing the Romans whenever the latter entered difficult country, and in preventing them from sending out small foraging parties. John himself would not have called his men under arms, as he saw that no real advantage was gained; but the men were eager to go, and he saw that there was a considerable advantage in their continued practice in arms, in the quickness with which they worked together, and in the confidence which they had in themselves. The company suffered but slight loss in the operations; but John, himself, had an adventure which nearly cost him his life. Vespasian, with the bulk of his army, was encamped at Hebron; while Titus was at Carmelia, near the Dead Sea. John's company were in the hills near Hebron; and he, wishing to examine the Roman position at Carmelia, and the road between the two towns, started by himself. He carried, as usual, his buckler, two light javelins, and a sword. The road led down a series of precipitous valleys; and John, knowing that he could instantly gain the hills, out of reach of danger, did not hesitate to descend into it. He was now nineteen, strong, active, and sinewy. The position in which he had been placed had given him the habit of command, and the heavy responsibility which had devolved upon him had added two or three years to his apparent age. He was taller than most of his countrymen, broad across the shoulders, and a match for any single man under his command. As he walked along, he heard the sound of a horse's footsteps, coming up the valley. He sprang a short distance up the craggy hillside, and then paused as a single horseman came in sight. As he came a little nearer John saw, by the splendor of his armor, and that of the horse he was riding, that he was an officer of rank and distinction. John scorned to fly before a single foe, and stood quietly watching him, till he came nearly abreast of him. The horseman reined up his charger and, without a word, seized his javelin and hurled it at the armed figure, standing on the hillside some thirty feet above him. John sprang lightly aside, and the missile struck the rock with a sharp clang, close to him. In return, he threw a javelin at the Roman, which struck him on the armor and fell, blunted. "Well thrown!" the Roman said, calmly, and hurled a second javelin. The stroke was too swift to avoid; but John threw up his buckler so as to receive it at an angle, and the javelin glanced off, and flew far up the hillside. This time John sprang down the rocks, with the activity of a goat, till within a few feet of the Roman. Then he threw his javelin at the horse, with so true an aim that it struck at a spot unprotected by armor, and the animal fell. With an exclamation of anger, the Roman threw himself off, as the animal sank beneath his legs. He had already drawn his sword, as John approached, and stood at once on the defensive. Without a moment's hesitation John sprang at him, and the combat commenced. John trusted to his activity, while the Roman had an immense advantage in his heavy armor--John being unprotected, save by his buckler. The Roman stood calm and confident, while John attacked--moving quickly, round and round him; springing in to deliver a blow, and then bounding out of reach of the sweep of the heavy Roman sword. For some time the combat continued. John had received two or three severe wounds while, although the Roman was bleeding, his armor protected him from any serious hurt. Suddenly John sprang in at the Roman, throwing himself with all his force against him. He partially warded, with his sword, the blow which the Roman struck at him as he came in; but his weapon was beaten down, and the Roman blade cut through his thick headdress. But the impetus of his spring was sufficient. The Roman, taken by surprise by this sudden attack, tottered, and then fell with a crash, John falling on the top of him. John was almost blinded by the blood which streamed down his forehead, from the blow he had last received; but he dashed it aside, seized his long knife and, in another moment, would have slain his enemy, had not the latter exclaimed: "Strike, Jew! I am Titus." John was confused by the last blow he had received, but a thousand thoughts whirled in his brain. For an instant he grasped the knife more firmly, to slay the son of the chief enemy of his country; then the possibility of carrying him away a captive occurred to him, but he saw that this was out of the question. Then another thought dashed across his brain. "Swear," he said, in Greek, for he was ignorant of Latin, "by your gods, to spare the Temple, or I will kill you." There was a moment's hesitation. The knife was already descending, when Titus exclaimed, in the same language: "I swear to do all in my power to save the Temple." John's knife fell from his hand. He tried to rise to his feet; then everything seemed to swim round, and he fell, insensible. Titus rose to his feet. He was shaken by the fall; and he, too, had lost much blood. Panting from his exertions, he looked down upon his prostrate foe; and the generosity which was the prevailing feature of his character, except when excited in battle, mastered him. "By Hercules," he exclaimed, "that is a gallant youth; though he is a Jew, and he has well-nigh made an end of me! What will Vespasian say, when he hears that I have been beaten in fair fight, and owe my life to the mercy of a Jew? How they think of their temple, these Jews! Why, I would not injure it, were it in my power to do so. Have not our emperors sent offerings there? Besides, we war not with the gods of the people we conquer. "Ah, here come Plancus and the others! This will be a lesson to me not to trust myself, alone, among these mountains again. It is the first time I have done so, and it shall be the last." A messenger had, in fact, arrived at Carmelia, with an order from Vespasian for him to go to Hebron--as he had a desire to speak with him--and ordering Plancus, a centurion, to follow with his troop, Titus had sprung on his horse, and ridden off at once. The Romans were soon upon the spot, and were loud in exclamation of surprise and grief at seeing their commander covered with dust, and bleeding from several wounds, while his horse lay dead beside him. To their inquiries whether he was seriously wounded, Titus replied, lightly: "I am more dirty than hurt. Though, had it not been for my armor, there would have been a different tale to tell, for these Jews fight like demons. As you see, he first slew my horse with his javelin, and then we fought it out on foot." "Was there only this one?" the centurion asked, in surprise, pointing to John's body. "Only that one," Titus said, "and he nearly got the best of it. Fighting with these Jews is like fighting with wild cats, so fierce are they in the attack, and so quick are their movements. I tell you that, for a moment, my life was at his mercy. "See if he is dead, Plancus." "No, he breathes," Plancus said, stooping over him. "Let four of the men make a litter, with their spears," Titus said; "and take him down to Carmelia, and let my own leech attend him. I would gladly save his life, if I can. I began the fray and, truly, he has shown himself so gallant a young man that I would not that he should die." Accordingly, when John opened his eyes, he found himself lying in a Roman tent, where an old man was sitting by his couch; and a Roman sentry pacing, backwards and forwards, before the entrance of the tent. "Drink this," the old man said, placing a cordial to his lips. "You need have no fear, you are in the camp of Titus; and he, himself, has ordered that all attention shall be paid to you." John was too weak from loss of blood, and confused from the effects of the blow on his head, even to feel the sensation of wonder. He drank the potion, and closed his eyes again, and went off into a sleep which lasted for many hours. It was not until the next day that he thoroughly awoke. The leech continued to attend him and, at the end of four days, he was able to sit up. Illustration: Titus Brings Josephus to See John. In the afternoon, he heard a clash of arms as the sentry gave the military salute and, a moment later, Titus entered, accompanied by one whom John instantly recognized as Josephus. John rose to his feet. "I told you he was but a young man," Titus said to Josephus; "but now that I can see him more nearly or, at any rate, more calmly, I can see that he is little more than a lad; and yet, as you have heard me say, he is a man of valor, and defeated me in fair fight." "I seem to know his face," Josephus said, and then addressed John in Hebrew. "Who are you, young man?" "I am that John whom you saved in the storm, on the Sea of Galilee, and who fought with you at Jotapata." "Is it possible?" Josephus exclaimed, in surprise. "I thought that I, alone, was saved there." "I lay hidden with the boy Jonas, who told us of the track down to the water," John said, quietly, "and have since then been fighting the Romans. While you--" "While I have been their prisoner," Josephus broke in. "I know that all my countrymen are enraged against me but, truly, without a cause." Josephus then translated to Titus what John had told him, adding that the young man had served him with zeal and devotion, and that he had an affection for him. "Then I am the more glad that he has not lost his life," Titus said, courteously. "And now, my antagonist," he said, in Greek, to John, "I would tell you that I bear you no malice; though you have shed my blood, and brought somewhat of disgrace upon me--for truly it is a disgrace for a Roman soldier, in heavy armor, to be overthrown by one who carries but a light buckler as his protection. But I love a brave man, even though he be a foe; and I honor those who are fighting for what they believe to be the cause of their country. If I let you go free, will you promise me not to bear arms again, against Rome?" "I could not promise that, Titus," John said, quietly, "even were you to order me, now, to be taken out and slain. It is the first duty of all Jews to fight for the Holy City and, so long as I live, and the Holy City is in danger, so long I must fight for her. These are the commands of my religion; and I cannot, even to save my life, disobey them." "I will not press you to do so," Titus said; "though Josephus, here, will tell you that Rome is not an unkind lord, even to those who have most withstood it. When you are well enough to leave us, you shall go unharmed; though, could you have seen your way to desist from hostility to us, I would have been a good friend to you; and have promoted you to posts of honor, and that in countries where you would not have been opposed to your countrymen. But if you will not have it so, you are free to go; and remember that, at any time, you have a friend in Titus; and that when this war is over, and peace restored, if you come to me I will repeat the offer that I have now made. "Moreover, you may rely upon it that, in the last extremity, I will do all in my power to save the Temple; and indeed, in no case would I have injured a building so venerable and holy." Titus then left the tent, but Josephus remained for some time, talking with John. "I suppose you, like all others, have looked upon me as a traitor, John?" he began. "Not so," John replied. "I knew that you fought bravely, at Jotapata; and risked your life many times in its defense I knew, too, that you from the first opposed the revolt against the Romans, and it is not for me to judge as to your position among them." "I am a prisoner," Josephus said. "I am kindly treated, indeed, and Vespasian frequently asks my opinion of matters connected with the country; but surely I am doing more good to my countrymen, by softening his heart towards them, than if I had died at Jotapata--still more if I had been, like John of Gischala, a scourge to it. I trust even yet that, through my influence, Jerusalem may be saved. When the time comes Vespasian will, I hope, grant terms; and my only fear is that the madness of the people will lead them to refuse all accommodation, and so force him into taking the city by storm--in which case it cannot but be that terrible misery will fall upon it, and that vast numbers will lose their lives. "And now, tell me how you are, at home, and what you have been doing since I last saw you." John thought it as well not to mention, to Josephus, the prominent part which he had taken among those who had so harassed the Romans; but he said that he had joined the bands raised in Galilee, and had been among those who had hung upon the Roman flank and rear, wherever they marched. "The Jews have behaved with prudence and valor," Josephus said, "and I now see that it would have been far better had I trusted more in mountain warfare, than in fenced cities; but it would have been the same, in the end. I know the Jews. They would have fought bravely, for a time; but the thought of each would have turned to his farm and his vineyard, and they would never have kept the field for any length of time. The Romans therefore would, in the end, have tired them out and, perhaps, the fate which has befallen the cities that resisted would have fallen upon all the land. "And now remember that, although but a prisoner, I have much influence with Vespasian; and that at any time, should you fall into their hands again, I will exert that influence in your favor." John remained about ten days at Carmelia. Titus had several interviews with him, and at the last of these said: "I have conceived a strong friendship for you, young man, and would willingly do you service. Take this signet ring. At all times, and in all places, it will pass you to my presence. If a Roman sword be raised to strike you, and you show this ring, it will be lowered. That you should fight against us to the last is, as you believe, your duty; and as I myself would so fight for Rome, I seek not further to dissuade you. But when resistance is at an end, and it is useless any longer to hold the sword, your death cannot benefit your country. Therefore, when that time comes--if not before--use this ring, and come to me; and I will grant you not only your own life, but that of such friends as you may wish to save. "I do not forget that you had my life in your hands, and that you spared it. It is a life that may yet be valuable to Rome; and though even now, when I speak of it, my cheek flushes with humiliation, I am none the less grateful. It pleases me to see that, in the conversations you have had with my officers, you have borne yourself so modestly, and have made no mention of this; for although I, myself, do not hesitate to speak of the mishap which befell me, it is pleasant for me that it is not spoken of by others. Believe me, then, that at all times you will find a sincere friend in Titus." John replied in suitable terms; thanking Titus for the promises he had made, and disclaiming any merit in his success--which was but the last effort of a beaten man, and was the result of the sudden surprise, and not of any skill or bravery. Upon the following morning, Titus furnished him with an escort far beyond the confines of the camp; and then, taking to the hills, John rejoined his companions, who had long since given him up as dead. They could scarce credit him, when he told them that he had been lying wounded, in the hands of the Romans; and were still more surprised at hearing that he had been engaged in a personal encounter with Titus. Of this John gave no details, beyond the fact that, after throwing their javelins, the horse of Titus had fallen, and they had fought hand to hand until, at last, he had fallen, bleeding from a severe wound; and that Titus himself had been wounded. "But how was it he did not slay you?" was the question. "It seems almost a miracle, especially after wounding Titus, himself." "Doubtless the Lord put it into his heart to spare me," John said. "Titus only said that he preserved my life as that of a brave foe. The Romans esteem bravery and, as I had withstood Titus for some time, he was pleased to think that I had done well." "Ah, if you had killed him, what rejoicings there would have been in the land!" "No," John said earnestly, "there would have been mourning. You may be sure that Vespasian would have avenged his blood upon all the people. It would have been a misfortune, indeed, had Titus fallen. It is well that it ended as it did." John was, however, far too weak to be able to accompany his band upon its rapid marches; and therefore, for a time, resigned its command to one of his captains. He determined to go, until his strength returned to him, to a small community of which he had heard as dwelling in an almost inaccessible valley on the shore of the Dead Sea. He was told that they took no part in the commotion of the times, and that they lived in such poverty that even the robbers of Simon had not cared to interfere with them. They practiced hospitality to strangers, and spent their lives in religious observances. As John had often heard from his father of this sect--which was at one time numerous in the land, but had been sorely persecuted by the priests and Pharisees--he determined to stop for a time among them, and learn somewhat of their doctrines. Accompanied by Jonas, he made his way across the mountains to the valley where they dwelt. As wounded, and a stranger, he was received without question among them; and a little hut, similar to that in which they all lived, was placed at his disposal. These huts were ranged in a square, in the center of which stood a larger building, used as their synagogue. Here John remained nearly a month; and was greatly struck by their religious fervor, the simplicity and austerity of their lives, and the doctrines which they held. He learned that the more rigorous of the sect abstained, altogether, from the use of meat and wine; and that celibacy was strictly enjoined. Those who married did not separate themselves from the sect, but were considered as occupying an inferior position in it. Their food was of the simplest kind, and only sufficient to sustain life. The community raised the grain and vegetables necessary for their use. But it was the religious doctrines which they held which most greatly surprised John. They attached no importance, whatever, to the ceremonial law of the Jewish Scriptures; maintaining, in the first place, that the Scriptures had a spiritual signification wholly apart from the literal meaning, alone understood by the world; and that this spiritual meaning could only be attained by those who, after long probation, were initiated into the inner mysteries of the sect. In the second place, they held that the written law had been altogether superseded by the coming of the great prophet, Christ, who had been put to death by the Jewish priests. John learned that there were already large numbers of Jews who had accepted the doctrines taught by this Christ, although they did not all embrace the strict rules and modes of life of the ascetics. John was greatly struck with their doctrines, although he did not hear enough to do more than to dimly understand their meaning. He determined however that, if he went safely through the war, he would inquire further into these mysteries. At the end of the four weeks, his strength being comparatively restored, he took his leave of the community, and rejoined his band. Chapter 13: The Test Of Devotion. Although John was able to join his companions, he was still far from strong; and was glad to have a valid excuse for handing over his command to his lieutenant, and returning home. The campaign was nearly over; and he could not have followed those rapid marches through the hills which enabled the band to appear, now on one side, now on the other of the Romans, and to keep them in a constant state of watchfulness. At the same time, he was glad of the excuse to leave for, although he had declared to Titus that he would fight again in defense of Jerusalem, he felt that, after the kind treatment he had met with, he could not take part in the daily skirmishes with the Romans. Mounting a donkey, which was among the many animals captured in the attacks upon the Romans' baggage train, John bade adieu to his comrades; and with Jonas, now grown into a sturdy young fellow, started for home. He journeyed by the road to the west of Jerusalem, in order to avoid the bandits of Simon son of Gioras; who still scourged the neighborhood of Masada and Herodium, lying between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. He avoided all the towns in which there were Roman garrisons; for the bandages on his head would have shown, at once, that he had been engaged in fighting. He traveled slowly, and was six days before he arrived home. "This time, my son, you have not come home unharmed," Simon said. "Truly you are a shadow of your former self." "I shall soon be strong again, father; and these are honorable scars, for I had them in single combat with Titus, himself, in the valley between Hebron and Carmelia." "Then how is it that you live to tell the tale, my son?" Simon asked, while exclamations of wonder broke from Mary and Martha. "Surely God did not deliver him into your hands?" "I wish not to boast, father, and I have told the true story to none; but truly God did deliver him into my hands." "And he is dead?" Simon exclaimed. "No, father, he lives, for I spared him." "Spared him!" Simon exclaimed. "What, you did not avenge the miseries of our people upon the son of the oppressor?" "No, father; and I rejoice that I did not for, had I done so, surely the Romans would have avenged his death upon all the land. But I thought not of that, at the time. I was sore wounded, and bleeding, and my sense was well-nigh gone; but as I knelt upon him, and lifted my hand to slay him, a thought--surely sent by God, himself--came into my mind, and I said: "'Swear by your gods that you will spare the Temple, or I slay you;' and he swore that, so far as lay in his power, he would spare the Temple." An exclamation of joy burst from his hearers, and Simon said: "Verily, my son, God has raised you up as a deliverer of his Temple; not, as some hoped, by defeating our oppressors, but by binding one of their mightiest ones to do it no harm." "I pray, father, say naught of this to anyone. It is between ourselves, and Titus, and the Lord; and I would not that any man should know of it. Moreover, Titus behaved with the greatest generosity to me. "My victory over him was but a surprise. I was sorely wounded, while he was almost unharmed, when I sprang upon him and, by the sudden impulse, threw him to the ground, he being burdened with his heavy armor I had but strength to hear him swear, and then I fell as one dead. Titus might have slain me, as I lay; but he not only did me no harm but, when his soldiers came up, he gave me into their care, and directed me to be carried down to his camp, placed in a tent, and tended by his own leech and, when I recovered, he let me go free." "Truly it is a marvelous tale, John. That you should have fallen into the hands of the Romans, and come forth unharmed after discomfiting their leader, is as marvelous to me as Daniel coming unharmed from the lions' den. We will say naught of your story, my son. Tell us only what you told your own companions, so that we may know what to say, when we are questioned." "I told them the truth, father, although not all the truth. I said that I met Titus, and fought with him; that I wounded him somewhat; but that, by virtue of his armor, I did him no great harm, while he wounded me so seriously that I fell down as one dead; that he, feeling that I had fought like a brave foeman, had me carried to his tent, and tended and cared for until I was able to go forth; when he sent me away free, and unharmed." "Truly men say of Titus that he is clement and merciful, and therein differs much from Vespasian his father; and the clemency which he showed to the people of Gischala, and other places which he has taken, proves that is so; but this deed of his to you shows that he must have a great heart, for few men of rank, and warlike fame, who had been discomfited by one yet scarce a man, but would have left him by the road to die, so that none might know what had happened." "Titus made no secret of it, father," John said. "He told Josephus, in my hearing, that I had spared his life. He said naught of the oath which he had taken; but I know that he will keep it as far, as he said, lies in his power." "What is he like?" Mary asked. "He is not of very tall stature, but stoutly built, and strong. His face--clean shaved, as is their custom--has a pleasant and kindly expression, that tallies with his disposition, for he is greatly beloved by his soldiers. In action they say he is brave to rashness, quick to anger, but as quickly appeased. Had he been in command of the Roman legions, they would have been not less formidable in the fight and, perhaps, when the passions of Titus were roused, not less savage; but they would not have wrought such wholesale cruelty and destruction as they have done." "It is rarely that pity enters into the heart of a Roman," Simon said; "and yet, it is hardly for us to complain for, when we crossed over the Jordan and conquered Canaan, we put all to the sword, and spared none. It may be that in future times, if wars do not altogether cease in the world, they will be waged in another spirit; but so far, from the commencement of the world until now, it has ever been the same--war has brought desolation and destruction upon the vanquished." The next morning John went early into the garden; not that he was strong enough for heavy work, but in order that Mary might, as usual, join him there. "Do you know, John," she said, after their first greeting, "you have made me happier than I have been, for some time." "How is that, Mary?" "It seemed to me, John, that you were getting away from me." "Getting away, Mary!" he repeated; "how do you mean?" "You were becoming a great leader, John. I was proud that it should be so, proud to think that you might become a deliverer of the nation; and then it would have been meet and right that you should take to yourself, as a wife, a daughter of one of the great ones of the land." "Mary!" John exclaimed, indignantly. "It might have been necessary, John. The tillers of the soil can marry where they please. Those who have power must wed for other reasons than that of love. They must make alliances that will strengthen their position, and it would have been your duty to have sacrificed your love for the sake of your country. I should have been the first to bid you do so. I should have been content to make my sacrifice, too, on the altar of our country; content with knowing that you, the deliverer of Israel, would have chosen me from among all other women, had you only had your own pleasure and happiness to consult. "But after what you told us yesterday, I think, perhaps, that this need not be so; and that the way in which you were to save the Temple was not the way we thought. Your mission has been fulfilled--not by great victories, which would have made you the hero of Israel--but in that contest in the valley, where no eyes but those of God beheld you; and should the Temple be saved, no one will know that you were its savior, save we who love you. Therefore, John, once again I can look forward to the time when you and I can dwell, together, in the house of your fathers." Mary was so earnest that John did not attempt to laugh her out of her fancies, as was his usual way. He only said, quietly: "Perhaps you are right, Mary, as to my mission; but I do not think, dear, that even had I been made ruler of Israel, I would have gone elsewhere for a wife; but as you say, circumstances might have been too strong for me and, at any rate, I am well pleased that there is no chance of my happiness being set in one scale, and the good of my country in another." "And now, John, I believe that you will come back to me, even if Jerusalem falls. This is the third time your life has been spared and, if we count that day when we were so nearly drowned together on the lake, we may say that four times your life has been saved, when it seemed all but lost; and I believe, now, that it will be saved to the end." "I hope for your sake, Mary, and for my father and mother's, that it may be so. I have so much to make my life happy that I will assuredly do all in my power to save it. As you know, I have never held with those who would destroy themselves, when all seemed lost. My idea is: a man should fight until the last; but should, if possible, provide some way of escape, when fighting is no longer of avail. "Fortunately, if I do not fall in battle, I have a talisman which will bring me safe to you. Titus has given me a signet ring which will, at all times, procure me access to him. He has promised that, at all times, he will be my friend and, should I fall into the hands of his soldiers again, he will let me go free, and will give me the lives of any who may be dear to me." "This Titus must be a noble enemy," Mary said, with tears in her eyes. "He is strong, and kind, and generous. Had such a man been raised up as the leader of our people, instead of the leader of our foes, how different it might have been!" "Yes, indeed," John agreed; "truly we are sheep without a shepherd; nay, we are sheep whose leaders are ravening wolves, who devour their own flock." The time passed, quietly and happily save for the grief which the tidings of the terrible doings in Jerusalem caused. The two years' respite which the city had obtained, when Vespasian marched away from Jericho, instead of being turned to good account, had brought even greater evils than before. Simon son of Gioras, having wasted all the country towards Idumea, began to threaten Jerusalem. The Zealots marched out against him, but were driven back to the city. Simon--thinking that the Idumeans, believing him to be occupied with Jerusalem, would have grown careless--suddenly entered their country at the head of twenty thousand men. The Idumeans flew to arms, and met him with twenty-five thousand men; and a furious battle ensued, in which neither party gained the advantage. Simon retreated, and the Idumeans dispersed. Simon raised an even larger force than before, and advanced with forty thousand irregular troops, besides his heavy-armed soldiers. They took Hebron, and wasted Idumea with fire and sword. The Zealots, in Simon's absence, succeeded in capturing his wife; and carried her off to Jerusalem, hoping by this means to force him to come to terms. On receiving the news he hurried back with his forces, surrounded Jerusalem, and slew everyone who ventured to leave the city--except some whom he sent back, having cut off their hands, to tell those within that, unless his wife were returned, he would storm the city and slay every man within it. Even the Zealots were alarmed at his threats and fury, and restored his wife; whereupon he withdrew. This had happened in the previous year, before Cerealis and Vespasian had entered Idumea. As soon as the Romans had retired, Simon again sallied forth from Masada, collected a great number of Idumeans, and drove them before him into Jerusalem. Then he encamped before the city, and slew all who quitted the protection of its walls. Thus, within, John of Gischala and his followers tyrannized over the people, murdering and plundering till they were sated with blood, and knew not what to do with their booty; while Simon cut off all flight beyond its walls. But at length the party of John became divided. The Idumeans, who were in considerable numbers in the city, rose and drove John and the Zealots into the palace built by Grapte; which had served them as their headquarters, and the storehouse where they piled up the treasure which they had amassed by the plunder of the people. But the Idumeans attacked them here, and drove them into the Temple--which adjoined the palace--and took possession of all the plunder that they had amassed. The Zealots, however, were in great force in the Temple, and threatened to pour out and destroy the whole city by fire. The Idumeans called an assembly of the chief priests, and they decided to admit Simon within the gates. The high priest, Matthias, went out in person to invite him to enter and, amidst the joyful greetings of the population, Simon marched through the gates with his followers, and took possession of the upper city. This was the last and most fatal mistake of the people of Jerusalem. The sheep had invited a tiger to save them from a wolf; and now two tyrants, instead of one, lorded it over the city. As soon as Simon entered, he proceeded to attack the Zealots in the Temple; but the commanding position of that building enabled them to defend themselves with success. To obtain still further advantage, they reared four strong towers; and on these placed their military engines and bowmen, and so swept the approaches to the Temple that Simon was forced to desist from the attack. All through the winter, fighting went on without intermission, and the streets of Jerusalem ran with blood. A further division took place among the Zealots. Eleazar--who had been their head before the arrival of John of Gischala--jealous of the supremacy of that leader, got together a party and suddenly seceded from the main band, and seized the inner court of the Temple. Now, fighting went on within as well as without the holy buildings. The party of Eleazar were well supplied with provisions, for the stores in the Temple were of immense extent. They were too few in numbers to sally out to attack the party of John; but they were strong enough to defend the walls of the inner court, which looked down upon the rest of the Temple, and enabled them to command the positions of John's troops. Day and night the struggle went on. The inner court of the Temple was desecrated by blood--dying men lay on the steps of the altar, and the shouts and songs of the savage soldiery rose, where the hymns of praise of the Levites had been wont to ascend. John's troops continued their attacks upon the inner court, while they successfully resisted the assaults of Simon; who tried to take advantage of the internecine strife raging between the two parties of Zealots, but the superior height of the positions held by John's men enabled them to defend themselves as successfully as did those of Eleazar against their attacks. And yet, during all this terrible strife, the services of the Temple were continued, in the midst of blood and carnage. Free ingress and egress were, as at all times, permitted to the pious; who made their way unharmed through the fierce combatants, passed over the pavement slippery with blood, and laid their offering on the altars--often paying with their lives for their pious services, being smitten down, even as they prayed at the altar, by the missiles which the followers of John poured incessantly into the inner court. Sometimes, drunk with the wine obtained from the abundant stores of the Temple, the followers of Eleazar would sally out against John. Sometimes John would pour out against Simon, wasting and destroying the city as far as his troops could penetrate. Thus, the Temple became surrounded by a waste of ruins, held in turn by one or other of the factions. Even the rites of burial, so dear to the Jews, were neglected; and the bodies of the slain lay, unburied, where they fell, And yet, the forces of the three factions which thus desolated the city were comparatively small and, had the wretched population who were tyrannized over by them possessed any unanimity, or been led by any man of courage, they could easily have overthrown them all; for Simon's force amounted to about fifteen thousand, that of John to six thousand, while Eleazar could count but two thousand four hundred men, and yet in Jerusalem were gathered a population amounting, with the original inhabitants and the fugitives from the country around, to over a million people. At length, the long interval of suspense was drawing to an end. At the death of Vitellius, Vespasian had been called upon, by the general voice of the people, to ascend the throne; and had, some time before, left for Rome to assume the imperial purple. He was joyfully acknowledged by the whole Roman empire; who had groaned under a succession of brutal tyrants, and now hailed the accession of one who was, at once, a great general and an upright and able man; and who would rule the empire with a firm, just, and moderate hand. When winter was over, Vespasian sent Titus--who had, in the meantime, gone to Egypt--back to Palestine, and ordered him to complete the conquest of Judea. The Twelfth Legion--that which had been defeated, when under the command of Cestius--was ordered to reinforce the three already in Judea; and the gaps made in the ranks during the war, and by the withdrawal of the men who had accompanied Vespasian to Rome, were filled by an addition of two thousand picked troops from Alexandria, and three thousand from the legions stationed on the Euphrates. The Syrian kings sent large contingents; and Tiberius Alexander--an intimate friend of Titus, a man of wisdom and integrity--was appointed to high command. His knowledge of the country, which he had once governed, added to his value in the Roman councils. As soon as the news spread that the Roman army was collecting for its march against Jerusalem, the signal fires were kindled on the hills above Gamala; and John, after a tender farewell to his parents and Mary, set out with Jonas. In twenty-four hours, the band had again assembled. When they were gathered, John addressed them. He pointed out to them that the campaign that they were now about to undertake differed widely from those which had preceded it. "Hitherto," he said "you have but skirmished around the Romans, and have run but comparatively little danger; but now, those who go with me must make up their minds that they are going to Jerusalem to die. It may be that the Lord will yet deliver the Holy City from her enemies, as he delivered it in days of old. But you know what has been doing in Jerusalem, for the last four years; that not only the streets, but the altar itself have been flooded with the blood of the people, how the Jews themselves have desecrated the Temple, and how wickedness of all kinds has prevailed in the city. "Thus, you can judge for yourselves what chance there is that God will interfere on behalf of the people who have forsaken and insulted him. If he does not interfere, in my opinion the fate of the city is sealed. I have seen the Romans at work, at Jotapata and Gamala; and I know how the strongest walls go down before their engines and battering rams. Moreover I hear that, in the wars which have been raging within the gates, the magazines--which contain sufficient food to last even her great population for years--have been entirely destroyed; and thus those who go to defend her have to face not the Roman sword only, but famine. "Therefore, I say that those who go up to defend the Temple must make up their minds that they go to die for the Temple. It is for each of you to ask yourselves whether you are ready to do this. I ask no one to go with me. Let each, before it is too late, ask himself whether he is ready to do this thing. I blame none who find the sacrifice too great. It is between them and their conscience. "Therefore, I pray you, let all tonight disperse among the hills, each by himself, so that you may think over what I have said; and let all who may come to the conclusion that they are not called upon to go to certain death, in defense of the Temple, depart to their homes without reproach from their comrades. Each man here has done his duty, so long as hope remained. Now it is for each to decide, for himself, whether he feels called upon to give his life for the Temple." Silently the crowd dispersed, and John joined the captains, and passed the night with them. "I fear we shall have but a small gathering in the morning," one of them said, as they sat down by the fire. "Many will fight as long as there is hope, but few will go down to certain death." "It is better so," John said. "Misery and ruin have fallen upon the country. As you saw for yourselves, Judea and Idumea are but deserts, and more have fallen by famine and misery than by the sword. We would not have our nation blotted out; and as, in the days after the captivity in Babylon, God again collected his people and restored their land to them, so it may be his intention to do, now, when they have paid the full penalty of their disobedience and wickedness. Therefore, I would not that any should go down to die, save those who feel that God has called them to do so. "Already the victims who have fallen in these four years are well-nigh countless; and in Jerusalem there are a million people--sufficient, if they have spirit and strength and the Lord is with them--to defend the walls. Thus, then, however small the number of those who may gather tomorrow, I shall be content. Had the Romans advanced against Jerusalem at the commencement of the war, there was not a Jew capable of bearing arms but would have gone up to the defense of the Holy City; but now, their spirit is broken by the woes that have come upon them, and still more by the civil wars in Jerusalem herself. A spirit of hopelessness and despair has come upon us. It is not that men fear to die, or that they care to live; it is that they say: "'What matters it whether we live or die? All is lost. Why should we trouble as to what may come upon us?'" "Then you no longer believe in your mission, John?" one of the party said, gloomily. "I have never proclaimed a mission," John said. "Others have proclaimed it for me. I simply invited a score of men to follow me, to do what we could to hinder the Romans; and because God gave us success, others believed that I was sent as a deliverer. "And yet, I believe that I had a mission, and that mission has been fulfilled. I told you not, before; but I tell you now, for your comfort, what happened between me and Titus--but I wish not that it should be told to others. I told you that I fought with him; and that, being wounded and insensible, I was carried into his tent--but that was not all. When we fought, although sorely wounded, I sprang upon him and we fell to the ground, I uppermost. I drew my knife, and would have slain him; when the Lord put a thought into my mind, and I called upon him to swear that he would spare the Temple. "He swore that, if it lay in his power, he would do so. Then he was but in inferior command. Now he is general of the army, and should be able to keep his oath. Thus, if I had a mission to save the Temple, I trust that I have fulfilled it; and that, whatever fate may fall upon the city, the Temple will yet remain erect and unharmed." John's words gave new life and energy to the before dispirited men gathered round him. It seemed to them not only that the Temple would be saved, but that their belief in their leader's mission as a deliverer was fully justified; and a feeling of enthusiasm succeeded that of depression. "Why did you not tell us before? Why did you not let all your followers know what a great thing you had done, John?" one of them asked, presently. "For two reasons," John replied. "I did not wish to seem to exalt myself, or to boast of the success which God had given me over the Roman; for it was assuredly his strength, and not mine, for I myself could do naught against the strength and skill of Titus and, as I told you, was wounded nigh to death, while he received small hurt. In the next place I thought that, if I made it public, it would be noised abroad through the land; and that Titus, when he heard that all men knew that he had been worsted in fight with a Jew, might repent of his oath--or might even ask to be sent to some other command, so that he might not be called upon to keep it." John's companions agreed that the second reason was a valid one, though they did not agree that the first should have weighed with him. "It is not by hiding a light under a bushel," one of them said, "that men gain the confidence of their followers. The more men believe in their leaders, the more blindly will they follow him, the greater the efforts they will make for him. It was the belief in your mission which gathered eight thousand men on these mountains to follow you; and the proof that you have given us that that belief was well founded, and that you had a mission to save the Temple--the knowledge that you had, single handed, forced the Roman general to swear an oath to save the Temple--would have so heightened that enthusiasm that they would have followed you, had you bidden them attack the whole Roman army. I agree that, for your second reason, it was wise to say nothing of what took place; but your first was, I think, a mistaken one." "At any rate," another said, "the hand of God is plainly marked in the matter; for it has placed Titus in full command, and has thus given him the power of carrying out the oath which he swore. Now, my friends, we can go up with light hearts with John to Jerusalem for, though we may die, yet do we feel assured that the Lord purposes to save the Temple; and that, one day, he will restore the glories of Judah." In the morning, as John had expected, the number of those who gathered at the sound of the trumpet was comparatively small. The night's reflection, the feeling that the sacrifice of their lives would be of no avail, and the dull despair that had seized the whole nation had had their effect and, of the eight thousand men who had gathered there the night before, but six hundred now obeyed the summons. These gathered, stern and silent, but with an expression of desperate resolution on their faces. At the earnest request of his captains, John allowed them to go among the men and to tell them that, although the manner in which it was done was a secret, John had given to them undoubted proofs that he had a mission from God; and that they believed that, whatever might happen to Jerusalem, it was the Lord's will that the Temple should be saved. The joyous expression of their leaders' faces, even more than their words, assured their followers of their sincerity. Their spirit rose, and a renewed feeling of enthusiasm seized them; and when, an hour later, John took his place on a rock to address them, the shouts of greeting which broke forth showed him how great was the change in their spirit. "My friends," he said, "I greet you who have decided to die with me, if need be, in defense of Jerusalem. I blame not those who have gone. They would not have gone, had the Lord required them to stay; but to you he has spoken, and has told you that he has need of your services. Henceforward, we will act as one band--a band of men inspired with one thought, and one aim. And now, though our numbers may not be great, yet a force so composed of men who hold their lives as naught may do wonders. You remember how Gideon sent the greater part of his army away and, with a mere handful, defeated the hosts of the enemy! "We look not for victory; but we will show the Romans what men can do to avenge their bleeding country--what deeds Jews can perform, when fighting for the Temple. We shall go into Jerusalem. There we will hold aloof from all parties. If we are attacked, we will defend ourselves. But our aim will be to act as a body apart from others, ready to undertake the most desperate services, and to set an example of courage and devotion. "Now let us count our numbers, and arrange ourselves anew into companies." It was found that the bands composed of men from Tiberias, and the other cities of the lake, had entirely disappeared; and that those who had stayed were principally hardy dwellers among the hills. They were again divided into twenty companies of thirty men each and, after examining their arms, and seeing that all were well provided, John gave the order, and the band set off. Keeping on the eastern side of Jordan they stopped at a large village, near the ford opposite Jericho; and here a quantity of grain was purchased, and was made up into sacks, each weighing fifty pounds. "The granaries that remain will be principally in the hands of the troops of John, or Simon," John said; "and it is as well that we should have our own store to depend upon. So long as we can buy food, we will do so; and we can fall back upon our own magazine, if necessary. It will be best for two or three of us to go into the city, first, and find a quarter where we can lodge close together, and as far removed as possible from the factions. Simon holds the upper town, and John the Temple; therefore we will establish ourselves in the lower town. We will not go in in a body, for they might refuse us admittance; but as the Romans approach there will be a stream of fugitives entering the city. We will mingle with them, and pass in unobserved. "Many of the fugitives will be carrying the goods they most value; and many, doubtless, will take in provisions with them. Therefore, our sacks of grain will not excite attention." It was five years since John had journeyed up with his parents to Jerusalem, and he therefore knew but little of the city. Some of his followers, however, had been there more recently; and he picked out four of these, one of whom was a captain of a company, to enter the city and find a suitable post for them. The whole band crossed the Jordan together, and made a detour to avoid Jericho, where the Tenth Legion had been quartered during the winter. Then they took their way up the steep road through the hills until, passing through Bethany, they came out on the crest of the hill looking down upon the Valley of Jehoshaphat; with the Temple rising immediately opposite to them, and the palace of Agrippa, and the crowded houses of the city, in the background. Illustration: John and his Band in Sight of Jerusalem. The men laid down their sacks, and stood for a long time, looking at Jerusalem. Many were moved to tears, as they looked on the stately beauty of the Holy City, and thought how low it had fallen; with civil tumult within, and a terrible enemy approaching from without. Even now, there is no fairer scene in the world than the view of Jerusalem from the spot where they were standing--called then, as now, the Mount of Olives--and it must have been superb, indeed, in the days when the Temple stood intact, and the palaces of Agrippa and Herod rose on the brow of Mount Zion. After a long pause they resumed their way, crossed the upper end of the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and established themselves for the night in a grove of trees near the Grotto of Jeremiah; four chosen men at once entering the city, by the Old Gate on the north side of the city. The country here--and indeed, all the hills around Jerusalem--were covered with the houses of the wealthy, surrounded by gardens and orchards. They belonged not only to the Jews of the city; but to those who dwelt in foreign countries, and who were accustomed each year to come to Jerusalem for the Passover, and to spend some time there before they returned to their distant homes. Even now, undismayed by the dangers of the times, and the knowledge that the Romans would shortly besiege the city, pilgrims were arriving from all the cities of Asia Minor, Greece, and Egypt, for the time of the Passover was close at hand. At the foot of the walls, and on the slopes around, large numbers of pilgrims were encamped--the rich in gorgeous tents, the poor in shelters constructed of boughs or carpets. This overflow of people was an occurrence which was witnessed every year, on the same occasion; but its proportions were this time of greater magnitude than usual, partly owing to the difficulty of procuring lodgings in the town, owing to the crowds of fugitives there, partly because many thought it safer to camp outside, and to enter the city only to pay their devotions, and take part in the ceremonial, than to put themselves wholly into the power of the ruffians of Simon and John. In the following morning the men returned, and reported that they had found a spot in the inner lower town, between the Corner Gate and the Gate of Ephraim in the second wall, where was a large house, inhabited now but by two or three persons. Here a great number of them could take up their quarters, while the others could find lodging near. The reason why so many houses were empty there was that it was somewhat exposed to the irruptions of Simon's men from the upper town, as they frequently came down and robbed those who entered the city at the Damascus Gate, from which led the great north road. Crowds of fugitives were making their way by this road to the city, flying before the advance of the Romans; who were, they said, but a few hours' march in their rear. Many were men, coming to take their part in the defense of the city; but the great proportion were old men, women, and children, flying for refuge. John shook his head, as he watched the stream of fugitives, for he well knew the horrors that would befall the besieged town. "Better a thousand times," he said to Jonas, "that these poor people should have remained in their villages. They have nothing which would tempt the cupidity of the Roman soldiers, and no evil might have befallen them; whereas now they will perish by famine or disease, or be slain by the Romans, besides consuming the food which would have sustained the fighting men. Were I master of Jerusalem I would, when I heard the Romans were approaching, have cleared out from the city all who could not aid in the defense. It would have seemed a harsh action; but it would have been a merciful one, and would greatly strengthen the power of resistance." Chapter 14: Jerusalem. Mingling with the crowd, John and his followers made their way through the Damascus Gate into Jerusalem, and followed the Damascus Street to the Gate of Ephraim. An air of sombre misery pervaded the whole population. In their hearts the greater portion of the population had, for many months, been longing for the approach of the Romans. Even death would be preferable to the misery which they suffered. There were but few people in the streets; for all remained in their houses, with closed doors, save when necessity drove them out to make purchases. Turning sharp round by the wall, the members of the band made their way along by it, until they were met by one or other of those who had gone on in advance, and were conducted to the house which had been hired for them. The inhabitants of the houses near looked out of their windows in alarm, when they saw so many armed men arriving; but they gained courage, on observing their quiet and orderly demeanor; and doors were presently unbolted, and men came out to inquire who were the newcomers. When they were told that they were from Galilee and Peraea, and had come down only to fight for the Holy City--that they would harm no one, and had nothing in common with any of the factions--confidence was restored, and offers were at once made to take in ten, fifteen, or twenty men, according to the size of the houses; for the people soon saw that the new arrivals would prove a protection from the attacks and insults of small numbers of Simon's men--who had hitherto pervaded the lower town, breaking into houses, robbing and murdering wheresoever they chose. The grain was all stored in the house that had been hired; and here John took up his quarters, with the men of his own company and those of Asher, one of his bravest and most determined captains. The rest were all accommodated in houses in the same street. And as this, like most of the streets of Jerusalem, was very narrow, John felt that it could be defended against an attack by a greatly superior force. It was but half an hour after the band had been settled in their quarters that a shriek was heard at the end of the street. John ran out in time to see a woman struck down; while a body of some twenty half-drunken soldiers, with drawn swords, were trying to force in the door of a house. John sounded his bugle, and there was a rush of armed men into the street. John put himself at the head of the two companies with him, and advanced against the soldiers, and sternly ordered them to desist. The soldiers, astonished by the sudden appearance of so large a body of armed men, drew back in astonishment. "Who are you?" one, who seemed to be their leader, asked. "It matters not who I am," John said, quietly. "It is enough, as you see, that I have a force here sufficiently strong to make myself obeyed. This street, henceforth, is mine; and beware of attempting plunder or violence here, for whoever does so surely dies!" Muttering threats below their breath, the soldiers sullenly withdrew. An hour later, one of the inhabitants ran in to inform John that a large body of men were coming down from the upper city. John immediately called his men to arms and, at their head, took up his position at the end of the street. Ere long, a crowd of soldiers were seen approaching. At their head strode one whom John at once guessed to be Simon, himself. When he arrived within ten paces Simon stopped, surprised at the compact order and resolute appearance of the band which filled the street. "Who are you?" he asked John, imperiously. "My name is John, and I am generally called John of Gamala, although that is not my birthplace." Simon uttered an exclamation of astonishment; for the tales of John's attack upon the Roman camp at Gamala, and of his subsequent actions against the Romans, were well known in Jerusalem. "You are but a lad," Simon said, contemptuously, "and John of Gamala must be a warrior!" "I am John of Gamala," John repeated, quietly, "and these men are part of my band. We have come down to defend Jerusalem, since there is no more to be done in the open country. We wish to interfere with none, to take part with no faction, but simply to defend the city. We war with the Romans, and not with Jews. We assault no one, but woe be to him who assaults us! Here are six hundred of us, each man ready to die; and though you have twenty men to one, yet will we withstand you, if you meddle with us. "By tonight, the Romans will be outside the walls. Is this the time that Jews should fall upon each other, like wild beasts?" Simon hesitated. The idea of opposition excited him, as usual, to fury but, upon the other hand, he saw that this determined body were not to be overcome, save with great loss, and he wanted his men for his struggles with the Zealots. "You are not in correspondence with John of Gischala?" he asked, doubtfully. "I am in correspondence with none," John said. "As I have told you, we come only to fight for Jerusalem; and will take no part, on one side or other, in your dissensions. We have taken up this street, between this gate and the Corner Gate, and this street we will hold." Simon still hesitated. He saw that, round this nucleus of determined men, the whole of the citizens of the lower town might gather; and that he might be forced to confine himself to the upper town. This, however, would be of no great importance, now. The inner, lower town was the poor quarter of Jerusalem. Here dwelt the artisans and mechanics, in the narrow and tortuous lanes; while the wealthier classes resided either in the upper town, where stood the palaces of the great; or in the new town, between the second and third walls. The new town had, indeed, until lately been a suburb outside the walls. Agrippa had begun the third wall--which was to inclose this--and, had he been allowed to build it according to his design, he would have made Jerusalem absolutely impregnable, save by famine; but the authorities at Rome, knowing how turbulent were the population of Jerusalem, and foreseeing that at some time they might have to lay siege to the city, had forbidden its construction; and the new wall had been hastily erected by the Jews, themselves, after they had risen and defeated Cestius, four years before. This wall inclosed a vast number of villas, with gardens and open spaces, now thickly tenanted by the temporary habitations of the fugitives and pilgrims. The lower town, then, contained but little to tempt the cupidity of Simon's troops. Its houses had, indeed, been ransacked over and over again; and Simon reflected that, even should his men be prevented from descending into it, it would matter but little while, as it was separated from the upper town by the Tyropoeon Valley, and the first wall, no rising there could be a formidable danger to him. Still, it galled him to be resisted and, had it not been that the Romans were close at hand, he would at once have given his men orders to attack the strangers. He stood for some minutes, stroking his beard, and then said: "I will give you no answer, now. I will think over what you say, till tomorrow, then we will talk again." "I doubt not what your decision will be," John said. "You are a brave man, Simon; and although you have done much harm to the Jews, yet I know that you will defend Jerusalem, to the end, against the Romans. You need feel no jealousy of me. I aspire to no leadership, or power. I am here only to fight, and six hundred such men as mine are not to be despised in the day of trial. Should the Romans march away, baffled, before the walls, I, too, shall leave; and you, who remain, can resume your mad struggles, if you will. But I think that, in the presence of the enemy, all strife within the city should cease; and that we should be as one man, in the face of the Romans." Simon looked with surprise, and some admiration, at the young man who so boldly addressed him. Savage and cruel as he was, Simon was a man of the greatest bravery. He had none of the duplicity and treachery which characterized John of Gischala, but was straightforward and, in his way, honest. As only his picture has come down to us, as described by the pen of Josephus who, at the time of his writing his history, had become thoroughly a Roman, and who elevated Titus and his troops at the expense of his own countrymen, great allowance must be made for the dark colors in which he is painted. The fact that he was regarded with affection and devotion by his troops, who were willing to go to certain death at his orders, shows that at least there must have been many good qualities in him; and history records no instance of more desperate and sustained bravery than he exhibited in defense of Jerusalem. The frankness of John's speech, instead of angering him, pleased him much. "Enough," he said. "I need no further time to reflect. A man who had thought of treachery would not speak so boldly, and fearlessly, as you do. Let us be friends. "I have often wondered what sort of man was the John of Gamala of whom I have heard so much, and who has so long kept the field against the Romans; and although I wonder greatly at seeing you so young a man, yet I rejoice that so valiant a fighter should be here, to aid us in the struggle. Here is my hand, in token of amity." John took the hand held out to him, and a shout of satisfaction rose from the armed men on either side--the followers of John being rejoiced that they would not be called upon to engage in civil strife, those of Simon well satisfied that they were not to be called upon to attack a body of men who looked such formidable antagonists. Just at this moment, a man rode in at the gate, saying that the Romans were but two miles distant, and would speedily make their appearance over the Hill of Scopus. Simon ordered a party of his men to proceed at once to Damascus Gate, and to close it as soon as the Romans were visible. Then he turned again to John. "Come up with me," he said, "to the Palace of Herod. From its summit, we can see the enemy approaching." Giving orders to his men to lay aside their arms, and calling Jonas to accompany him, John without hesitation turned to accompany Simon. The latter had hardly expected him to accept his invitation, and the readiness with which he did so at once pleased and gratified him. It was a proof of fearlessness, and a testimony to John's belief in his faith and honor. John of Gischala, treacherous himself, would not have placed himself in his power, whatever the guarantee he gave for his safety; while he himself would not have confided himself to John of Gischala, though the latter had sworn to his safety with his hand on the altar. John, himself, was struck with the rugged grandeur of Simon's appearance. He was far above the stature of ordinary men, and of immense strength; and there was, nevertheless, an ease and lightness in his carriage which showed that he was no less active than strong. His face was leonine in expression. His long hair fell back from his forehead, his eyebrows were heavy, his eyes were gray and clear; with a fierce and savage expression when his brows met in a frown, and his lips were firmly set; but at other times frank, open, and straightforward in their look. The mouth was set and determined, without being hard; and a pleasant smile, at times, lit up his features. He was a man capable of strong affections, and generous impulses. He was cruel, at times; but it was an age of cruelty; and Titus himself, who is held up as a magnanimous general, was guilty of far more hideous cruelties than any committed by Simon. Had the latter been master of Jerusalem from the first, and had not the granaries been destroyed in the civil war, the legions of Titus would never have achieved the conquest of the city. Ascending the steep slope of the valley, they passed through the gate in the first wall and, turning to the right, entered the Palace of Herod, which was at once a royal dwelling, and a fortress of tremendous strength. Much as John's thoughts were otherwise occupied, he could not help being struck by the magnificence and splendor of this noble building; but he said nothing as Simon strode along through the forum, passed out beyond the palace itself, entered the strong and lofty tower of Phasaelus, and ascended to its summit. An involuntary exclamation burst from John, as he gained the platform. From the point on which he stood, he commanded a view of the whole city, and of the country round. Far below, at his feet, lay the crowded streets of the inner town; between which and the outer wall the ground was thickly occupied by houses of the better class, standing half-embowered in trees. Close beside him rose the stately towers of Hippicus and Mariamne. Behind him was the Palace of Herod, standing on the ground once occupied by the Castle of David. On the east the Palace of Agrippa partly obscured the view of the Temple; but a portion of the building could be seen, standing on its platform on the summit of Mount Moriah. To its left, and connected with it by two lines of cloisters, was the castle of Antonia while, still further along, was the fort known as Acra. Behind the Palace of Herod, and its superb gardens, were scattered the palaces and mansions of the wealthy Jews and strangers which, with their gardens, occupied the whole of the upper part of Mount Zion. On the lower slope of Mount Moriah, lying between the Valley of Jehoshaphat and that of the Tyropoeon, was a densely-populated suburb known as the New Town. Westward, beyond the Tower of Hippicus, lay the valley of Hinnom, with the Dragon Pool glistening in the sun while, at a distance of four or five miles, to the southward could be seen the village of Bethlehem. The whole country outside the walls was a garden, with countless villas, mansions, and groves of trees. For some minutes, John looked round in admiration of the scene, while Simon stood with his eyes fixed upon the road crossing Mount Scopus. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, and John joined him, and looked in the direction in which he was gazing. The white line of the road was darkened by a moving mass, sparkling as the sun shone on arms and armor. "They come, at last," Simon said and, as he spoke, cries of wailing and lamentation were heard from the walls, far below them. The four years that had elapsed, since danger first threatened Jerusalem, had deepened the impression in the minds of the Jews that the enemy would not be permitted to approach the Holy City. It was true that their faith had been sorely shaken, by many strange prodigies. A strange light had shone about the altar and the Temple, and it was said that voices had been heard from the Holy of Holies, saying, "Let us depart hence." The Beautiful Gate of the Temple, which required the strength of twenty men to close it, had opened of its own accord. War chariots and armies had been seen contending in the clouds; and for months a great comet, in shape like a flaming sword, had hung over the city. Still men had hoped, and the cry from the watchers that the Roman army was in sight struck dismay among the inhabitants. There were still many without the walls. Some of these rushed wildly into the gates, and entered the city; while the wiser fled away to the hills, and made their way to their homes. Titus, as he reached the brow of Mount Scopus, reined in his horse and looked for some time, in silence, at the great and magnificent city which extended before him; and there can be little doubt that he would fain have spared it, had it been possible. Even a Roman could not gaze on the massive beauty of the Temple, unmoved. It was the most famous religious edifice in the world. From all parts, pilgrims flocked to it; and kings made offerings to it. It was believed by the Jews to be the special seat of their deity; and the Romans, partly from policy, partly from superstition, paid respect and reverence to the gods of all the nations they subdued, and annual offerings had been sent by Rome to the Temple. Titus may well have wished to spare the city the ruin and misery of a siege, to preserve the Temple intact, and to hand over to King Agrippa, uninjured, his palace and capital. In all the wide dominions of Rome, there was not a city which approached Jerusalem in beauty and grandeur; and Titus must have felt that whatever honor would accrue to him, from its conquest, would be dearly purchased by the linking of his name, to all time, as the destroyer of so magnificent a city. Similar emotions were felt by the group of officers who rode with Titus, and who reined up their horses as he did so. With them, the military point of view was doubtless the most prominent; and as they saw, from their lofty vantage ground, how the deep valleys of Hinnom and Jehoshaphat girt the city in on either side, and how stately and strong were the walls and towers, they may well have felt how mighty was the task which they had before them. The scene was calm and peaceful. No sound of warlike trumpets came from the walls, no signs of an enemy appeared without; and Titus rode on, past the deserted villas and beautiful grounds that bordered the road, until he neared the Damascus Gate. He was accompanied by six hundred horse, for the legions had encamped in the Valley of Thorns, near the village of Gaboth Saul, some four miles from Jerusalem. The walls appeared deserted; but Titus, having experience of the desperate courage of the Jews, paused at some little distance from the gate and, turning to the right, entered a lane which ran parallel to the wall, and made his way towards the Tower of Psephinus--or the Rubble Tower--at the north-eastern angle of the outer wall. Suddenly, a gate near the Tower of the Women was thrown open, and a crowd of armed men dashed out. Rushing forward at the top of their speed, some threw themselves across the road which Titus was following; but most of them rushed in behind him, cutting him off from the main body of his cavalry, and leaving him isolated with but a few followers. The main body of Roman cavalry, furiously assailed, and ignorant that Titus was cut off from them, turned and fled. Titus hesitated a moment. In front of him was an unknown country. He knew not whither the lane he was following led. Hedges rose on either side and, even did he burst through the crowd in front of him, he might be overwhelmed by missiles, as he rode on. Therefore, calling upon his men to follow him, he turned round and dashed into the crowd which barred his retreat. He wore neither helmet nor breastplate for, as he had only advanced to reconnoiter, and with no thought of fighting, these had been left behind. Yet, though javelins flew around him in showers, and arrows whizzed close to him, not one touched him as he struck, right and left, among those who barred his passage; while his warhorse, excited by the shouts and tumult, trampled them under his feet. In vain the Jews, astonished at his bravery, and still more so at his immunity from harm amid the shower of missiles, strove to seize him. He and his little band cut his way onward, those in front drawing back with almost superstitious fear from his attack. Two, only, of his followers were slain. One fell, pierced with numerous javelins. Another was pulled from his horse and killed but, with the rest, he emerged unharmed from among his assailants, and reached his camp in safety. The soldiers of Simon--for it was his men who guarded this part of the wall--returned with mingled feelings. They were triumphant that they had caused the son of Caesar, himself, to fly before them. They were humiliated that so great a prize should have escaped them, when he seemed in their hands; and they had a superstitious feeling that he had been divinely protected from their assaults. From their lookout, Simon and John had seen the Roman cavalry turn off from the Damascus road into the lane, and had then lost sight of them. Then they heard the sudden din of battle, and the shouts of the combatants, and saw the Roman cavalry riding off in full speed; but the clamor had continued and, in a short time, another little party of horsemen were seen to issue from the lane, and follow their companions. Simon laughed, grimly. "We have taught the Romans, early, that the wasps have stings and that, if they think they are going to take the nest without trouble, they will be mistaken. "And now, John, what do you advise? You were, they say, at Jotapata and Gamala; and you have since shown how well you understand the Roman tactics. I am a soldier, with an arm to strike but, so far, I have not had experience in the Roman tactics at sieges. Tell me, what would you do first, were you commander of this city?" "There is no doubt what is the first thing to be done," John said. "It is the duty of all within this city to lay aside their feuds, and unite in her defense. It is for you, as the strongest, to make the first advance; and to send at once to John and Eleazar to propose that, so long as the Romans are before the city, there shall be a truce between you; and to arrange which part of the walls shall be held by the soldiers of each. You must also arrange to unite for common action, both in the defense and in attacking them without the walls; for it is only by disturbing them at their work, and by hindering them as they bring forward their engines of war, that you can hope to hold the city. Strong as your walls may be, they will crumble to ruins when the battering rams once begin their work against them." Simon was silent for a minute, then he said: "Your advice is good. I will send at once to John and Eleazar, and ask them to meet me on the bridge across the Tyropoeon, which separates our forces." The sun was already setting, but the distance was short. Simon advanced to the bridge and, hailing the Zealots on the other side, said that he desired an interview with John, in reference to the defense of the city; and that he pledged his solemn oath that no harm should come to him. He sent a similar message to Eleazar. John shortly appeared for, from the summit of Antonia, he too had watched the advancing Romans, and felt the necessity for common action for defense of the town. Eleazar refused to come. He would have trusted Simon, but to reach the meeting place he would have had to pass through the outer courts of the Temple held by John, and he knew that no confidence could be reposed in any oath that the latter might take. He sent word, however, that he was willing to abstain from all hostilities, and to make common cause with the others for the defense of the city. John of Gischala advanced alone on to the bridge, a wide and stately edifice carried on lofty arches across the Tyropoeon valley, from a point near the Palace of Agrippa to the platform of the Temple. "Come with me," Simon said to his companion. John of Gischala paused in his advance, as he saw that Simon was not alone. "Let one of your men come with you, if you like," Simon said, with a grim laugh at his hesitation; "or two, or six, if you like." But John of Gischala knew that the eyes of the soldiers on both sides of the bridge were upon him and, having faith in the oath of Simon, he again advanced. John looked with curiosity at the man of whom he had heard so much; and who, having been a scourge to Upper Galilee with his horde of robbers, had now brought such misery upon Jerusalem. Without approaching his rival in size and strength, John of Gischala was a powerfully-built man. He did not shrink from danger, and had upon occasion shown great bravery; but he relied upon craft, more than force, to gain his ends. He possessed great power of oratory, could rouse men's passions or calm them, at will. He could cajole or threaten, persuade or deceive, with equal facility; was always ready to break an oath, if it was inconvenient to keep it. Although fond of power, he was still more greedy of gain. But in one respect, he and Simon agreed: both hated the Romans, with an intense and bitter hatred; both were ready to die in defense of Jerusalem. "I think it is time, John," Simon said, "to cease from our strife, for the present, and to make common cause against the enemy. If we continue our dissensions, and the Romans in consequence take the city, our names will be accursed, in all generations, as the men who gave Jerusalem into the hands of the Romans." "I am ready to agree to a truce," John of Gischala said. "It is you who have been attacking me, not I who have been attacking you; but we need not talk of that, now. Is it to be an understood thing that, if the Romans retire, we shall both occupy the positions we hold now, whatever changes may have taken place; and we can then either come to an understanding, or fight the matter out?" "Yes, that is what I would propose," Simon replied. "Whatever changes may take place, when the Romans retire we occupy exactly the positions we hold now. Will you swear to that, by the Temple?" "I will," John said. The two men each took a solemn oath to carry out the terms they agreed upon and, throughout the siege, to put aside all enmity towards each other; and to act together, in all things, for the defense of the city. They then arranged as to the portion of the wall which each should occupy, these corresponding very nearly to the lines which they at present held. Simon held the whole of the third wall which, commencing from Hippicus, the tower at the north corner of the high town, ran northward to Psephinus--or the Rubble Tower--then eastward to the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and again south to the Temple platform. The second wall, inclosing the inner low town--or Inner Acra, as it was sometimes called--was divided between the two. Simon also held the first wall, from Hippicus right round at the foot of Zion across the lower end of the Tyropoeon Valley, and round the outer low town as far as the platform of the Temple. John held the Temple platform, the middle low town, and some parts of the city immediately adjacent, both on the south slope of Mount Moriah--or Ophel, as this portion of the hill was called--and part of the inner low town. The line, therefore, which Simon had to defend was vastly greater than that held by John's troops but, in fact, the whole line bordering the valleys of Hinnom and Jehoshaphat was practically unassailable--the wall being built along the edge of precipices, where it could not be attacked either with battering rams or by escalade--and it was really the north face of the city, only, that was exposed to serious assault. The outer wall on this side--that against which the assault would first be made--was entirely occupied by Simon's troops; but it was not anticipated that any successful resistance could be made here, for the walls, hastily raised by the Jews after turning out the Romans, were incapable of offering a long resistance to such a force as was now to assail it. It was, then, at the second wall that the first great stand would be made; and John and Simon's troops divided this between them, so that the division was fair enough, when it was considered that Simon's force was more than double that of John. When this matter had been arranged, John of Gischala said to Simon: "Who is this young man who accompanies you?" "He is one who has done much more for the cause than either you or I, John of Gischala; and indeed, hitherto it may be doubted whether we have not been the two worst enemies of Jerusalem. This is John of Gamala, of whom we have heard so often, during the last three years." "This, John of Gamala!" John repeated, in a tone of incredulity; "you are mocking me, Simon." "I mock no one," Simon said, sternly. "I tell you this is John of Gamala; and when we think that you and I--men of war--have as yet struck no single blow against the Romans, since I aided in the defeat of the legion of Cestius--for you fled from Gischala like a coward, at night, while I have been fighting for my own land, down here--we may well feel ashamed, both of us, in the presence of this youth; who has for three years harassed the Romans, burning their camps, driving out small garrisons, hindering pillagers from straying over the country, cutting off their convoys, and forcing them to keep ever on the watch. "I tell you, John, I feel ashamed beside him. He has brought here six hundred men of his band, all picked and determined fellows, for the defense of the city. I tell you they will be no mean assistance; and you would say so, also, had you seen how they drew up today, in solid order, ready to withstand the whole of my force. He is not of my party, or of yours; he comes simply to fight against the Romans and, as I understand him, when the Romans retire, he will leave, also." "That is certainly my intention," John said, quietly; "but before I go, I hope that I shall be able to act as mediator between you both, and to persuade you to come to some arrangement which may free Jerusalem from a renewal of the evils which, between you, you have inflicted upon her. If you beat back the Romans, you will have gained all the honor that men could desire; and your names will go down to all posterity as the saviors of Jerusalem and the Temple. If you desire treasure, there is not a Jew but that will be ready to contribute, to the utmost of his power. If you desire power, Palestine is wide enough for you to divide it between you--only beware, lest by striving longer against each other, your names go down as those who have been the tyrants of the land; names to be accursed, as long as the Hebrew tongue remains." The two men were silent. Bold as they were, they felt abashed before the outspoken rebuke of this stripling. They had heard him spoken of as one under the special protection of Jehovah. They knew that he had had marvelous escapes, and that he had fought single-handed with Titus; and the air of authority with which he spoke, his entire disregard of their power, his fearlessness in the presence of men before whom all Jerusalem trembled, confirmed the stories they had heard, and created an impression almost to awe. "If we three are alive, when the Romans depart from before the city," Simon said, in his deep voice, "it shall be as you say; and I bind myself, beforehand, to agree to whatever you shall decide is just and right. "Therefore, John of Gischala, henceforth I shall regard this not as a truce, but as the beginning of peace between us; and our rivalry shall be who shall best defend the Holy City against her foes." "So be it!" John of Gischala replied; "but I would that Eleazar were here. He is an enemy in my midst; and just as, whenever I was fighting with you, he fell upon me from behind; so will it be that, while I am struggling with the Romans, he may be attacking me from the inner Temple. He has none of the outer walls to defend; and will, therefore, be free to choose the moment when he can fall upon me, unawares." "Make peace with him, at any price," John said, "only put an end to this strife, and let there be no more bloodshed in the Temple. How can we hope for God's assistance, in defending the city, when his altars are being daily desecrated with blood?" "I will see what I can do," John said. "Somehow or other, this strife must be brought to an end; and it shall be done without bloodshed, if possible." "There is another thing, John," Simon said. "Our comrade here has been telling me that, from what he saw at Jotapata and Gamala, he is convinced that by passive resistance, only, we cannot defeat the Romans, but that we must sally out and attack them in their camps, and at their work; and therefore let us agree that we will meet here, from time to time, and arrange that, issuing together through the gates in our portions of the wall, we may unite in falling upon the Romans." "The counsel is good," John of Gischala said. "It will keep up the courage of men, to fight in the open. Whenever an opportunity presents itself, my men shall act with yours. You have given Titus a lesson, today. The next time, we will divide the honor." Chapter 15: The Siege Is Begun. The Fifth Legion--which had been stationed at Emmaus, halfway between Jerusalem and Jaffa--marching the greater part of the night, joined the Twelfth and Fifteenth at their halting place at Gaboth Saul and, the next morning, the three advanced together. The Twelfth and Fifteenth marched halfway down the Hill of Scopus, and encamped together on a knoll; while the Fifth Legion encamped three furlongs to their rear so that, in case of an attack by the Jews, its weary soldiers should not have to bear the brunt of the conflict. As these legions were marking out their camp, the Tenth Legion--which had marched up from Jericho--appeared on the Mount of Olives, and Titus sent word for them to encamp there. Thus Jerusalem was overlooked, throughout its length and breadth, by the Roman camps on the hills to the north and east sides. John had, at the earnest request of Simon, taken up his residence with him in the Palace of Herod and, from the top of the Tower of Phasaelus, watched the Roman legions at work. "It seems to me," he said to Simon, "that now is the time for us to make an assault. The Romans raise veritable fortifications round their camp and, when once these are completed, we can scarcely hope to storm them; whereas, if we fall suddenly upon them, now, we can fight on even terms. The legion on the Mount of Olives is widely separated from the rest; and we might overcome it, before the others could come to its assistance." "I agree with you," Simon said; "let us strike a blow, at once." Simon at once sent off to John, to propose that the latter should issue out from the Golden Gate in the middle of the Temple platform; while he, himself, would lead out his troops by the gate to the north of that platform. In accordance with the suggestion of John, he requested John of Gischala to place a watchman on a conspicuous position on the wall, with orders to wave his mantle as a signal to both parties to charge as, from his position, he would be better able than they to see what the Romans were doing; and both parties could see him, while they might be invisible to each other. John of Gischala sent back, at once, to say that he approved of the plan, and would join in it. Simon called his troops together and--leaving the outer wall strongly manned, lest the Twelfth and Fifteenth Legions might take advantage of the absence of so large a portion of the garrison to make a sudden attack upon it--marched towards the northeastern gate; being joined on the way by John, with his band. They waited until a messenger came from John of Gischala, saying that he was ready; then the gates were thrown open, and the troops poured out. John had given strict orders to his men to keep together in their companies, each under his commander; and not to try to maintain regular order as one band, for this would be next to impossible, fighting on such hilly and broken ground. Besides, they would be sure to get mixed up with the masses of Simon's troops. At the same moment that Simon's force poured through the northeastern gate, that of John of Gischala issued from the Temple platform and, in rivalry with each other, both dashed down the steep declivity into the bottom of the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and then climbed the sharp slope of the Mount of Olives. Then with loud shouts they fell, in wild disorder, each as he reached the spot, upon the Tenth Legion. The Romans, anticipating no attack, and many of them unarmed as they worked at the intrenchments, were unable to resist the fierce onslaught. Accustomed to regular warfare, this rush of armed men from all sides upon them surprised and disconcerted them. Every moment added to the number of their assailants, as fresh combatants continued to pour out from the city and, fighting stubbornly and sullenly, the Romans were driven out of their half-formed intrenchments up the slope, and over the crest of the Mount of Olives. The Jews fought, regardless of life. Single men dashed into the midst of the Romans and fell there, fighting fiercely. John's compact companies hurled themselves upon the line, and broke it. Simon fought desperately at the head of his men, cutting down all who stood in his way. The Romans were wavering, and would soon have broken into open flight, when rescue arrived. The general in command had, immediately the Jews had been seen issuing out, sent off a horseman to Titus with the news; and he, putting himself at the head of his bodyguard, started instantly to their assistance. Falling suddenly upon the flank of the Jews, he bore them down by the impetuosity and weight of the charge. In vain, Simon and John of Gischala tried to rally their men; and John's bands, gathering round him at the sound of his bugle, opposed a firm and steady resistance. The Roman legion rallied and, ashamed of having been driven back before the very eyes of Titus, attacked the Jews with fury; and the latter were driven down the hill into the valley. Here, John's band refused to retire further. Simon and John of Gischala rallied their troops, and an obstinate contest ensued; the Romans being unable to push the Jews farther back, now that the latter were, in turn, fighting with the ground in their favor. For some time the battle raged. Then Titus, seeing that he could not drive the Jews back into the city, ordered a portion of the Tenth Legion to reascend the Mount of Olives, and complete the work of fortifying their camp; so that, at the end of the day, the legion could fall back to a place of safety. The watchman on the wall saw the movement, and thought that the Romans were retreating. He waved his mantle wildly and, at the signal, the Jews again burst down upon their foes, and fresh forces poured down from the gates to their assistance. In vain, the Roman line tried to hold the bottom of the valley. The Jews burst through them, and drove them in disorder up the hill; Titus alone, with a few followers, making a stand on the lower slopes. The Jews, rushing on, surrounded his party and fell upon him from all sides, while their main body swarmed up the hill, and the Romans, panic stricken, dispersed in all directions. Victory seemed in the hands of the Jews, when some of the Romans discovered that Titus was not with them; but was cut off, and surrounded, at the bottom of the hill. They shouted to others, and the news rapidly spread through the fugitives. Overwhelmed with shame at having deserted their general, and knowing the severe punishment which, according to Roman military law, would befall them for their cowardice, the Romans paused in their flight. Their discipline came to their aid, and they quickly fell in, in companies and, with a shout of fury, advanced upon the scattered Jews; who, although vastly superior in numbers, had no order or formation which would enable them to resist the downward impetus of the solid masses of heavy-armed Romans. Again they were driven down the hill; and the Romans, pressing upon them, found to their delight that Titus and his band had successfully resisted the attacks of their foes. The Jews were driven some distance up the side of the slope; and there the combat was renewed until, seeing that they could make no further impression upon the enemy, the Jews retired sullenly through their gates into the city. They were, however, well satisfied with their day's work. Numbers had fallen, but they had inflicted heavy loss upon the Romans. They had forced one of the legions to retreat, in fair fight; had all but captured Titus; and had proved, to the Romans, the formidable nature of the task they had undertaken. The next day, the 13th of April, was the day of the Passover; and all Jerusalem prepared, as usual, to celebrate the day of the great sacrifice. The gates of the Temple were, as usual, thrown open; and the multitude thronged in to worship. John of Gischala had sworn to Eleazar, as he had to Simon, to lay aside all hostility but, as usual, he did not allow his oath to prevent him from carrying out his designs. A number of his men concealed their arms under their garments, and entered the Temple with the worshipers. At a signal, the swords were drawn and the cry of battle was raised. Eleazar and his followers at once fled, in dismay, to the vaults under the Temple. The multitude in the courts above, panic stricken at the threatened conflict, strove to escape. Many were trampled under foot and killed. Some were wantonly slain by John's followers, to whom murder had become a pastime. When order was restored, John of Gischala went to the entrance of the vaults, and shouted to Eleazar that he desired to keep his oath, and would do him no harm; but that, for the general safety of the city, he could be no longer permitted to hold the inner Temple but must, with his men, take his share in the defense of the walls. If Eleazar would agree to do this, he promised that no harm, whatever, should be done to him or his followers. Eleazar, being at the mercy of his foe, accepted the terms and, with his followers, ascended into the Temple. For once, John of Gischala kept his word. Eleazar was permitted to retain the command of his own two thousand men, but his force henceforth formed a part of the Zealot army of John. Thus, from this time forward, there were but two factions in the city. Josephus, always the bitter enemy of John of Gischala, speaks in terms of the utmost reprobation of his conduct on this occasion; and the occasion and manner in which the deed was effected cannot, for a moment, be defended. At the same time, it must be admitted that the occasion was an urgent one, that the existence of this enemy in his midst crippled John of Gischala's power to defend his portion of the city; and that the suppression of Eleazar's faction, and the conversion of his troops from enemies into allies, was an act of high policy, and was indeed a necessity, if Jerusalem was to be successfully defended. The desecration of the Temple, however, upon so sacred an occasion as the feast of the Passover, filled all pious Jews with horror; and caused John to be regarded with even greater detestation than before. For the opinion of the unarmed multitude, however, he cared little. He had crushed the faction of Eleazar, had added two thousand men to his strength; and was now ready, without fear of trouble within, to face the Roman enemy without. The desperate sortie of the Jews had convinced Titus that, if Jerusalem was to be taken, it must be by means of regular siege operations, conducted with the greatest care and caution and, having made a circuit of the city, he perceived that it was impregnable, save on the north and northwestern sides--that is, the part defended by the third wall. He therefore, reluctantly, gave orders that all the villas, mansions, gardens, and groves standing between that wall and the foot of Mount Scopus should be destroyed and, placing strong bodies of troops opposite the gates, to prevent any sortie of the defenders, he set the whole of the three legions encamped on that side to carry out the work of destruction. A feeling of grief and dismay filled the city, at the sight of the devastation that was being wrought; and there were very many among the multitude who would gladly have avoided further evils, by submitting to the Romans. But such an idea did not enter the heads of the military leaders, and Simon determined upon another sortie. A number of the citizens were ordered to take their places upon the walls, and to cry out to the Romans that they desired peace, and to implore them to enter the town and take possession. In the meantime, a number of Simon's men issued out from the Women's Gate in confusion, as if expelled by the peace party. They appeared to be in a state of extreme terror: sometimes advancing towards the Romans, as if to submit to them; at other times retreating towards the wall, as if afraid of putting themselves into the hands of the Romans--but, as they neared the walls, they were assailed by a shower of missiles from above. Titus suspected that a trick was being played, and ordered the troops to stand fast; but the battalion facing the gate, seeing it stand open, were unable to resist the impulse to rush in and take possession. They therefore advanced, through the crowd of Jews outside, until close to the gate. Then Simon's men drew out their concealed weapons, and fell upon them in the rear; while a fresh body of armed men rushed out from the gate, and attacked them in front while, from the two flanking towers, a storm of javelins, arrows, and stones was poured upon them. The Romans fought desperately, but numbers of them were slain; and the rest took to flight, pursued by the Jews, and did not halt until they reached the tombs of Helen, half a mile from the walls; while the Jews, with shouts of triumph, re-entered the city. John had taken no part in this sortie. He had lost more than fifty men, in the fight on the Mount of Olives; and determined to hold the rest in reserve, until they were needed in a moment of extreme peril. The manner in which the bands had held together, and had steadfastly resisted the Roman attacks, had greatly excited the admiration of Simon. "I see now," he said, on the evening of the sortie, when talking the matter over with John, "the secret of the successes you have gained over the Romans. Your men fight as steadily, and with as much discipline as they do; while they are far quicker in their movements. They unite the activity of my men with the steadiness of the Romans. I wish, now, that I had spent the last year in training and disciplining my men, to act with equal steadiness and order; but it is too late to try to do so, now. Each will do his best, and will die fighting but, were I to attempt, now, to introduce regularity among them, they would lose the fierce rush with which they assault the Romans; without acquiring sufficient discipline to enable them to keep their order, as yours do, in the confusion of the battle." "Mine are all picked men," John said. "I had eight thousand under my orders, during the last two years of fighting; but I bade all leave me, when I advanced to Jerusalem, save those who were ready and prepared to die. Therefore, I can rely upon every man, as upon myself. "Unless I see some exceptional opportunity, I do not think I shall lead them out beyond the walls again. The time will come, as the siege goes on, when you will need a body of men to hold a breach, or arrest the advance of a Roman column; men who will die, rather than give way a foot. When that time comes, my band shall fill the gap." "I think you are right," Simon agreed. "Your men are too good to be wasted in desultory fighting. They shall be kept as a last resource; and I know that, when the time comes, they can be relied upon." The clearing of the ground occupied four days; and Titus then determined to advance his camp nearer to the city, and fixed upon a spot which was the highest on the plateau--a quarter of a mile to the northwest of the Rubble Tower. Before moving into it, the position was strongly fortified and, so much impressed was Titus, by the sallies which the Jews had made, that he formed up his whole army along the north and northwest side of the city. The heavy-armed troops, three deep, were the first line. Behind them came a rank of archers, and behind these the cavalry, three deep. Brave as were the Jews, they did not venture to sally out to endeavor to break through this living wall; which stood all day, immovable, while the baggage animals--aided by a great crowd of artisans and camp followers--moved the war engines, reserves, and baggage of the army from Mount Scopus down to the new camp. Here the Twelfth and Fifteenth Legions, under Titus himself, took up their position. The Fifth Legion, under the command of Cerealis, formed their camp on a knoll, a quarter of a mile from the Jaffa Gate, and divided from it by the Valley of Hinnom which is, here, of no great depth. It lay about a third of a mile south of the camp of Titus. The Tenth Legion remained on the Mount of Olives. Their camp had now been very strongly fortified, and was in a position to repel any attack that might be made against it. Now that his dispositions were complete, Titus determined to save the city, if possible, from the horrors of siege. He therefore sent Nicanor and Josephus, with a flag of truce, towards the walls to offer them terms. No sooner had they come within bow shot than an arrow was discharged from the wall, and struck Nicanor upon the shoulder. The ambassador at once retired; and Titus, indignant alike at the insult to his messengers, and the violation of the flag of truce, immediately began to make preparations for the siege. Could the population of the city have been consulted, they would have declared, by an immense majority of voices, for surrender; but Simon and John of Gischala, whose men held the walls, were absolute masters of the city; and the inhabitants were to pay now, as they had paid in the past, for their cowardice in allowing themselves to be tyrannized over by a body of men whom they outnumbered by ten to one. Titus, after a careful examination of the walls, determined to attack at a spot between the Jaffa Gate and Psephinus. In former times, all assaults of the enemy had been directed against the north; and it was here, consequently, that the wall was strongest. At its foot, too, a wide and deep fosse had been cut in the solid rock: rendering it impossible for the assailants to advance to the attack, until this was filled up. But, on the northwest, the walls had not been made equally strong; nor had the fosse been continued from Psephinus to the Jaffa Gate. It had no doubt been considered that the projecting angle of the wall at Psephinus, and the fortifications of the Palace of Herod, covered this portion of the wall--which was, moreover, to some extent protected by the Valley of Hinnom But between the top of the slope of that valley, and the foot of the walls, was a level space of ground sufficiently wide for the establishment of machines for breaching the wall. Here, therefore, Titus determined to make his attack. On the 22nd of April, the troops began the work. Each legion was to erect a bank, mount a battering ram, and construct a tower. A vast quantity of timber was required, and the desolation already effected between the north wall and Scopus was now widely extended; the whole of the trees, for a great distance round Jerusalem, being cut down and brought to the spot. The towers were constructed about ninety feet in height, and with a wide face. They were put together beyond the range of the missiles of the defenders; and were to be advanced, upon wheels, up the bank until they neared the wall. As the three banks approached the wall, hurdles covered with hides were erected to protect the workers; and on each side javelin men and archers were posted, together with the war engines for casting missiles. Simon was not idle. He possessed the war engines taken when Antonia was surrendered by the Romans, and those captured from the legion of Cestius; but his men had no experience in the working of these machines. They could only manipulate them slowly, and their aim was bad. They were able, therefore, to interfere but little with the work of the Romans. The archers and slingers, however, did greater damage, and killed many while, at times, the gate would be thrown open, and Simon would dash out at the head of his men, and do much damage before the Romans could drive him back within the walls. The Tenth Legion did more injury to the defenders than did the others, being provided with more powerful war machines. Their ballistae threw stones, weighing a hundred weight, a distance of a quarter of a mile. The Jewish watchmen on the walls kept a vigilant watch upon these machines and, each time a stone was coming, shouted a warning; and the defenders threw themselves on their faces, until the stone passed over. Even at night, the whiteness of the newly-cut rock rendered the masses visible, as they flew through the air; and Titus then ordered the stones to be painted black, before they were discharged, and thus added to their effect, as their approach could be no longer seen. Night and day, the Romans toiled at the work; night and day the Jews, with missiles and sorties, hindered their approach; until the banks had approached so close to the walls that the battering rams would be within striking distance. Then the towers were brought up and the rams began to strike their mighty blows upon the wall while, from the top of the lofty towers, and from the stories below, the archers and war machines poured a storm of missiles down upon the defenders of the walls. As it was evident, now, that the danger lay solely in this quarter; and that the whole strength of the besieged was needed here; Simon sent to John of Gischala, to urge that the line of demarcation agreed upon by them between their respective troops should no longer be observed. John would not trust himself in the power of Simon, but gave leave to his soldiers to go down and aid in the defense; and they, who had been chafing at their forced inactivity, while Simon's men were bearing the brunt of the fighting, went down to take their share in the struggle. Regardless of the storm of missiles, the Jews maintained their place upon the walls, shooting blazing arrows and hurling combustibles down upon the Roman works; and executing such frequent and desperate sorties that Titus was obliged to keep the greater part of his force constantly under arms, and to gather round the towers large bodies of archers and horsemen, to repel the attacks. At length, a corner tower fell before one of the battering rams; but the wall behind stood firm, and no breach was effected. Nevertheless, the Jews appeared dispirited at this proof of the power of the battering rams, and fell back into the city. The Roman legionaries, under the belief that the fighting was over, for the evening, were drawn back into their camps. Suddenly, from a small gate hitherto unnoticed by the Romans--situated at the foot of the tower of Hippicus--the Jews poured out, with flaming brands in their hands, and dashed at the Roman banks; sweeping the defenders of the works before them, swarming up the banks, and surrounding the towers, to which they endeavored to set fire. They were, however, plated with iron outside, and the beams inside were of so massive a description that the Jews were unable to set light to them. While some of the Jews were striving to do this, the rest fell with such fury upon the Roman troops--who hurried up to the protection of their works--that they were driven back. A body of Alexandrian troops only, posted near the towers, maintained themselves against the attacks; until Titus with his cavalry charged down upon the Jews who, although a match for the Roman infantry, were never, throughout the war, able to resist the charges of the bodies of heavy horsemen. Titus is said to have killed twelve Jews with his own hand and, fighting desperately to the end, the assailants were driven back into the city. One prisoner only was taken; and him Titus, with the barbarity which afterwards distinguished his proceedings during the siege, ordered to be crucified close to the walls. Among those killed on the Jewish side was John, the commander of the Idumeans, who formed part of Simon's force. He was shot by an Arab, while he was parleying with a Roman soldier. He was a man of great courage and excellent judgment, and his loss was a serious one for the besieged. At night all was still, and silent. Both parties were exhausted with their long and desperate struggle, and even the machines ceased to hurl their missiles. Suddenly a terrific crash was heard, and the very ground seemed to shake. Both parties sprang to arms: the Jews, fearing that the wall had fallen; the Romans, not knowing what had happened, but apprehensive of another of the sorties--which they had begun to hold in high respect. Something like a panic seized them; until Titus, riding about among them, reassured them by his presence and words. They knew, indeed, that a repetition of the defeats they had suffered at the Jewish hands would not be forgiven. The battalion which had been defeated, at the sortie at the Women's Gate, had been sternly rebuked by Titus; who had ordered the military law to be carried into effect, and a certain number of the soldiers to be executed; and had only pardoned them upon the intercession of the whole army on their behalf. Therefore, the legionaries now fell into their ranks, at the order of Titus, and drew up in order of battle; while parties were sent forward to ascertain what had happened. It was found that a serious misfortune had befallen them. The Jews, in their attack, had been unable to set fire to the towers; but they had worked so vigorously, in their attempt to destroy the bank, that they had weakened that portion of it upon which one of the towers stood. This had given way, beneath the tremendous weight resting upon it; and the great tower had fallen, with a crash, to the ground. In the morning the combat recommenced but, although the Jews exposed their lives on the walls unflinchingly, they were unable to withstand the terrible shower of missiles poured upon them from the remaining towers, or to interrupt the steady swing of the huge rams which, day and night, beat against the walls. One of these, especially, did material damage; and the Jews themselves christened it "Nico," or the Conqueror. At length, wearied out by their efforts, disheartened by the failure of their attempts to interfere with the work of destruction, and knowing that the inner lines were vastly stronger than those without, the Jews abandoned the defense of the tottering wall, and retired behind their next line of defense The Romans soon discovered that they were unopposed, and scaled the wall. As soon as they found that the whole space between it and the second wall was abandoned, they set to work and threw down a large portion of the third wall, and took up their post inside. Titus established himself at the spot known as the camp of the Assyrians, at the foot of the Tower of Psephinus. As soon as his arrangements were completed, he gave orders for the assault to be recommenced. The date of the capture of the outer wall was on the 6th of May, fifteen days after the commencement of the siege. The capture of Bezetha, or the new town, enabled the Romans to make an attack directly on the Palace of Herod, on the one side, and Mount Moriah upon the other; without first assaulting the second wall, which defended the inner lower town. But two or three days' fighting convinced Titus that these positions could not be successfully attacked, until the lower town was in his power. The three great towers Phasaelus, Hippicus, and Mariamne--desperately defended by Simon's soldiers--formed an impregnable obstacle on the one side; while Antonia, and the steep ascent up to the Temple platform, was defended with equal stubbornness, and success, by the soldiers of John of Gischala. Titus therefore prepared for the assault of the second wall. The point selected for the attack was the middle tower on the northern face, close to which were the wool mart, the clothes mart, and the braziers' shops. There were no natural obstacles to the approach, and the battering ram was soon placed in position, while a strong body of archers prevented the defenders showing themselves above the parapet. The wall was of far less strength than that which the Romans had before encountered, and soon began to totter before the blows of the battering ram. The Jews, indeed, were indifferent as to its fall; for they knew that the possession of the inner town was of slight importance to them, and that its fall would not greatly facilitate the attack upon what was the natural line of defense--namely, the heights of Zion and Moriah. For a short time, the Roman advance was delayed by the proceedings of Castor, the Jewish officer commanding the tower which they had assaulted. He, with ten men, alone had remained there when the rest of the defenders had retired; and he got up a sham battle among his men--the Romans suspending operations, under the belief that a party of the defenders were anxious to surrender. Castor himself stood on the parapet, and offered Titus to surrender. Titus promised him his life and, when an archer standing near sent an arrow which pierced Castor's nose, he sternly rebuked him. He then asked Josephus, who was standing beside him, to go forward and assure Castor and his companions that their lives should be spared. Josephus, however, knew the way of his countrymen too well, and declined to endanger his life. But, upon Castor offering to throw down a bag of gold, a man ran forward to receive it, when Castor hurled a great stone down at him; and Titus, seeing that he was being fooled, ordered the battering ram to recommence its work. Just before the tower fell, Castor set fire to it; and leaped with his companions--as the Romans supposed into the flames--but really into a vault, whence they made their escape into the city. As soon as the tower fell, Titus entered the breach, with his bodyguard and a thousand heavy-armed troops. The inhabitants, almost entirely of the poorer class, surrendered willingly; and Titus gave orders that none, save those found with arms upon them, should be killed. The Romans dispersed through the narrow and winding streets when, suddenly, Simon and his men poured down from the upper city; and John, at the head of his band, issued from his quarters. While some fell upon the Romans in the streets, others entered the houses and rained missiles upon them from above; while another party, issuing from the gate by Phasaelus, attacked the Romans between the second and third walls, and drove them into their camp. For a time, Titus and those in the lower town suffered terribly; but at last Titus posted archers, to command the lanes leading towards the breach, and managed--but with considerable loss--to withdraw his troops through it. The Jews at once manned the wall, and formed in close order behind the breach. Titus led his heavy-armed troops against it, but John and Simon defended it with the greatest valor and, for three days and nights, beat back the continued attacks of the Roman soldiers; but at the end of that time they were utterly exhausted, while the Romans incessantly brought up fresh troops. Even Simon--who had fought desperately at the head of his men, and had performed prodigies of valor--could no longer continue the struggle and, slowly and in good order, the defenders of the breach fell back to the upper city, and the lower town remained in the possession of the Romans. In order to avoid a recurrence of the disaster which had befallen them, Titus ordered a considerable portion of the second wall to be leveled; so that the troops could, if necessary, pour in or out without difficulty. But Simon had no thought of repeating his sortie. A large number of his best men had already fallen, and he determined to reserve his force for the defense of the almost impregnable position of the upper city. Two hundred of John's band had fallen round the breach, he himself had received several wounds, and the fighting strength of his band was now but one-half of what it was at the commencement of the siege. He had, before the Romans first entered the inner town, had the remainder of his store of grain removed to the building in the upper town which Simon had assigned to his band. It had as yet been but little trenched upon, as Simon had ordered that rations, similar to those issued to his own men, from the few granaries which had escaped destruction, should be given to John's band. "What do you think, now, of the prospect?" Simon asked, as John and he stood together on the Tower of Phasaelus, on the day after the Romans had taken possession of the lower town. "I think, as I did at first," John said, "that nothing but a miracle can save the Temple." "But the difficulties that the Romans have overcome," Simon said, "are as nothing to those still before them." "That is quite true," John agreed, "and, had we but a good supply of food, I believe that we might hold out for months; but the grain is already nearly exhausted, and cannot support even the fighting men much longer, while the inhabitants are dying from hunger. Well and strong, we might resist every attack that the Romans can make but, when we can no longer lift our swords, they must overcome us. Still, as long as I can fight I am ready to do so, in hopes that God may yet have mercy upon us, and deliver his Temple." Chapter 16: The Subterranean Passage. For a few days after the capture of the lower city, the Jews had a respite. Titus knew that famine was sapping the strength of the defenders, and that every day weakened their power of resistance. He saw that the assault upon their strong position would be attended with immense difficulty, and loss, and he was desirous of saving the city from destruction. He ordered, therefore, a grand review of the troops to take place; and for four days the great army at his command--the splendid cavalry, the solid masses of the Roman infantry, and the light-armed troops and cavalry of the allies, defiled before him. The Jews from the height of the city watched, with a feeling of dull despair, the tremendous power assembled against them; and felt the hopelessness of further resistance. An intense desire for peace reigned, throughout the multitude, but John of Gischala and Simon had no thought of yielding. They believed that, whatever mercy Titus might be ready to grant to the inhabitants of the town, for them and their followers there was no hope, whatever, of pardon; and they were firmly resolved to resist until the last. Titus, finding that no offers of submission came from the city, sent Josephus to parley with the defenders. He could not have made a worse choice of an ambassador. Divided as the Jews were, among themselves, they were united in a common hatred for the man whom they regarded as a traitor to his country; and the harangue of Josephus, to the effect that resistance was unavailing, and that they should submit themselves to the mercy of Titus, was drowned by the execrations from the walls. In fact, in no case could his words have reached any large number of the inhabitants; for he had cautiously placed himself out of bow shot of the walls, and his words could scarcely have reached those for whom they had been intended, even if silence had been observed. His mission, therefore, was altogether unavailing. Illustration: Misery in Jerusalem During the Siege by Titus. John felt his own resolution terribly shaken, by the sights which he beheld in the city. The inhabitants moved about like specters, or fell and died in the streets. He felt, now, that resistance had been a mistake; and that it would have been far better to have thrown open the gates, when Titus appeared before them--in which case the great proportion, at least, of those within would have been spared, and the Temple and the city itself would have escaped destruction. He even regretted that he had marched down to take part in the defense. Had he known how entirely exhausted were the granaries, he would not have done so. He had thought that, at least, there would have been sufficient provisions for a siege of some months, and that the patience of the Romans might have been worn out. He felt, now, that the sacrifice had been a useless one; but although he, himself, would now have raised his voice in favor of surrender, he was powerless. Even his own men would not have listened to his voice. Originally the most fervent and ardent spirits of his band, they were now inspired by a feeling of desperate enthusiasm, equal to that which animated Simon and John of Gischala; and his authority would have been at once overthrown, had he ventured to raise his voice in favor of surrender. Already, he had once been made to feel that there were points as to which his influence failed to have any effect, whatever. He had, the morning after they retired to the upper city, spoken to his men on the subject of their store of grain. He had urged on them the horrors which were taking place before their eyes--that women and children were expiring in thousands, and that the inhabitants were suffering the extreme agonies of starvation--and had concluded by proposing that their store should be distributed among the starving women. His words had been received in silence, and then one of the captains of the companies had risen. "What you say, John, of the sufferings which the people are undergoing is felt by us all; but I, for one, cannot agree to the proposal that we should give up our store of food. Owing to the number of us that have fallen, there are still well-nigh fifty pounds a man left, which will keep us in health and strength for another two months. Were we to give it out, it would not suffice for a single meal, for a quarter of the people assembled here, and would delay their death but a few hours; thus it would profit them nothing, while it will enable us to maintain our strength--and maybe, at a critical moment, to hurl back the Romans from the very gates of the Temple. "It would be wickedness, not charity, to part with our store. It would defeat the object for which we came here, and for which we are ready to die, without any real benefit to those on whom we bestowed the food." A general chorus of approval showed that the speaker represented the opinion of his comrades. After a pause, he went on: "There is another reason why we should keep what we, ourselves, have brought in here. You know how the soldiers of Simon persecute the people--how they torture them to discover hidden stores of food, how they break in and rob them as they devour, in secret, the provisions they have concealed. I know not whether hunger could drive us to act likewise, but we know the lengths to which famished men can be driven. Therefore, I would that we should be spared the necessity for such cruelties, to keep life together. We are all ready to die, but let it be as strong men, facing the enemy, and slaying as we fall." Again, the murmur of approval was heard; and John felt that it would be worse than useless to urge the point. He admitted to himself that there was reason in the argument; and that, while a distribution of their food would give the most temporary relief, only, to the multitude, it would impair the efficiency of the band. The result showed him that, implicit as was the obedience given to him in all military matters, his influence had its limits; and that, beyond a certain point, his authority ceased. Henceforth he remained in the house, except when he went to his post on the walls immediately adjoining; and he therefore escaped being harrowed by the sight of sufferings that he could not relieve. Each day, however, he set apart the half of his own portion of grain; and gave it to the first starving woman he met, when he went out. The regulation issue of rations had now ceased. The granaries were exhausted and, henceforth, Simon's troops lived entirely upon the food they extorted from the inhabitants. John of Gischala's followers fared better. Enormous as had been the destruction of grain, the stores in the Temple were so prodigious that they were enabled to live in comparative abundance, and so maintained their strength and fighting power. But the sufferings of the people increased daily, and great numbers made their escape from the city--either sallying out from unguarded posterns, at night; or letting themselves down from the lower part of the walls, by ropes. Titus allowed them to pass through; but John of Gischala and Simon, with purposeless cruelty, placed guards on all the walls and gates, to prevent the starving people leaving the city--although their true policy would have been to facilitate, in every way, the escape of all save the fighting men; and thus to husband what provisions still remained for the use of the defenders of the city. In the daytime, when the gates were open, people went out and collected vegetables and herbs from the gardens between the walls and the Roman posts; but on their return were pitilessly robbed by the rough soldiers, who confiscated to their own use all that was brought in. The efforts to escape formed a fresh pretext, to Simon and John of Gischala, to plunder the wealthy inhabitants who, under the charge of intending to fly to the Romans, were despoiled of all they had, tortured and executed. Titus soon changed his policy and, instead of allowing the deserters to make their way through, seized them and those who went out from the city to seek food, scourged, tortured, and crucified them before the walls. Sometimes as many as five hundred were crucified in a single day. This checked the desertion; and the multitude, deeming it better to die of hunger than to be tortured to death by the Romans, resigned themselves to the misery of starvation. For seventeen days, the Romans labored at their embankments, and only one attack was made upon the walls. This was carried out by the son of the King of Commagene, who had just joined the army with a chosen band, armed and attired in the Macedonian fashion. As soon as he arrived, he loudly expressed his surprise at the duration of the siege. Titus, hearing this, told him that he was at perfect liberty to assault the city, if he liked. This he and his men at once did, and fought with great valor; but with no success whatever, a great number of them being killed, and scarcely one escaping uninjured. For a fortnight, John had bestowed the half of his ration upon a poor woman, whose child was sick; and who stood at the door of her house, every morning, to wait his passing. One day, she begged him to enter. "I shall need no more food," she said. "Thanks to God, who sent you to our aid, my child is recovered, and can now walk; and I intend to fly, tonight, from this terrible place." "But there is no escape," John said. "The soldiers allow none to pass and, if you could pass through them, the Romans would slay you." "I can escape," the woman said, "and that is why I have called you in. "My husband--who was killed by Simon's robbers, three months ago--was for many years employed in working in the underground passages of the city, and in repairing the conduits which carry the water from the springs. As I often carried down his food to him, when he was at work, I know every winding and turn of the underground ways. "As you know, the ground beneath the city is honeycombed by passages whence stone was, in the old time, obtained for buildings. There are many houses which have entrance, by pits, into these places. This is one of them, and my husband took it for that convenience. From here, I can find my way down to the great conduit which was built, by King Hezekiah, to bring the water from the upper springs of the river Gihon down into the city. Some of these waters supply the pool known as the Dragon Pool, but the main body runs down the conduit in the line of the Tyropoeon Valley; and those from the Temple could, in old times, go down and draw water, thence, should the pools and cistern fail. But that entrance has long been blocked up for, when the Temple was destroyed and the people carried away captives, the ruins covered the entrance, and none knew of it. "My husband when at work once found a passage which ran, for some distance, by the side of some massive masonry of old time. One of the great stones was loose; and he prised it out, to see what might lie behind it. When he did so he heard the sound of running water and, passing through the hole, found himself in a great conduit. This he afterwards followed up; and found that it terminated, at the upper end of the Valley of Hinnom, in a round chamber, at the bottom of which springs bubbled up. There was an entrance to this chamber from without, through a passage. The outer exit of this was well-nigh filled up with earth, and many bushes grew there; so that none passing by would have an idea of its existence. "When the troubles here became great, he took me and showed me the conduit; and led me to the exit, saying that the time might come when I might need to fly from Jerusalem. The exit lies far beyond the camps that the Romans have planted on either side of the Valley of Hinnom; and by going out at night, I and my child can make our way, unseen, to the hills. Since you have saved our lives, I tell you of this secret; which is known, I think, to none but myself for, after showing me the place, my husband closed up the entrance to the passage--which was, before, well-nigh filled up with stones. "It may be that the time may come when you, too, will need to save yourself by flight. Now, if you will come with me, I will show you the way. See, I have mixed here a pot of charcoal and water, with which we can mark the turnings and the passages; so that you will afterwards be able to find your way for, without such aid, you would never be able to follow the path, through its many windings, after only once going through it." John thanked the woman warmly for her offer, and they at once prepared to descend into the pit. This was situated in a cellar beneath the house; and was boarded over so that plunderers, entering to search for provisions, would not discover it. Upon entering the cellar, the woman lit two lamps. "They are full of oil," she said, "and I have often been sorely tempted to drink it; but I have kept it untouched, knowing that my life might some day depend upon it." Rough steps were cut in the side of the pit and, after descending some thirty feet, John found himself in a long passage. The woman led the way. As they went on, John was surprised at the number and extent of these passages, which crossed each other in all directions--sometimes opening into great chambers, from which large quantities of stone had been taken--while he passed many shafts, like that by which they had descended, to the surface above. The woman led the way with an unfaltering step, which showed how thorough was her acquaintance with the ground; pausing, when they turned down a fresh passage, to make a smear at the corner of the wall with the black liquid. Presently, the passages began to descend rapidly. "We are now under the Palace of King Agrippa," she said, "and are descending by the side of the Tyropoeon Valley." Presently, turning down a small side passage, they found their way arrested by a pile of stones and rubbish. They clambered up this, removed some of the upper stones, and crawled along underneath the roof. The rubbish heap soon slanted down again, and they continued their way, as before. Another turn, and they were in a wider passage than those they had latterly traversed. "This is the wall of the conduit," the woman said, touching the massive masonry on her right hand. "The opening is a little further on." Presently they arrived at a great stone, lying across a passage, corresponding in size to a gap in the wall on the right. They made their way through this, and found themselves in the Conduit of King Hezekiah. A stream of water, ankle deep, was running through it. "We need not go further," the woman said. "Once here, you cannot miss your way. It will take nigh an hour's walking through the water before you arrive at the chamber of the springs, from which there is but the one exit." "I will come down again with you, tonight," John said, "and will carry your child to the entrance. You will both need all your strength, when you sally out; so as to get well beyond the Romans, who are scattered all over the country, cutting wood for their embankments. Moreover, I shall be able to see, as I come down with you, whether all the marks are plainly visible, and that there is no fear of mistake for, once lost in these passages, one would never find one's way again; and there would be the choice between dying of hunger, and of being found by the Romans--who will assuredly search all these passages for fugitives, as they did at Jotapata. "Truly, I thank you with all my heart; I feel you have given me the means of saving my life--that is, if I do not fall in the fighting." As they made their way back to the house, John examined the marks at every turning, and added to those that were not sufficiently conspicuous to catch the eye at once. When they had gained the cellar, and replaced the boards, the woman said: "Why should you not also leave the city, tonight? All say that there is no hope of resistance; and that John of Gischala and Simon are only bringing destruction, upon all in the city, by thus holding out against the Romans. Why should you throw away your life so uselessly?" "I have come here to defend the Temple," John said, "and so long as the Temple stands I will resist the enemy. It may be it is useless, but no one can say what is the purpose of God, or whether He does not yet intend to save his Holy Seat. But when the Temple has fallen, I shall have no more to fight for; and will then, if I can, save my life, for the sake of those who love me." That evening, on his return from the wall, John proceeded to the house of the woman. She was in readiness for the journey. The child, who was seven or eight years old, was dressed; and the mother had a little bundle with her valuables by her. As soon as they descended into the passage below, John offered to carry the child, but her mother refused. "She can walk well," she said, "for a time, and you could not carry her upon your shoulder; for the passages are, in many places, but just high enough for you to pass under without stooping. At any rate, she can walk for a time." It was not long, however, before the child, weakened by its illness, began to drag behind; and John swung her up on to his back. The marks, he found, were easily made out; and in half an hour they arrived at the entrance to the conduit. Here they were forced to walk, slowly. In some places the water, owing to the channel having sunk, deepened to the knee; at other times stones had fallen from the roof, and impeded their passage; and it was nearly two hours before they reached the arched chamber, at the termination of the conduit. There was a stone pavement round the edge of the pool, and upon this they sat down to rest, for an hour, for both John and the woman were exhausted by the labor they had undergone. "It is time for me to be moving," the woman said, rising. "It must be nigh midnight, and I must be some miles on my way before morning. The child has walked but a short distance, yet; and will do her best, now, when she knows that those wicked Romans will kill her--and her mother--if they catch them. "Won't you, Mariamne?" The child nodded. The Romans were the bogey with which Jewish children had, for the last five years, been frightened; and she announced her intention of walking till her feet fell off. "I will carry you, as much as I can," her mother said, "but it can only be for a short distance at a time; for I, too, am weak, and your weight is too much for me. "And now, God bless you, my friend," she said, turning to John; "and may He keep you safe through the dangers of the siege, and lead you to your home and parents again!" They made their way to the end of the passage together; climbed over the rubbish, which nearly blocked the entrance; crawled through the hole, and found themselves in the outer air. Thick low bushes covered the ground around them, and no sound was to be heard. John rose to his feet, and looked round. Behind him, at the distance of more than a quarter of a mile, the light of the Roman watch fires showed where the legions were encamped. Beyond and above could be seen, here and there, a light in the city. No sound was to be heard, save the occasional call of a Roman sentinel. On the other side, all was dark; for the working parties always returned to camp, at night, in readiness to repel any sortie the Jews might make against the camps or working parties. "It is a very dark night," John said, doubtfully. "Do you think you can find your way?" "There are the stars," the woman replied, confidently. "Besides, I was born at Bethlehem, and know the country well. I shall keep on west for a while, and then turn off into the deep valleys leading down towards Masada. "God be with you!" and, taking the child's hand, she emerged from the bushes, and glided noiselessly away into the darkness. John set out on his return journey--which he found very much shorter than he had done coming, for the weight of a child for two hours, when walking over difficult ground, is trying even to a strong and active man. He carefully replaced the boards across the mouth of the pit, placed the lamps in a position so that he could find them in the dark and, upon going out of the house, closed the door carefully. The next morning, that of the 29th of May, the Roman attack began. The Fifth and Twelfth Legions had raised embankments near the Struthion--or Soapwort--Pool, facing the Castle of Antonia; while the Tenth and Fifteenth raised theirs facing the great towers of Hippicus, Phasaelus, and Mariamne. They had not carried out their work unmolested, for the Jews had now learned the art of constructing and managing war machines; and had made three hundred scorpions for throwing arrows, and forty ballistae for hurling stones and, with these, they had caused terrible annoyance and great loss to the Romans. But now, all was prepared. On the evening of the 28th, the last stroke had been given to the embankment; and on the following morning the engines were mounted, and the troops stood in readiness for the attack. Suddenly a smoke was seen, stealing up round the embankments facing Antonia; and the Roman officers called back their men, not knowing what was going to occur. Then a series of mighty crashes was heard. The great embankments, with their engines and battering rams, tottered and fell. Dense smoke shot up in columns, followed rapidly by tongues of fire, and soon the vast piles of materials, collected and put together with so much pains, were blazing fiercely; while the Jews laughed, and shouted in triumph, upon the walls. The moment John of Gischala perceived where the Romans were going to construct their embankments, he had begun to run a mine from behind the walls towards them. When the gallery was extended under them, a great excavation was hollowed out; the roof being supported by huge beams, between which were piled up pitch and other combustibles. When the Romans were seen advancing to the attack, fire was applied and, as soon as the supports of the roof were burned away, the ground, with the embankments upon it, fell in. Simon, on his side, was equally ready to receive the enemy, but he trusted rather to valour than stratagem; and as soon as the Roman engines facing the towers began to shake the walls, Tepthaus, Megassar, and Chagiras rushed out, with torches in their hands, followed by a crowd of Simon's soldiers. They drove the Romans before them, and set fire to the great machine. The Romans crowded up to the assistance of the working parties but, as they advanced, they were received with showers of missiles from the walls; and attacked fiercely by the Jews, who poured out from the city in a continuous stream. The flames spread rapidly and, seeing no hope of saving their engines and embankments, the Romans retreated to their camp. The triumphant Jews pressed hard on their rear, rushed upon the intrenchments, and assailed the guards. Numbers of these were killed, but the rest fought resolutely, while the engines on the works poured showers of missiles among the Jews. Careless of death, the assailants pressed forward, stormed the intrenchment; and the Romans were on the point of flight when Titus, who had been absent upon the other side, arrived with a strong body of troops, and fell upon the Jews. A desperate contest ensued, but the Jews were finally driven back into the city. Their enterprise had, however, been crowned with complete success. The embankments, which had occupied the Romans seventeen days in building, were destroyed; and with them the battering rams, and the greater part of their engines. The work of reconstruction would be far more difficult and toilsome than at first, for the country had been denuded of timber, for many miles off. Moreover, the soldiers were becoming greatly disheartened by the failure of all their attacks upon the city. Titus summoned a council, and laid before them three plans: one for an attempt to take the city by storm; the second to repair the works and rebuild the engines; the third to blockade the city, and starve it into surrender. The last was decided upon and, as a first step, the whole army was set to work, to build a trench and wall round the city. The work was carried on with the greatest zeal; and in three days the wall, nearly five miles in circumference, was completed. Thus there was no longer any chance of escape to the inhabitants; no more possibility of going out, at night, to search for food. Now the misery of the siege was redoubled. Thousands died daily. A mournful silence hung over the city. Some died in their houses, some in the streets. Some crawled to the cemeteries, and expired there. Some sat upon their housetops, with their eyes fixed upon the Temple, until they sank back dead. No one had strength to dig graves, and the dead bodies were thrown from the walls into the ravines below. The high priest Matthias, who had admitted Simon and his followers into the city, was suspected of being in communication with the Romans; and he and his three sons were led out on to the wall, and executed in sight of the besiegers, while fifteen of the members of the Sanhedrin were executed at the same time. These murders caused indignation even on the part of some of Simon's men, and one Judas, with ten others, agreed to deliver one of the towers to the enemy; but the Romans--rendered cautious by the treachery which had before been practised--hesitated to approach and, before they were convinced that the offer was made in good faith, Simon discovered what was going on, and the eleven conspirators were executed upon the walls, and their bodies thrown over. Despair drove many, again, to attempt desertion. Some of these, on reaching the Roman lines, were spared; but many more were killed, for the sake of the money supposed to be concealed upon them. Up to the 1st of July, it was calculated that well-nigh six hundred thousand had perished, in addition to the vast numbers buried in the cemetery, and the great heaps of dead before the walls. Great numbers of the houses had become tombs, the inhabitants shutting themselves up, and dying quietly together. But, while trusting chiefly to famine, the Romans had laboured steadily on at their military engines--although obliged to fetch the timber for ten miles--and, at the beginning of July, the battering rams began to play against Antonia. The Jews sallied out, but this time with less fury than usual; and they were repulsed without much difficulty by the Romans. All day long the battering rams thundered against the wall; while men, protected by hurdles and penthouses, laboured to dislodge the stones at the foot of the walls, in spite of the storm of missiles hurled down from above. By nightfall, they had got out four large stones. It happened that these stones stood just over the part under which John of Gischala had driven his mine, when he destroyed the Roman embankments; and thus, doubly weakened, the wall fell with a crash during the night. John, however, had built another wall in the rear and, when the Romans rushed to the assault of the breach, in the morning, they found a new line of defence confronting them. Titus addressed the troops, and called for volunteers. Sabinus, a Syrian, volunteered for the attack, and eleven men followed him. In spite of the storm of missiles he reached the top of the wall. The Jews, believing that many were behind him, turned to fly; but his foot slipped and he fell and, before he could regain his feet, the Jews turned round upon him and slew him. Three of his companions fell beside him, on the top of the wall; and the rest were carried back, wounded, to camp. Two days later, in the middle of the night, twenty Roman soldiers, with a standard bearer and trumpeter, crept silently up to the breach, surprised, and slew the watch. The trumpeter blew the charge; and the Jews, believing that the whole Roman army was upon them, fled in a sudden panic. Titus at once advanced with his men, stormed the new wall, entered the Castle of Antonia, and then advanced along the cloisters which connected it with the Temple; but John of Gischala had by this time arrived at the spot, and opposed a desperate resistance to the assault; until Simon, crossing from the upper city by the bridge, came to his assistance; and John, finding that the Temple was attacked, also led his band across. For ten hours, the struggle raged. Vast numbers fell, on both sides; till the dead formed a bank between the combatants. Titus, finding that even the courage and discipline of his troops did not avail, against the desperate resistance of the Jews, at last called them off from the assault--well satisfied with having captured Antonia. During the fight the Romans had, several times, nearly penetrated into the Temple. Indeed, a centurion named Julian--a man of great strength, courage, and skill at arms--had charged the Jews with such fury that he had made his way, alone, as far as the inner court; when his mailed shoes slipped on the marble pavement, and he fell; and the Jews, rushing back, slew him--after a desperate resistance, to the end. Titus commanded that the fortress of Antonia should be levelled to the ground; and then sent Josephus with a message to John of Gischala, offering him free egress for himself and his men, if he would come out to fight outside, in order that the Temple might be saved further defilement. John replied by curses upon Josephus, whom he denounced as a traitor; and concluded that he feared not that the city should be taken, for it was the city of God. Then Titus sent for a number of persons of distinction who had, from time to time, made their escape from the city; and these attempted, in vain, to persuade the people--if not to surrender--at least to spare the Temple from defilement and ruin. Even the Roman soldiers were adverse to an attack upon a place so long regarded as pre-eminently holy, and Titus himself harangued the Jews. "You have put up a barrier," he said, "to prevent strangers from polluting your Temple. This the Romans have always respected. We have allowed you to put to death all who violated its precincts; yet you defile it, yourselves, with blood and carnage. I call on your gods--I call on my whole army--I call upon the Jews who are with me--I call on yourselves--to witness that I do not force you to this crime. Come forth and fight, in any other place, and no Roman shall violate your sacred edifice." But John of Gischala, and the Zealots, would hear of no surrender. They doubted whether Titus would keep his promise, and feared to surrender the stronghold which was now their last hope. Above all, they still believed that God would yet interfere to save his Temple. Titus, finding that the garrison were obstinate, raised his voice and called out: "John--whom I met near Hebron--if you be there, bear witness that I have striven to keep my oath. I will strive to the end; but blame me not if, not through my fault, but by the obstinacy of these men, destruction comes upon the Temple." John, who was standing within hearing, called out: "I am here, Titus, and I bear witness; yet, I pray you, strive to the end to keep the oath which you swore to me." "What is this oath, John?" Simon, who was standing close by, asked. "What compact have you with the Roman general?" "We met in battle, alone," John said, quietly, "and it chanced that he fell. I might have slain him, but it came to me that it were better to try to save the Temple, than to slay one of its enemies; and therefore swore him to save the Temple, if it lay in his power. He has offered to spare it. It lay with you, and John of Gischala, to save the Temple from destruction by accepting his terms. You have not done so. If the Temple is destroyed, it is by the obstinacy of its defenders, not by the cruelty of the Romans." "It would be madness to accept his offer," Simon said, angrily. "Titus knows well that, in the plains, we should be no match for his troops. Did you ever hear, before, of a garrison giving up a position so strong that it could not be taken from them, and going out to fight beyond the walls? Besides, who can tell that the Romans will keep their promises? Once we are at their mercy, they might level the Temple." "In that case, the sin would be upon their heads. Besides, there is no occasion to retire beyond the walls. Why should not all the fighting men retire into the upper city, and leave the Temple to God? If it is his will that the Romans should destroy it, they will do so. If it is his will that they should respect it, they will do so. He can save, or destroy, at his will. If we retreat to the upper town, and break down the bridge after us, they could never take it." "And how long could we hold out?" Simon said, with a hard laugh. "Is there a day's food left, in the city? If there is, my men are less sharp than I give them credit for. No, we will fight here, to the end, for the Temple; and the sooner the Romans attack, the better, for if they delay many days, there is not a single man will have strength enough to lift a sword." Chapter 17: The Capture Of The Temple. Although abhorring the general conduct of Simon and John of Gischala, and believing that conditions could be made with the Romans which would save the Temple, John still retained the hope--cherished by every Jew--that God would yet, himself, save Jerusalem, as in the old times. He was conscious that the people had forfeited all right to expect his aid; that, by their wickedness and forgetfulness of him--and more especially by the frightful scenes which had desecrated the city and Temple, during the last four years--they must have angered God beyond all hope of forgiveness. Still, the punishment which had been inflicted was already so terrible that he, like others, hoped that God's anger might yet relent, as it had done in old times, and that a remnant might yet be spared. But above all, their hope lay in the belief that the Temple was the actual abode of the Lord; and that, though he might suffer the whole people to perish for their sins, he would yet protect, at the last, his own sanctuary. Surely, John thought, as he stood on the roof of the Temple, this glorious building can never be meant to be destroyed. The Temple occupied a square, six hundred feet every way. The lofty rock on which it stood had been cased with solid masonry, so that it rose perpendicularly from the plain. On the top of this massive foundation was built a strong and lofty wall, round the whole area. Within this wall was a spacious double cloister, fifty-two and one half feet broad, supported by one hundred and sixty-two columns. On the south side the cloister was one hundred and five feet wide--being a triple cloister--and was here called the King's Cloister. Within the area surrounded by the cloisters was an open court, paved with marble; this was the Court of the Gentiles, and was separated from the second court--that of the Jews--by a stone railing, five feet high. An ascent of fourteen steps led to a terrace, seventeen and one half feet wide, beyond which rose the wall of the inner court. This wall was seventy feet high on the outside, forty-four feet on the inside. Round the inner court was another range of cloisters. There were ten gates into the inner court. The doors of nine of these gateways were fifty-two and one half feet high, and half that breadth. The gateways rose to the height of seventy feet. The tenth, usually called the Beautiful Gate of the Temple, was larger than the rest; the gateway being eighty-seven and one half feet in height, the doors seventy feet. In the centre of the inner court was the Temple, itself. The great porch was one hundred and seventy-five feet in width, the gateway tower one hundred and thirty-two feet high and forty-three feet wide, and through it was seen the Beautiful Gate. The Temple itself was built of white marble, and the roof was covered with sharp golden spikes. Now that it was evident that on the side of the Temple, alone, could the enemy make an attack, the division between Simon and John of Gischala's men was no longer kept up. All gathered for the defence of the Temple. The Jews kept up a vigilant watch, for the Romans could assemble in great force in Antonia, unseen by them; and could advance, under cover, by the cloisters which flanked the platform connecting Antonia with the Temple, on either side. The interval between Antonia and the Temple was but three hundred feet. The cloisters were considered to form part of the Temple, and the Jews were therefore reluctant to destroy them, although they greatly facilitated the attack of the Romans. Finding that his offers were all rejected, Titus spent seven days in the destruction of a large portion of Antonia, and then prepared for a night attack. As the whole army could not make the assault, thirty men were picked from each hundred. Tribunes were appointed over each thousand, Cerealis being chosen to command the whole. Titus himself mounted a watchtower in Antonia, in order that he might see and reward each act of bravery. The assault began between two and three o'clock in the morning. The Jews were on the watch and, as soon as the massive columns moved forward, the cries of the guards gave the alarm; and the Jews, sleeping in and around the Temple, seized their arms and rushed down to the defence. For a time, the Romans had the advantage. The weight of their close formation enabled them to press forward against the most obstinate resistance and, even in the darkness, there was no fear of mistaking friend for foe; while the Jews, fighting in small parties, often mistook each other for enemies, and as many fell by the swords of their friends as by those of the enemy. The loss was all the greater, since the troops of John of Gischala and Simon had no common password and, coming suddenly upon each other, often fought desperately before they discovered their mistake; but as daylight began to break, these mistakes became less frequent. The presence and example of their leaders animated the Jews to the greatest exertions, while the knowledge that Titus was watching them inspired the Romans with even more than their usual courage and obstinacy. For nine hours, the conflict raged; and then the Romans, unable to make the slightest impression upon the resistance of the Jews, fell back again into Antonia. Finding that, in hand-to-hand conflict, his soldiers could not overcome the Jews, Titus ordered the erection of small embankments--two on the platform between the cloisters, the other two outside the cloister walls. But the work proceeded slowly, owing to the difficulty of procuring wood. The Jews, as usual, hindered the work as much as possible, with showers of missiles; and attempted to create a diversion, by a sortie and attack upon the camp of the Tenth Legion, on the Mount of Olives. This, however, was repulsed by the Romans, without great difficulty. As the cloisters leading to Antonia afforded great assistance to the Romans, in their attacks, the Jews set fire to the end of the cloisters touching the Temple wall; and a length of from twenty to thirty feet of each cloister was destroyed. The Romans destroyed a further portion, so as to afford more room for the men at work upon the embankments. The action of the Jews was, to a certain extent, a necessity; but it depressed the spirits of the inhabitants, for there was a prophecy: "When square the walls, the Temple falls!" Hitherto, Antonia and the connecting cloisters had been considered as forming part of the Temple, and had given it an irregular form; but the destruction of these cloisters left the Temple standing a massive square. The embankments presently rose above the height of the wall, and it was evident that this would soon be taken. The Jews retired from the roof of the cloister facing the embankment, as if despairing of further resistance; but they had previously stored great quantities of combustibles in the space between the cedar roof of the cloisters and the upper platform. The Romans on the embankment--seeing that the Jews had retired--without waiting for orders ran down and, planting ladders, scaled the wall. The Jews set up cries, as if of despair; and the Romans poured up on to the wall until a great mass of men were collected on the roof of the cloister. Then, on a sudden, flames shot up in all directions beneath their feet, and they found themselves enveloped in a sea of fire. Many were burned, or smothered by the smoke. Some stabbed themselves with their swords. Some leaped down into the outer court, and were there killed by the Jews. Many jumped down outside the walls, and were picked up dead or with broken limbs. Others ran along upon the top of the walls, until they were shot down by the Jewish missiles. But one man seems to have escaped. A soldier named Artorius, standing on the wall, shouted to the Romans below, "Whoever catches me shall be my heir." A soldier ran forward to accept the terms. Artorius jumped down upon him; killing him by his fall, but himself escaping unhurt. The fire extended along the whole of the western cloister; and the northern cloister was, next day, burned by the Romans and, thus, on the west and north sides the inner Temple was now exposed to the invader. All this time, famine had been continuing its work. The fighting men were so weakened that they had scarcely strength to drag their limbs along, or to hold their weapons; while horrible tales are told of the sufferings of such of the inhabitants who still survived--one woman, maddened by despair, cooking and eating her own infant. Occasionally a baggage animal or a Roman cavalry horse strayed near the walls, when a crowd of famishing wretches would pour out, kill and devour it. Titus, however, cut off even this occasional supply; by ordering a soldier, whose horse had thus fallen into the hands of the Jews, to be put to death for his carelessness. John's band had been greatly diminished in number, in the two days they had been fighting opposite Antonia. The stores they had brought to the city were now exhausted; although, for a long time, only the smallest amount had been issued, daily, to eke out the handful of grain still served out to each of the fighting men. A few only had, in their sufferings, refused to obey the orders of John and their officers, and had joined the bands of Simon and John of Gischala in the revolting cruelties which they practised, to extort food from the inhabitants. These had not been allowed to rejoin the band; which was now reduced to a little over fifty stern, gaunt, and famine-worn figures--but still unshaken in their determination to fight to the end. The Romans now pushed on a bank, from the western wall across the smouldering ruins of the cloister and inner court; and a battering ram began to play against the inner Temple but, after six days' efforts, and bringing up their heaviest battering ram, the Romans gave it up in despair; for the huge stones which formed the masonry of the wall defied even the ponderous machines which the Romans brought to play against it. An embankment, from the northern side, was also carried across the outer court to the foot of the most easterly of the four northern gates of the inner Temple. Still anxious to save the Temple itself, and its cloisters if possible, Titus would not resort to the use of fire; but ordered his men to force the gate, with crowbars and levers. After great efforts, a few of the stones of the threshold were removed; but the gates, supported by the massive walls and the props behind, defied all their efforts. Titus now ordered his soldiers to carry the walls by storm. Ladders were brought up; and the soldiers, eager for revenge upon the foe who had so long baffled and humiliated them, sprang to the assault with shouts of exultation. The Jews offered no resistance, until the Romans reached the top of the wall but, as they leaped down on to the roof of the cloister, they threw themselves upon them. Numbers were slain, as they stepped off the ladders on to the wall; and many of the ladders were hurled backward, crushing the soldiers crowded upon them on the pavement beneath. Then Titus ordered the standards of the legions to be carried up, thinking that the soldiers would rally round these, the emblems of military honour. The Jews, however, permitted the standards and numbers of the legionaries to ascend on to the roof of the cloisters; and then again fell upon them, with such fury that the Romans were overpowered, the standards were taken, and their defenders killed. Not one of the Romans who had mounted the wall retired from it. Titus could no longer resist the appeals of his infuriated soldiers who, maddened by the losses they had suffered, and the disgrace of the loss of the standards, could not understand why this loss was entailed upon them--when such an easy way of destroying the gate, and entering the Temple, was in their power. Most reluctantly, Titus gave the permission they clamoured for, and allowed his troops to set fire to the gate. The dry woodwork caught like tinder, and the flames mounted instantly. The silver plates which covered the woodwork melted, and ran down in streams; and the fire at once communicated with the cloisters inside the wall. Appalled at the sight of the inner court in flames, the Jews stood despairing; while the shouts of triumph of the Romans rose high in the air. During the rest of the day, and all through the night, the conflagration continued and extended all round the cloisters. Thus the Temple, itself, was surrounded by a ring of fire. The next day, the 4th of August, Titus called a council of his generals, to deliberate on the fate of the Temple. There were present, besides Titus, Tiberias Alexander, the second in command; the commanders of the Fifth, Tenth, and Fifteenth Legions; Fronto, the commander of the Alexandrian troops; and Marcus Antonius Julianus, the procurator of Judea. Some were for levelling the Temple to the ground. Others advised that, if abandoned by the Jews, it might be preserved; but if defended as a citadel, it ought to be destroyed. Titus listened to the opinions of the others; and then declared his own--which was that, whatever the use the Jews made of it, it ought to be preserved. Alexander, Cerealis, and Fronto went over to the opinion of Titus; and therefore, by a majority of one, it was agreed that the Temple should be spared, however fiercely the Jews might resist. Orders were given to prevent the fire spreading to the Temple, and to clear the ground for an assault against it. The 5th of August broke. It was on that day that the Temple of Solomon had been burned, by Nebuchadnezzar; but the courage of the Jews was not depressed by the omen. The brief pause had enabled them to recover from the despair which they had felt, in seeing the inner cloister in flames; and at eight o'clock in the morning, sallying from the Eastern Gate, they rushed down upon the Romans. The latter formed in close order and, covered by their shields, received the onslaught calmly. But so desperately did the Jews fight, and in such numbers did they pour out from the Temple, that the Romans had begun to give way; when Titus arrived, with great reinforcements. But even then, it was not until one o'clock that the Jews were driven back, again, into the walls of the inner Temple. Titus, having seen his troops victorious, retired to his tent; and the soldiers continued their work of clearing the platform, and extinguishing the smouldering fire of the cloisters. Suddenly the Jewish bands burst out again, and another deadly struggle commenced. Then one of the Roman soldiers, seizing a burning brand from the cloisters, hurled it into the window of one of the side chambers that inclosed the Temple on the north. In the furious struggle that was going on, none noticed the action; and it was not until the flames were seen, rushing out of the window, that the Jews perceived what had happened. With a cry of anguish, they discontinued the conflict, and rushed back to try and extinguish the flames. But the woodwork, dried by the intense heat of the August sun, was ripe for burning and, in spite of the most desperate efforts, the fire spread rapidly. The news that the Temple was on fire reached Titus and, starting up, accompanied by his bodyguard of spearmen--commanded by Liberatus--he hastened to the spot. His officers followed him and, as the news spread, the whole of the Roman legionaries rushed, with one accord, to the spot. Titus pushed forward into the first court of the inner Temple--the Court of the Women--and then into the inner court and, by shouts and gestures, implored his own soldiers, and the Jews alike, to assist in subduing the flames. But the clamour and din drowned his voice. The legionaries, pouring in after him, added to the confusion. So great was the crowd that many of the soldiers were crushed to death; while many fell among the ruins of the still smouldering cloisters, and were either smothered or burned. Those who reached the sanctuary paid no attention to the remonstrances, commands, or even threats of Titus; but shouted to those in front of them to complete the work of destruction. Titus pressed forward, with his guards, to the vestibule; and then entered, first the Holy, and then the Holy of Holies. After one glance at the beauty and magnificence of the marvellous shrine, he rushed back and again implored his soldiers to exert themselves to save it; and ordered Liberatus to strike down any who disobeyed. But the soldiers were now altogether beyond control, and were mad with triumph, fury, and hate. One of the bodyguard, as Titus left the sanctuary, seized a brand and applied it to the woodwork. The flames leaped up, and soon the whole Temple was wrapped in fire. The soldiers spread through the building, snatching at the golden ornaments and vessels, and slaying all they met--unarmed men, priests in their robes, women and children. Many of the Jews threw themselves into the flames. Some of the priests found their way on to the broad wall of the inner Temple; where they remained, until compelled by famine to come down, when they were all executed. Six thousand of the populace took refuge on the roof of the Royal Cloister, along the south side of the outer Temple. The Romans set fire to this, and every soul upon it perished. As soon as they felt that their efforts to extinguish the fire were vain, and that the Temple was indeed lost, John of Gischala, Simon, and John called their men together and, issuing out, fell with the fury of desperation upon the dense ranks of the Roman soldiers in the inner court and, in spite of their resistance, cut their way through to the outer court; and gained the bridge leading from the southwest corner, across the Valley of the Tyropceon, to the upper city; and were therefore, for a time, in safety. John, bewildered, exhausted, and heartbroken from the terrible events of the past few days, staggered back to his house, and threw himself on his couch; and lay there for a long time, crushed by the severity of the blow. Until now he had hoped that Titus would, in the end, spare the Temple; but he recognized, now, that it was the obstinacy of the Jews that had brought about its destruction. "It was God's will that it should perish," he said, to himself; "and Titus could no more save it than I could do." After some hours, he roused himself and descended to the room now occupied by the remnant of the band. Jonas and ten others, alone, were gathered there. Some had thrown themselves down on the ground. Some sat in attitudes of utter dejection. Several were bleeding from wounds received in the desperate fight of the morning. Others were badly burned in the desperate efforts they had made to extinguish the flames. Exhausted by want of food, worn out by their exertions, filled with despair at the failure of their last hopes, the members of the little band scarce looked up when their leader entered. "My friends," he said, "listen to me, if but for the last time. We, at least, have nothing to reproach ourselves with. We have fought for the Temple, to the last; and if we failed to save it, it is because it was the will of God that it should perish. At any rate, our duty is done. God has not given us our lives, and preserved them through so many fights, that we should throw them away. It is our duty, now, to save our lives, if we can. Now that the Temple has fallen, we are called upon to do no more fighting. "Let the bands of John of Gischala, and Simon, fight to the last. They are as wild beasts, inclosed in the snare of the hunter; and they merit a thousand deaths, for it is they who have brought Jerusalem to this pass, they who have robbed and murdered the population, they who have destroyed the granaries which would have enabled the city to exist for years, they who refused the terms by which the Temple might have been saved, they who have caused its destruction in spite of the efforts of Titus to preserve it. They are the authors of all this ruin and woe. They have lived as wild beasts, so let them die! "But there is no reason why we should die with them, for their guilt is not upon our heads. We have done our duty in fighting for the Temple, and have robbed and injured none. Therefore, I say, let us save our lives." "Would you surrender to the Romans?" one of the band asked, indignantly. "Do you, whom we have followed, counsel us to become traitors?" "It is not treachery to surrender, when one can no longer resist," John said, quietly. "But I am not thinking of surrendering. I am thinking of passing out of the city, into the country around. "But first, let us eat. I see you look surprised but, although the store we brought hither is long since exhausted, there is still a last reserve. I bought it, with all the money that I had with me, from one of Simon's men, upon the day when we came hither from the lower town. He had gained it, doubtless, in wanton robbery for, at that time, the fighting men had plenty of food; but as it was his, I bought it, thinking that the time might come when one meal might mean life to many of us. I have never touched it, but it remains where I hid it, in my chamber. I will fetch it, now." John ascended to his chamber, and brought down a bag containing about fifteen pounds of flour. "Let us make bread of this," he said. "It will give us each a good meal, now; and there will be enough left to provide food for each, during the first day's journey." The exhausted men seemed inspired with new life, at the sight of the food. No thought of asking how they were to pass through the Roman lines occurred to them. The idea of satisfying their hunger overpowered all other feelings. The door was closed to keep out intruders. Dough was made, and a fire kindled with pieces of wood dry as tinder, so that no smoke should attract the eye of those who were constantly on the lookout for such a sign that some family were engaged in cooking. The flat dough cakes were placed over the glowing embers, the whole having been divided into twenty-four portions. Some of the men would hardly wait until their portions were baked; but John urged upon them that, were they to eat it in a half-cooked state, the consequences might be very serious, after their prolonged fast. Still, none of them could resist breaking off little pieces, to stay their craving. "Let us eat slowly," John said, when the food was ready. "The more slowly we eat, the further it will go. When it is eaten, we will take a sleep for four hours, to regain our strength. There is no fear of our being called upon to aid in the defence. The Romans must be as exhausted as we are; and they will need thought, and preparation, before they attack our last stronghold, which is far stronger than any they have yet taken. If we had food, we could hold Mount Zion against them for months." As soon as the meal was over, all lay down to sleep. None had asked any question as to how their escape was to be effected. The unexpected meal, which John's forethought had prepared for them, had revived all their confidence in him; and they were ready to follow him, wherever he might take them. It was night when John called them to awake, but the glare of the vast pile of the burning Temple lit up every object. The brightness almost equalled that of day. "It is time," John said, as the men rose to their feet and grasped their arms. "I trust that we shall have no occasion to use weapons; but we will carry them so that, if we should fall into the hands of the Romans, we may fall fighting, and not die by the torments that they inflict upon those who fall into their hands. If I could obtain a hearing, so as to be brought before Titus, he might give us our lives; but I will not trust to that. In the first place, they would cut us down like hunted animals, did they come upon us; and in the second, I would not, now, owe my life to the clemency of the Romans." A fierce assent was given by his followers. "Now," John went on, "let each take his piece of bread, and put it in his bosom. Leave your bucklers and javelins behind you, but take your swords. "Jonas, bring a brand from the fire. "Now, let us be off." None of those with him, except Jonas, had the least idea where he was going; but he had instructed the lad in the secret of the pit and, one day, had taken him down the passages to the aqueduct. "You and I found safety before, Jonas, together, and I trust may do so again; but should anything happen to me, you will now have the means of escape." "If you die, I will die with you, master," Jonas said. And indeed, in the fights he had always kept close to John, following every movement, and ready to dash forward when his leader was attacked by more than one enemy; springing upon them like a wildcat, and burying his knife in their throats. It was to his watchful protection and ready aid that John owed it that he had passed through so many combats, comparatively unharmed. "Not so, Jonas," he said, in answer to the lad's declaration that he would die with him. "It would be no satisfaction to me that you should share my fate, but a great one to know that you would get away safely. If I fall, I charge you to pass out by this underground way; and to carry to my father, and mother, and Mary, the news that I have fallen, fighting to the last, in the defence of the Temple. Tell them that I thought of them to the end, and that I sent you to them to be with them; and to be to my father and mother a son, until they shall find for Mary a husband who may fill my place, and be the stay of their old age. My father will treat you as an adopted son, for my sake; and will bestow upon you a portion of his lands. "You have been as a brother to me, Jonas; and I pray you, promise me to carry out my wishes." Jonas had reluctantly given the pledge but, from that hour until John had declared that he would fight no more, Jonas had been moody and silent. Now, however, as he walked behind his friend, his face was full of satisfaction. There was no chance, now, that he would have to take home the news of his leader's death. Whatever befell them, they would share together. They soon reached the door of the house in which the pit was situated. It was entered, and the door closed behind them. The lamps were then lit. John led the way to the cellar, and bade the men remove the boards. "I will go first, with one of the lamps," he said. "Do you, Jonas, take the other, and come last in the line. "Keep close together, so that the light may be sufficient for all to see." Strengthened by the meal, and by their confidence in John's promise to lead them through the Romans, the band felt like new men; and followed John with their usual light, active gait, as he led the way. Not a word was spoken, till they reached the hole leading into the aqueduct. "This is the Conduit of King Hezekiah," John said. "When we emerge at the other end, we shall be beyond the Roman lines." Exclamations of satisfaction burst from the men. Each had been wondering, as he walked, where their leader was taking them. All knew that the ground beneath Jerusalem was honeycombed by caves and passages; but that their leader could not intend to hide there was evident, for they had but one meal with them. But that any of these passages should debouch beyond the Roman lines had not occurred to them. Each had thought that the passages they were following would probably lead out, at the foot of the wall, into the Valley of Hinnom or of Jehoshaphat; and that John intended to creep with them up to the foot of the Roman wall, and to trust to activity and speed to climb it, and make their way through the guard placed there to cut off fugitives. But none had even hoped that they would be able to pass the wall of circumvallation without a struggle. An hour's walking brought them to the chamber over the springs. "Now," John said, "we will rest for half an hour, before we sally out. Let each man eat half the food he has brought with him. The rest he must keep till tomorrow, for we shall have to travel many miles before we can reach a spot that the Romans have not laid desolate, and where we may procure food. "I trust," he went on, "that we shall be altogether unnoticed. The sentries may be on the alert, on their wall, for they will think it likely that many may be trying to escape from the city; but all save those on duty will be either asleep after their toils, or feasting in honour of their success. The fact, too, of the great glare of light over Jerusalem will render the darkness more intense, when they look in the other direction. "But if we should be noticed, it is best that we should separate, and scatter in the darkness; each flying for his life, and making his way home as best he may. If we are not seen, we will keep together. There is no fear of meeting with any Roman bands, when we are once fairly away. The parties getting wood will have been warned, by the smoke, of what has taken place; and will have hurried back, to gain their share of the spoil." At the end of the half hour, John rose to his feet and led the way along the passage to the entrance. When he came to the spot where it was nearly blocked up, he blew out his light, and crawled forward over the rubbish, until he reached the open air. The others followed, until all were beside him. Then he rose to his feet. The Temple was not visible, but the whole sky seemed on fire above Jerusalem; and the outline of the three great towers of the Palace of Herod, and of the buildings of the upper city, stood black against the glare. There was no sign of life or movement near as, with a quick, noiseless step, the little party stole away. None of them knew more than the general direction which they had to follow, but the glare of the great fire served as a guide as to their direction and, even at this distance, made objects on the ground plainly visible; so that they were enabled to pick their way among the stumps of the fallen plantations and orchards, through gardens, and by ruined villas and houses, until they reached the edge of the plateau, and plunged down into the valleys descending to the Dead Sea. After walking for two hours, John called a halt. "We can walk slowly now," he said, "and avoid the risk of breaking our legs among the rocks. We are safe, here; and had best lie down until morning, and then resume our way. There is no fear, whatever, of the Romans sending out parties, for days. They have the upper city to take, yet, and the work of plunder and division of the spoil to carry out. We can sleep without anxiety." It was strange, to them all, to lie down to sleep among the stillness of the mountains, after the din and turmoil of the siege when, at any moment, they might be called upon to leap up to repel an attack. But few of them went off to sleep, for some time. The dull feeling of despair, the utter carelessness of life, the desire for death and the end of trouble which had so long oppressed them--these had passed away, now that they were free, and in the open air; and the thoughts of the homes they had never thought to see again, and of the loved ones who would greet them, on their return, as men who had almost come back from the dead, fell upon them. They could go back with heads erect, and clear consciences. They had fought, so long as the Temple stood. They had, over and over again, faced the Romans hand to hand, without giving way a foot. They had taken no share in the evil deeds in the city, and had wronged and plundered no one. They did not return as conquerors, but that was the will of God, and no fault of theirs. At daybreak they were on their feet again, and now struck off more to the left; following mountain paths among the hills until, at last, they came down to the plain, within half a mile of the upper end of the Dead Sea. John here called his companions round him. "Here, my friends," he said, "I think it were best that we separated; laying aside our swords and, singly or in pairs, finding the way back to our homes. We know not in what towns there may be Roman garrisons, or where we may meet parties of their soldiers traversing the country. Alone, we shall attract no attention. One man may conceal himself behind a tree, or in the smallest bush; but the sight of a party, together, would assuredly draw them upon us. Therefore, it were best to separate. Some of you will find it shorter to cross the ford of the Jordan, three miles away; while others had best follow this side of the river." All agreed that this would be the safer plan and, after a short talk, each took leave of his leader and comrades, and strode away; until Jonas, alone, remained with John. "Will you cross the river, John, or follow this side?" Jonas asked. "I think we had best keep on this side, Jonas. On the other the country is hilly, and the villages few. Here, at least, we can gather fruit and corn, as we go, from the deserted gardens and fields; and two days' walking will take us to Tarichea. We can cross there, or take a boat up the lake." After waiting until the last of their comrades had disappeared from sight, John and his companion continued their way, keeping about halfway between Jericho and the Jordan. They presently bore to the left, until on the great road running north from Jericho. This they followed until nightfall, rejoicing in the grapes and figs which they picked by the roadside where, but a few months since, little villages had nestled thickly. Just before darkness fell they came upon a village which, although deserted, had not been burned--probably owing to some body of Roman soldiers having taken up their post there for a time. They entered one of the houses, lay down, and were soon fast asleep. Chapter 18: Slaves. John was roused from sleep by being roughly shaken. He sprang to his feet, and found a number of men--some of whom were holding torches--in the room. Two of these had the appearance of merchants. The others were armed and, by their dress, seemed to be Arabs. "What are you doing here?" one of the men asked him. "We are peaceful travellers," John said, "injuring no one, and came in here to sleep the night." "You look like peaceful travellers!" the man replied. "You have two wounds yet unhealed on your head. Your companion has one of his arms bandaged. You are either robbers, or some of the cutthroats who escaped from Jerusalem. You may think it Iucky you have fallen into my hands, instead of that of the Romans, who would have finished you off without a question. "Bind them," he said, turning to his men. Resistance was useless. The hands of John and Jonas were tied behind their backs, and they were taken outside the house. Several fires were burning in the road, and lying down were three or four hundred men and women; while several men, with spears and swords, stood as a guard over them. John saw, at once, that he had fallen into the hands of a slave dealer--one of the many who had come, from various parts, to purchase the Jews whom the Romans sold as slaves--and already the multitude sold was so vast that it had reduced the price of slaves throughout Italy, Egypt, and the East to one-third of their former value. There were, however, comparatively few able-bodied men among them. In almost every case the Romans had put these to the sword, and the slave dealers, finding John and Jonas, had congratulated themselves on the acquisition; knowing well that no complaint that the captives might make would be listened to, and that their story would not be believed, even if they could get to tell it to anyone of authority. John and Jonas were ordered to lie down with the rest, and were told that, if they made any attempt to escape, they would be scourged to death. "The villains!" Jonas muttered, as they lay down. "Is it not enough to drive one mad to think that, after having escaped the Romans, we should fall into the hands of these rogues!" "We must not grumble at fate. Hitherto, Jonas, we have been marvellously preserved. First of all, we two were alone saved from Jotapata; then we, with ten others, alone out of six hundred escaped alive from Jerusalem. We have reason for thankfulness, rather than repining. We have been delivered out of the hands of death; and remember that I have the ring of Titus with me, and that--when the time comes--this will avail us." From the day the siege had begun, John had carried the signet ring of Titus; wearing it on his toe, concealed by the bands of his sandals. He knew that, were he to fall into the hands of the Romans, he would get no opportunity of speaking but, even if not killed at once, would be robbed of any valuable he might possess; and that his assertion that the ring was a signet, which Titus himself had given him would, even if listened to, be received with incredulity. He had therefore resolved to keep it concealed, and to produce it only when a favourable opportunity seemed to offer. "At any rate, Jonas, let us practise patience, and be thankful that we are still alive." In the morning, the cavalcade got into motion. John found that the majority of his fellow captives were people who had been taken captive when Titus, for the second time, obtained possession of the lower city. They had been sent up to Tiberias, and there sold, and their purchaser was now taking them down to Egypt. The men were mostly past middle age, and would have been of little value as slaves, had it not been that they were all craftsmen--workers in stone or metal--and would therefore fetch a fair price, if sold to masters of these crafts. The rest were women and children. The men were attached to each other by cords, John and Jonas being placed at some distance apart; and one of the armed guards placed himself near each, as there was far more risk of active and determined young men trying to make their escape than of the others doing so, especially after the manner in which they had been kidnapped. All their clothes were taken from them, save their loincloths; and John trembled lest he should be ordered also to take off his sandals, for his present captors would have no idea of the value of the ring, but would seize it for its setting. Fortunately, however, this was not the case. The guards all wore sandals and had, therefore, no motive in taking those of the captives, especially as they were old and worn. The party soon turned off from the main road, and struck across the hills to the west; and John bitterly regretted that he had not halted, for the night, a few miles further back than he did, in which case he would have avoided the slave dealers' caravan. The heat was intense, and John pitied the women and children, compelled to keep up with the rest. He soon proposed, to a woman who was burdened with a child about two years old, to place it on his shoulders; and as the guard saw in this a proof that their new captives had no idea of endeavouring to escape, they offered no objection to the arrangement which, indeed, seemed so good to them that, as the other mothers became fatigued, they placed the children on the shoulders of the male prisoners; loosing the hands of the latter, in order that they might prevent the little ones from losing their balance. The caravan halted for the night at Sichem, and the next day crossed Mount Gerizim to Bethsalisa, and then went on to Jaffa. Here the slave dealers hired a ship, and embarked the slaves. They were crowded closely together, but otherwise were not unkindly treated, being supplied with an abundance of food and water--for it was desirable that they should arrive in the best possible condition at Alexandria, whither they were bound. Fortunately the weather was fine and, in six days, they reached their destination. Alexandria was at that time the largest city, next to Rome herself, upon the shores of the Mediterranean. It had contained a very large Jewish population prior to the great massacre, five years before and, even now, there were a considerable number remaining. The merchant had counted upon this and, indeed, had it not been for the number of Jews scattered among the various cities of the East, the price of slaves would have fallen even lower than it did. But the Jewish residents, so far as they could afford it, came forward to buy their country men and women, in order to free them from slavery. When, therefore, the new arrivals were exposed in the market, many assuring messages reached them from their compatriots; telling them to keep up their courage, for friends would look after them. The feeling against the Jews was still too strong for those who remained in Alexandria to appear openly in the matter, and they therefore employed intermediaries, principally Greeks and Cretans, to buy up the captives. The women with children were the first purchased, as the value of these was not great. Then some of the older men, who were unfit for much work, were taken. Then there was a pause, for already many cargoes of captives had reached Alexandria, and the resources of their benevolent countrymen were becoming exhausted. No one had yet bid for John or Jonas, as the slave dealers had placed a high price upon them as being strong and active, and fitted for hard work. Their great fear was that they should be separated; and John had, over and over again, assured his companion that should he, as he hoped, succeed in getting himself sent to Titus, and so be freed, he would, before proceeding home, come to Egypt and purchase his friend's freedom. The event they feared, however, did not happen. One day a Roman, evidently of high rank, came into the market and, after looking carelessly round, fixed his eyes upon John and his companion, and at once approached their master. A few minutes were spent in bargaining; then the dealer unfastened the fetters which bound them, and the Roman briefly bade them follow him. He proceeded through the crowded streets, until they were in the country outside the town. Here, villas with beautiful gardens lined the roads. The Roman turned in at the entrance to one of the largest of these mansions. Under a colonnade, which surrounded the house, a lady was reclining upon a couch. Her two slave girls were fanning her. Illustration: 'Lesbia,' the Roman said, 'I have brought you two more slaves.' "Lesbia," the Roman said, "you complained, yesterday, that you had not enough slaves to keep the garden in proper order, so I have bought you two more from the slave market. They are Jews, that obstinate race that have been giving Titus so much trouble. Young as they are, they seem to have been fighting, for both of them are marked with several scars." "I dare say they will do," the lady said. "The Jews are said to understand the culture of the vine and fig better than other people, so they are probably accustomed to garden work." The Roman clapped his hands, and a slave at once appeared. "Send Philo here." A minute later a Greek appeared. "Philo, here are two slaves I have brought from the market. They are for work in the garden. See that they do it, and let me know how things go on. We shall know how to treat them, if they are troublesome." Philo at once led the two new slaves to the shed, at a short distance from the house, where the slaves employed out of doors lodged. "Do you speak Greek?" he asked. "As well as my native language," John replied. "My lord Tibellus is a just and good master," Philo said, "and you are fortunate in having fallen into his hands. He expects his slaves to work their best and, if they do so, he treats them well; but disobedience and laziness he punishes, severely. He is an officer of high rank in the government of the city. As you may not know the country, I warn you against thinking of escape. The Lake of Mareotis well-nigh surrounds the back of the city and, beyond the lake, the Roman authority extends for a vast distance, and none would dare to conceal runaway slaves." "We shall not attempt to escape," John said, quietly, "and are well content that we have fallen in such good hands. I am accustomed to work in a garden, but my companion has not had much experience at such work; therefore, I pray you be patient with him, at first." John had agreed with Jonas that, if they had the good fortune to be sold to a Roman, they would not, for a time, say anything about the ring. It was better, they thought, to wait until Titus returned to Rome--which he would be sure to do, after the complete conquest of Jerusalem. Even were they sent to him there, while he was still full of wrath and bitterness against the Jews--for the heavy loss that they had inflicted upon his army, and for the obstinacy which compelled him to destroy the city which he would fain have preserved, as a trophy of his victory--they might be less favourably received than they would be after there had been some time for the passions awakened by the strife to abate; especially after the enjoyment of the triumph which was sure to be accorded to him, on his return after his victory. The next day the ring, the badge of slavery, was fastened round the necks of the two new purchases. John had already hidden in the ground the precious ring, as he rightly expected that he would have to work barefooted. They were at once set to work in the garden. John was surprised at the number and variety of the plants and trees which filled it; and at the beauty and care with which it was laid out, and tended. Had it not been for the thought of the grief that they would be suffering, at home, he would--for a time--have worked contentedly. The labour was no harder than that on his father's farm; and as he worked well and willingly Philo, who was at the head of the slaves employed in the garden--which was a very extensive one--did not treat him with harshness. Jonas, although less skilful, also gave satisfaction; and two months passed without any unpleasant incident. The Roman slaves, save in exceptional instances, were all well treated by their masters, although these had power of life and death over them. They were well fed and, generally, had some small money payment made them. Sometimes, those who were clever at a handicraft were let out to other masters, receiving a portion of the wages they earned; so that they were frequently able, in old age, to purchase their freedom. There were four other slaves who worked in the garden. Two of these were Nubians, one a Parthian, the other a Spaniard. The last died, of homesickness and fever, after they had been there six weeks; and his place was filled up by another Jew, from a cargo freshly arrived. From him, John learned what had taken place after he had left Jerusalem. The bands of Simon and John of Gischala were so much weakened, by death and desertion, and were so enfeebled by famine, that they could not hope to withstand the regular approaches of the Roman arms, for any length of time. The two leaders therefore invited Titus to a parley; and the latter, being desirous of avoiding more bloodshed, of saving the Palace of Herod and the other great buildings in the upper city, and of returning to Rome at once, agreed to meet them. They took their places at opposite ends of the bridge across the Tyropceon Valley. Titus spoke first, and expostulated with them on the obstinacy which had already led to the destruction of the Temple, and the greater part of the city. He said that all the world, even to the distant Britons, had done homage to the Romans, and that further resistance would only bring destruction upon them. Finally, he offered their lives to all, if they would lay down their arms and surrender themselves as prisoners of war. Simon and John replied that they and their followers had bound themselves, by a solemn oath, never to surrender themselves into the hands of the Romans; but they expressed their willingness to retire, with their wives and families, into the wilderness, and leave the Romans in possession of the city. Titus considered this language, for men in so desperate a position, to be a mockery; and answered sternly that, henceforth, he would receive no deserters, and show no mercy, and that they might fight their hardest. He at once ordered the destruction of all the buildings standing round the Temple. The flames spread as far as the Palace of Helena, on Ophel, to the south of the Temple platform. Here the members of the royal family of Adiabene dwelt, and also in the Palaces of Grapte and Monobazus; and the descendants of Helena now went over to the Romans, and Titus, although he had declared that he would in future spare none, did not take their lives, seeing that they were of royal blood. Simon and John of Gischala, when they heard that the Adiabene princes had gone over to the Romans, rushed to the Palace of Helena, sacked it, and murdered all who had taken refuge in the building--seven thousand in number. They then sacked the rest of the outer lower town, and retired with their booty into the high town. Titus, furious at this conduct, ordered all the outer lower town to be burned; and soon, from the Temple platform to the Fountain of Siloam, a scene of desolation extended. The Roman soldiers then commenced to throw up banks, the one against Herod's Palace, the other near the bridge across the valley close to the Palace of Agrippa. The Idumeans, under Simon, were opposed to further resistance, and five of their leaders opened communication with Titus, who was disposed to treat with them; but the conspiracy was discovered by Simon, and the five leaders executed. Still, in spite of the watchfulness of Simon and John, large numbers of the inhabitants made their escape to the Romans who, tired of slaying, spared their lives, but sold the able-bodied as slaves, and allowed the rest to pass through their lines. On the 1st of September, after eighteen days' incessant labour, the bank on the west against Herod's Palace was completed, and the battering rams commenced their work. The defenders were too enfeebled, by famine, to offer any serious resistance and, the next day, a long line of the wall fell to the ground. Simon and John at first thought of cutting their way through the Roman ranks but, when they saw how small was the body of followers gathered round them, they gave up the attempt. They hesitated, for a moment, whether they should throw themselves into the three great towers, and fight to the last; or endeavour to fight their way through the wall of circumvallation. They chose the latter course, hurried down to the lower end of the upper city and, sallying out from the gate, they rushed at the Roman wall; but they had no engines of war to batter it, they were few in number and weakened by famine; and when they tried to scale the wall the Roman guards, assembling in haste, beat them back; and they returned into the city and, scattering, hid themselves in the underground caves. The Romans advanced to the great towers, and found them deserted. Titus stood amazed at their strength and solidity; and exclaimed that God, indeed, was on their side for that by man, alone, these impregnable towers could never have been taken. All resistance having now ceased, the Romans spread themselves through the city, slaughtering all whom they met, without distinction of age or sex. They were, however, aghast at the spectacle which the houses into which they burst presented. Some of these had been used as charnel houses, and had been filled with dead bodies. In others were found the remains of whole families who, with their servants, had shut themselves up to die of hunger. Everywhere the dead far outnumbered the living. The next day, Titus issued an order that only such as possessed arms should be slain, and that all others should be taken prisoners; but the Roman soldiers were too infuriated at the losses and defeats they had suffered even to obey the orders of Titus, and all save the able-bodied, who would be of value as slaves, were slaughtered. A vast number of those fit for slaves were confined in the charred remains of the Women's Court and, so weakened were these, by the ravages of famine, that eleven thousand of them are said to have perished. Of the survivors, some were selected to grace the triumphal procession at Rome. Of the remainder, all under the age of seventeen were sold as slaves. A part of those above that age were distributed, among the amphitheatres of Syria, to fight as gladiators against the wild beasts; and the rest were condemned to labour in the public works, in Egypt, for the rest of their lives. When all above the surface had been slain, or made prisoners, the Romans set to work methodically to search the conduits, sewers, and passages under the city. Multitudes of fugitives were found here, and all were slain as soon as discovered. Then the army was set to work, to raze the city to the ground. Every building and wall were thrown down, the only exception being a great barrack adjoining Herod's Palace--which was left for the use of one of the legions, which was to be quartered there for a time--and the three great towers--Hippicus, Phasaelus, and Mariamne--which were left standing, in order that they might show to future generations how vast had been the strength of the fortifications which Roman valour had captured. John of Gischala and Simon had both so effectually concealed themselves that for a time, they escaped the Roman searchers. At the end of some days, however, John was compelled by famine to come out, and surrender. Simon was much longer, before he made his appearance. He had taken with him into his hiding place a few of his followers, and some stone masons with their tools, and an effort was made to drive a mine beyond the Roman outposts. The rock however was hard, and the men enfeebled by famine; and the consequence was that Simon, like his fellow leader, was compelled to make his way to the surface. The spot where he appeared was on the platform of the Temple, far from the shaft by which he had entered the underground galleries. He appeared at night, clad in white, and the Roman guards at first took him for a spectre; and he thus escaped instant death, and had time to declare who he was. Titus had already left; but Terentius Rufus--who commanded the Tenth Legion, which had been left behind--sent Simon in chains to Titus, at Caesarea; and he, as well as John of Gischala, were taken by the latter to Rome, to grace his triumph. "It is strange," John said, when he heard the story, "that the two men who have brought all these woes upon Jerusalem should have both escaped with their lives. The innocent have fallen, and the guilty escaped--yet not escaped, for it would have been better for them to have died fighting, in the court of the Temple, than to live as slaves in the hands of the Romans." A month later, John learned the fate that had befallen the two Jewish leaders. Both were dragged in the triumphal procession of Titus through the streets of Rome; then, according to the cruel Roman custom, Simon was first scourged and then executed, as the bravest of the enemies of Rome, while John of Gischala was sentenced to imprisonment for life. The day after the news of the return to Rome and triumph of Titus arrived, John asked Philo to tell Tibellus that he prayed that he would hear him, as he wished to speak to him on a subject connected with Titus. Wondering what his Jewish slave could have to say about the son of the emperor, Tibellus, upon hearing from Philo of the request, at once ordered John to be brought to him. "Let me bring my companion, also, with me," John said to Philo. "He is my adopted brother, and can bear evidence to the truth of my statements." When they reached the colonnade Philo told them to stop there and, a minute later, Tibellus came out. "Philo tells me that you have something to say to me, concerning Titus." "I have, my lord," John said, and he advanced and held out the ring. The Roman took it, and examined it. "It is a signet ring of Titus!" he said, in surprise. "How came you by this? This is a grave matter, slave; and if you cannot account satisfactorily as to how you came possessed of this signet, you had better have thrown yourself into the sea, or swallowed poison, than have spoken of your possession of this signet." "It was given to me by Titus, himself." John said. The Roman made a gesture of anger. "It is ill jesting with the name of Caesar," he said, sternly. "This is Caesar's ring. Doubtless it was stolen from him. You may have taken it from the robber by force, or fraud, or as a gift--I know not which--but do not mock me with such a tale as that Caesar gave one of his signets to you, a Jew." "It is as I said," John replied, calmly. "Titus himself bestowed that ring upon me; and said that, if I desired to come to him at any time, and showed it to a Roman, it would open all doors, and bring me to his presence." "You do not speak as if you were mad," Tibellus said, "and yet your tale is not credible. "Are you weary of life, Jew? Do you long to die by torture? Philo has spoken well to me of you and your young companion. You have laboured well, and cheerfully, he tells me; and are skilled at your work. Do you find your lot so hard that you would die to escape it, and so tell me this impossible story? For death, and a horrible death, will assuredly be your portion. If you persist in this tale and, showing me this ring, say: 'I demand that you send me and my companion to Titus,' I should be bound to do so; and then torture and death will be your portion, for mocking the name of Caesar." "My lord," John said, calmly, "I repeat that I mock not the name of Caesar, and that what I have told you is true. I am not weary of life, or discontented with my station. I have been kindly treated by Philo, and work no harder than I should work at my father's farm, in Galilee; but I naturally long to return home. I have abstained from showing you this ring before, because Titus had not as yet conquered Jerusalem; but now that I hear he has been received in triumph, in Rome, he would have time to give me an audience; and therefore I pray that I may be sent to him." "But how is it possible that Titus could have given you this ring?" Tibellus asked, impressed by the calmness of John's manner, and yet still unable to believe a statement which appeared to him altogether incredible. "I will tell you, my lord, but I will tell you alone; for although Titus made no secret of it at the time, he might not care for the story to be generally told." Tibellus waved his hand to Philo, who at once withdrew. "You have found it hard to believe what I have told you, my lord," John went on. "You will find it harder, still, to believe what I now tell you; but if it is your command, I am bound to do so." "It is my command," Tibellus said, shortly. "I would fain know the whole of this monstrous tale." "I must first tell you, my lord, that though as yet but twenty-one years old, I have for four years fought with my countrymen against the Romans. "You see," he said, pointing to the scars on his head, arms, and body, "I have been wounded often and, as you may see for yourself, some of these scars are yet unhealed. Others are so old that you can scarce see their traces. This is a proof of so much, at least, of my story. My companion here and I were, by the protection of our God, enabled to escape from Jotapata, when all else save Josephus perished there. This was regarded by my countrymen as well-nigh a miracle, and as a proof that I had divine favour. In consequence a number of young men, when they took up arms, elected me as their leader and, for three years, we did what we could to oppose the progress of the Roman arms. It was as if a fly should try to stop a camel. Still, we did what we could, and any of the Roman officers who served under Titus would tell you that, of those who opposed them in the field, there was no more active partisan than the leader who was generally known as John of Gamala." "You, John of Gamala!" Tibellus exclaimed. "In frequent letters from my friends with the army I have read that name, and heard how incessant was the watchfulness required to resist his attacks, and how often small garrisons and parties were cut off by him. It was he, too, who burned Vespasian's camp, before Gamala. And you tell me, young man, that you are that Jewish hero--for hero he was, though it was against Rome he fought?" "I tell you so, my lord; and my adopted brother here, who was with me through these campaigns, will confirm what I say. I say it not boastingly, for my leadership was due to no special bravery on my part, but simply because the young men of the band thought that God had specially chosen me to lead them." "And now, about Titus," Tibellus said briefly, more and more convinced that his slave was audaciously inventing this story. "Once, near Hebron," John said, "I was passing through a valley, alone; when Titus, who was riding from Carmelia in obedience to a summons from Vespasian--who was at Hebron--came upon me. He attacked me, and we fought--" "You and Titus, hand to hand?" Tibellus asked, with a short laugh. "Titus and I, hand to hand," John repeated, quietly. "He had wounded me twice, when I sprang within his guard and closed with him. His foot slipped, and he fell. For a moment I could have slain him, if I would, but I did not. "Then I fainted from loss of blood. Titus was shortly joined by some of his men, and he had me carried down to his camp; where I was kindly nursed for a week, he himself visiting me several times. At the end of that time he dismissed me, giving me his signet ring, and telling me that if ever again I fell into the hands of the Romans, and wished to see him, I had but to show the ring to a Roman, and that he would send me to him." "And to him you shall go," Tibellus said, sternly; "and better would it have been that you had never been born, than that I should send you to him with such a tale as this." So saying, he turned away, while John and his companion returned to their work. The Roman officer was absolutely incredulous, as to the story he had heard; and indignant in the extreme at what he considered the audacity of the falsehood. Still, he could not but be struck by the calmness with which John told the story, nor could he see what motive he could have in inventing it. Its falsity would, of course, be made apparent the instant he arrived in Rome; whereas had he said, as was doubtless the truth, that he had obtained the ring from one who had stolen it from Titus, he might have obtained his freedom, and a reward for its restoration. After thinking the matter over for a time, he ordered his horse and rode into the city. One of the legions from Palestine had returned there, while two had accompanied Titus to Rome, and a fourth had remained in Judea. Tibellus rode at once to the headquarters of the commander of the legion. He had just returned, with some of his officers, from a parade of the troops. They had taken off their armour, and a slave was pouring wine into goblets for them. "Ah, Tibellus!" he said, "Is it you? Drink, my friend, and tell us what ails you, for in truth you look angered and hot." "I have been angered, by one of my slaves," Tibellus said. "Then there is no trouble in that," the Roman said, with a smile; "throw him to the fishes, and buy another. They are cheap enough, for we have flooded the world with slaves and, as we know to our cost, they are scarce saleable. We have brought two or three thousand with us, and can get no bid for them." "Yes, but this matter can't be settled so," Tibellus said; "but first, I want to ask you a question or two. You heard, of course, of John of Gamala, in your wars in Judea?" There was a chorus of assent. "That did we, indeed, to our cost," the general said; "save the two leaders in Jerusalem, he was the most dangerous; and was by far the most troublesome of our foes. Many a score of sleepless nights has that fellow caused us; from the time he well-nigh burnt all our camp before Gamala, he was a thorn in our side. One never knew where he was, or when to expect him. One day we heard of him attacking a garrison at the other end of the country, and the next night he would fall upon our camp. We never marched through a ravine, without expecting to see him and his men appearing on the hills, and sending the rocks thundering down among us; and the worst of it was, do what we would, we could never get to close quarters with him. His men could march three miles to our one; and as for our Arabs, if we sent them in pursuit, they would soon come flying back to us, leaving a goodly portion of their numbers dead behind them. He was the most formidable enemy we had, outside Jerusalem; and had all the Jews fought as he did, instead of shutting themselves up in their walled towns, we might have been years before we subdued that pestilent country." "Did you ever see this John of Gamala? Do you know what he was like, personally? Was he another giant, like this Simon who was executed at the triumph, the other day?" "None of us ever saw him--that is, to know which was he, though doubtless we may have seen him, in the fights--but all the country people we questioned, and such wounded men as fell into our hands--for we never once captured one of his band, unharmed--all asserted that he was little more than a lad. He was strong, and skilful in arms, but in years a youth. They all believed that he was a sort of prophet, one who had a mission from their God. "But why are you asking?" "I will tell you, presently," Tibellus said; "but first answer me another question. Was it not your legion that was at Carmelia, with Titus, when Vespasian lay at Hebron?" There was a general assent. "Did you ever hear of a wounded Jew being brought in, and tended there by order of Titus?" "We did," the general said; "and here is Plancus, who was in command of that part of the horse of the legion which formed the bodyguard of Titus, and who brought him into the camp. He will tell you about it." "Titus had received a message from Vespasian that he wished to see him," the officer signified by the general said, "and rode off at once, telling us to follow him. We armed and mounted, as soon as we could; but Titus was well mounted, and had a considerable start. We came up to him in a valley. He was standing by the side of his dead horse. He was slightly wounded, and his dirtied armour showed that he had had a sharp fight. Close by lay a Jew, who seemed to be dead. Titus ordered him to be carried back to the camp, and cared for by his own leech. That is all I know about it." "I can tell you more," the general said, "for Titus himself told me that he had had a desperate fight with the Jew; that he had wounded him severely, and was on the point of finishing him, when the Jew sprang at him suddenly and the sudden shock threw him to the ground; and that, strange as it might seem, although knowing who he was, the Jew spared his life. It was a strange story, and anyone besides Titus would have kept it to himself; and run his sword through the body of the Jew, to make sure of his silence; but Titus has notions of his own, and he is as generous as he is brave. By what he said, I gathered that the Jew abstained from striking, believing--as was truly the case--that Titus was more merciful than Vespasian, and that he would spare Jerusalem and their Temple, if he could. "And now, why all these questions?" "One more on my part first: what became of the Jew, and what was he like?" "That is two questions," the general replied; "however, I will answer them. Titus let him go free, when he was recovered from his wounds. He was a young man, of some twenty years old." "And do you know his name?" "I know his name was John, for so he told Titus; but as every other Jew one comes across is John, that does not tell much." "I can tell you his other name," Tibellus said. "It was John of Gamala." An exclamation of astonishment broke from the officers. "So that was John of Gamala, himself!" the general said. "None of us ever dreamt of it; and yet it might well have been for, now I think of it, the young fellow I saw lying wounded in the tent next to that of Titus answered, exactly, to the description we have heard of him; and the fact that he overcame Titus, in itself, shows that he had unusual strength and bravery. "But how do you know about this?" "Simply because John of Gamala is, at present, working as a slave in my garden." "You do not say so!" the general exclaimed. "We have often wondered what became of him. We learned, from the deserters, that he had entered into Jerusalem, and was fighting there against us. They all agreed that the men he had brought with him took no part in the atrocities of the soldiers of Simon, and John of Gischala; but that they kept together, and lived quietly, and harmed no man. It was they, we heard, who did the chief part in the three days' fighting at the breach of the lower town; but we never heard what became of him, and supposed that he must have fallen in the fighting round the Temple. "And so, he is your slave, Tibellus! How did you know it was he, and what are you going to do? The war is over, now, and there has been bloodshed enough and, after all, he was a gallant enemy, who fought us fairly and well." "He told me, himself, who he was," Tibellus said; "but I believed that he was lying to me. I had heard often of John of Gamala, and deemed that he was a brave and skilful warrior; and it seemed impossible that young man could be he. As to what I am going to do with him, I have nothing to do but what he has himself demanded--namely, to be sent to Titus. He produced the signet ring of Caesar; said that it was given to him by the general, himself; and that he told him that, if he presented it to a Roman at any time, he would lead him to his presence. I believed that he had stolen the ring, or had got it from somebody that had stolen it; and he then told me of the story, very much as you have told it--save that he said that, when he was well-nigh conquered by Titus, and sprang upon him, Caesar's foot slipped, and he fell--hinting that his success was the result of accident, rather than his own effort. He spoke by no means boastingly of it, but as if it was the most natural thing in the world." "There he showed discretion, and wisdom," the general said; "but truly this is a marvellous story. If he had not appealed to Caesar, I should have said, 'Give him his freedom.' You can buy a new slave for a few sesterces. This young fellow is too good to be a slave and, now that Judea is finally crushed, he could never become dangerous; but as he has demanded to be sent to Caesar, you must, of course, send him there. Besides, with the ideas that Titus has, he may be really glad to see the youth again. "But we shall like to see him, also. We all honour a brave adversary, and I should like to see him who so long set us at defiance." "I will bring him down, tomorrow, at this hour," Tibellus said; and then, taking leave of the officers, he mounted and rode back. On reaching home, he at once sent for John. "I doubted your story, when you told it to me," he said, "and deemed it impossible; but I have been down to the officers of the legion which arrived, last week, from Judea. It chances to be the very one which was at Carmelia, when Vespasian lay at Hebron; and I find that your story is fully confirmed--although, indeed, they did not know that the wounded man Titus sent in was John of Gamala--but as they admit that he answered, exactly, to the description which they have heard of that leader, they doubt not that it was he. "However, be assured that your request is granted, and that you shall be sent to Rome by the next ship that goes thither." Chapter 19: At Rome. Tibellus at once ordered John to be released from all further work, the badge of slavery to be removed, and that he should be supplied with handsome garments, removed into the house, and assigned an apartment with the freedmen. The bearer of the signet of Titus--now that it was ascertained that the signet had been really given to him by Caesar--was an important person, and was to be received with consideration, if not honour. When these changes had been made, John was again brought before Tibellus. "Is there anything else that I can do for your comfort, as one who has been honoured by Titus, himself, our future emperor? You have but to express your wishes, and I shall be glad to carry them out." "I would ask, then," John said, "that my friend and companion may be set free, and allowed to accompany me to Rome. He is my adopted brother. He has fought and slept by my side, for the last four years; and your bounty to me gives me no pleasure, so long as he is labouring as a slave." Tibellus at once sent for Philo, and ordered the collar to be filed from the neck of Jonas, and for him to be treated in the same manner as John. The next day Tibellus invited John to accompany him to the barracks and, as he would take no excuses, he was obliged to do so. Tibellus presented him to the general and his officers, who received him very cordially; and were much struck with his quiet demeanour, and the nobility of his bearing. John had, for four years, been accustomed to command; and the belief, entertained by his followers, in his special mission had had its effect upon his manner. Although simple and unassuming in mind; and always ready, on his return to the farm, to become again the simple worker upon his father's farm; he had yet, insensibly, acquired the bearing of one born to position and authority. He was much above the ordinary height; and although his figure was slight, it showed signs, which could well be appreciated by the Romans, of great activity and unusual strength. His face was handsome, his forehead lofty, his eyes large and soft; and in the extreme firmness of his mouth and his square chin and jaw were there, alone, signs of the determination and steadfastness which had made him so formidable a foe to the Romans. "So you are John of Gamala!" the general said. "We have, doubtless, nearly crossed swords, more than once. You have caused us many a sleepless night, and it seemed to us that you and your bands were ubiquitous. I am glad to meet you, as are we all. A Roman cherishes no malice against an honourable foe, and such we always found you; and I trust you have no malice for the past." "None," John said. "I regard you as the instruments of God for the punishment of my people. We brought our misfortunes upon ourselves, by the rebellion--which would have seemed madness had it not, doubtless, been the will of God that we should so provoke you, and perish. All I ask, now, is to return to my father's farm; and to resume my life there. If I could do that, without going to Rome, I would gladly do so." "That can hardly be," Tibellus said. "The rule is that when one appeals to Caesar, to Caesar he must go. The case is at once taken out of our hands. Besides, I should have to report the fact to Rome, and Titus may wish to see you, and might be ill pleased at hearing that you had returned to Galilee without going to see him. Besides, it may be some time before all animosity between the two peoples dies out there; and you might obtain from him an imperial order, which would prove a protection to yourself, and family, against any who might desire to molest you. If for this reason, alone, it would be well worth your while for you to proceed to Rome." Three days later, Tibellus told John that a ship would sail, next morning; and that a centurion, in charge of some invalided soldiers, would go in her. "I have arranged for you to go in his charge, and have instructed him to accompany you to the palace of Titus, and facilitate your having an interview with him. I have given him a letter to present to Titus, with greetings, saying why I have sent you to him. "Here is a purse of money, to pay for what you may require on the voyage; and to keep you, if need be, at Rome until you can see Titus, who may possibly be absent. "You owe me no thanks," he said, as John was about to speak. "Titus would be justly offended, were the bearer of his signet ring sent to him without due care and honour." That evening Tibellus gave a banquet, at which the general and several officers were present. The total number present was nine, including John and the host--this being the favourite number for what they regarded as small, private entertainments. At large banquets, hundreds of persons were frequently entertained. After the meal John, at the request of Tibellus, related to the officers the manner of his escapes from Jotapata and Jerusalem, and several of the incidents of the struggle in which he had taken part. The next morning, he and Jonas took their places on board the ship, and sailed for Rome. It was now far in November, and the passage was a boisterous one; and the size of the waves astonished John, accustomed, as he was, only to the short choppy seas of the Lake of Galilee. Jonas made up his mind that they were lost and, indeed, for some days the vessel was in imminent danger. Instead of passing through the straits between Sicily and the mainland of Italy, they were blown far to the west; and finally took shelter in the harbour of Caralis, in Sardinia. Here they remained for a week, to refit and repair damages, and then sailed across to Portus Augusti, and then up the Tiber. The centurion had done his best to make the voyage a pleasant one, to John and his companion. Having been informed that the former was the bearer of a signet ring of Titus, and would have an audience with him, he was anxious to create as good an impression as possible; but it was not until Caralis was reached that John recovered sufficiently from seasickness to take much interest in what was passing round him. The travellers were greatly struck with the quantity of shipping entering and leaving the mouth of the Tiber; the sea being dotted with the sails of the vessels bearing corn from Sardinia, Sicily, and Africa; and products of all kinds, from every port in the world. The sight of Rome impressed him less than he had expected. Of its vastness he could form no opinion; but in strength, and beauty, it appeared to him inferior to Jerusalem. When he landed, he saw how many were the stately palaces and temples; but of the former none were more magnificent than that of Herod. Nor was there one of the temples to be compared, for a moment, with that which had so lately stood, the wonder and admiration of the world, upon Mount Moriah. The centurion procured a commodious lodging for him and, finding that Titus was still in Rome, accompanied him the next day to the palace. Upon saying that he was the bearer of a letter to Titus, the centurion was shown into the inner apartments; John being left in the great antechamber, which was crowded with officers waiting to see Titus, when he came out--to receive orders, pay their respects, or present petitions to him. The centurion soon returned, and told John to follow him. "Titus was very pleased," he whispered, "when he read the letter I brought him; and begged me bring you, at once, to his presence." Titus was alone in a small chamber, whose simplicity contrasted strangely with the magnificence of those through which he had passed. He rose from a table at which he had been writing. "Ah, my good friend," he said, "I am truly glad to see you! I made sure that you were dead. You were not among those who came out, and gave themselves up, or among those who were captured when the city was taken; for I had careful inquiry made, thinking it possible that you might have lost my ring, and been unable to obtain access to me; then, at last, I made sure that you had fallen. I am truly glad to see that it is not so." "I was marvellously preserved, then, as at Jotapata," John said; "and escaped, after the Temple had fallen, by a secret passage leading out beyond the wall of circumvallation. As I made my way home, I fell into the hands of some slave dealers, who seized me and my companion--who is my adopted brother--and carried us away to Alexandria, where I was sold. As you had not yet returned to Rome, I thought it better not to produce your signet, which I had fortunately managed to conceal. "When I heard that you had reached Rome, and had received your triumph, I produced the ring to my master Tibellus; and prayed him to send me and my companion here to you, in order that I might ask for liberty, and leave to return to my home. He treated me with the greatest kindness and, but that I had appealed to you, would of himself have set us free. It is for this, alone, that I have come here; to ask you to confirm the freedom he has given me, and to permit me to return to Galilee. Further, if you will give me your order that I and mine may live peacefully, without molestation from any, it would add to your favours." "I will do these, certainly," Titus said, "and far more, if you will let me. I shall never forget that you saved my life; and believe me, I did my best to save the Temple, which was what I promised you. I did not say that I would save it, merely that I would do my best; but your obstinate countrymen insisted in bringing destruction upon it." "I know that you did all that was possible," John said, "and that the blame lies with them, and not with you, in any way. However, it was the will of God that it should be destroyed; and they were the instruments of his will, while they thought they were trying to preserve it." "But now," Titus said, "you must let me do more for you. Have you ambition? I will push you forward to high position, and dignity. Do you care for wealth? I have the treasures of Rome in my gift. Would you serve in the army? Many of the Alexandrian Jews had high rank in the army of Anthony. Two of Cleopatra's best generals were your countrymen. I know your bravery, and your military talents, and will gladly push you forward." "I thank you, Caesar, for your offers," John said, "which far exceed my deserts; but I would rather pass my life as a tiller of the soil, in Galilee. The very name of a Jew, at present, is hateful in the ear of a Roman. All men who succeed by the favour of a great prince are hated. I should be still more so, as a Jew. I should be hated by my own countrymen, as well as yours, for they would regard me as a traitor. There would be no happiness in such a life. A thousand times better a home by the Lake of Galilee, with a wife and children." "If such be your determination, I will say nought against it," Titus said; "but remember, if at any time you tire of such a life, come to me and I will give you a post of high honour and dignity. There are glorious opportunities for talent and uprightness in our distant dependencies--east and west--where there will be no prejudices against the name of a Jew. "However, for the present let that be. Tomorrow I will have prepared for you an imperial order--to all Roman officers, civil and military, of Galilee and Judea--to treat you as the friend of Titus; also the appointment as procurator of the district lying north of the river Hieromax, up to the boundary of Chorazin, for a distance of ten miles back from the lake. You will not refuse that office, for it will enable you to protect your country people from oppression, and to bring prosperity upon the whole district. "Lastly, you will receive with the documents a sum of money. I know that you will not use it on yourself, but it will be long before the land recovers from its wounds. There will be terrible misery and distress; and I should like to think that in the district, at least, of my friend, there are peace and contentment. Less than this Caesar cannot give to the man who spared his life." John thanked Titus, most heartily, for his favours; which would, he saw, ensure his family and neighbours from the oppression and tyranny to which a conquered people are exposed, at the hands of a rough soldiery. Titus ordered an apartment to be prepared for him, in the palace; and begged him to take up his abode there, until a vessel should be sailing for Casarea. Slaves were told off to attend upon him, and to escort him in the city; and everything was done to show the esteem and friendship in which Titus held him. Titus had several interviews with him; and learned now, for the first time, that he was the John of Gamala who had so long and stoutly opposed the Romans. "If I had known that," Titus said, with a smile, "when you were in my hands, I do not think I should have let you go free; though your captivity would have been an honourable one. When you said that you would not promise to desist from opposing our arms, I thought that one man, more or less, in the ranks of the enemy would make little difference; but had I known that it was the redoubtable John of Gamala who was in my hands, I should hardly have thought myself justified in letting you go free." John, at the request of Titus, gave him a sketch of the incidents of his life, and of the campaign. "So you have already a lady love," Titus said, when he had finished. "What shall I send her? "Better nothing, at present," he said, after a moment's thought and a smile, "beyond yourself. That will be the best and most acceptable gift I could send her. Time, and your good report, may soften the feelings with which doubtless she, like all the rest of your countrywomen, must regard me; though the gods know I would gladly have spared Galilee, and Judea, from the ruin which has fallen upon them." In addition to the two documents which he had promised him, Titus thoughtfully gave him another, intended for the perusal of his own countrymen only. It was in the form of a letter, saying to John that he had appointed him procurator of the strip of territory bordering the Lake of Galilee on the east, not from any submission on his part, still less at his request; but solely as a proof of his admiration for the stubborn and determined manner in which he had fought throughout the war, the absence of any cruelty practised upon Romans who fell into his hands, of his esteem for his character, and as a remembrance of the occasion when they two had fought, hand to hand, alone in the valley going down from Hebron. The gold was sent directly on board a ship. It was in a box, which required four strong men to lift. A centurion, with twenty men, was put on board the ship; with orders to land with John at Casarea, and to escort him to his own home, or as near as he might choose to take them. Titus took a cordial leave of him, and expressed a hope that John would, some day, change his mind and accept his offer of a post; and that, at any rate, he hoped that he would, from time to time, come to Rome to see him. The voyage to Caesarea was performed without accident. "I shall look back at our visit to Rome as a dream," Jonas said, one evening, as they sat together on the deck of the ship. "To think that I, the goatherd of Jotapata, should have been living in the palace of Caesar, at Rome; with you, the friend of Titus, himself! It seems marvellous; but I am weary of the crowded streets, of the noise, and bustle, and wealth and colour. I long to get rid of this dress, in which I feel as if I were acting a part in a play. "Do not you, John?" "I do, indeed," John replied. "I should never accustom myself to such a life as that. I am longing for a sight of the lake, and my dear home; and of those I love, who must be mourning for me, as dead." At Caesarea, a vehicle was procured for the carriage of the chest, and the party then journeyed until they were within sight of Tarichea. John then dismissed his escort, with thanks for their attention during the journey, and begged them to go on to the city by themselves. When they were out of sight, he and Jonas took off their Roman garments, and put on others they had purchased at Caesarea, similar to those they were accustomed to wear at home. Then they proceeded, with the cart and its driver, into Tarichea; and hired a boat to take them up the lake. The boatmen were astonished at the weight of John's chest, and thought that it must contain lead, for making into missiles for slingers. It was evening when the boat approached the well-known spot, and John and his companion sprang out on the beach. "What shall we do with the chest?" one of the boatmen asked. "We will carry it to that clump of bushes, and pitch it in among them, until we want it. None will run off with it, and they certainly would not find it easy to break it open." This reply confirmed the men in their idea that it could contain nothing of value and, after helping John and Jonas to carry the chest to the point indicated, they returned to their boat and rowed away down the lake. "Now, Jonas, we must be careful," John said, "how we approach the house. It would give them a terrible shock, if I came upon them suddenly. I think you had better go up alone, and see Isaac, and bring him to me; then we can talk over the best way of breaking it to the others." It was nearly an hour before Jonas brought Isaac down to the spot where John was standing, a hundred yards away from the house; for he had to wait some time before he could find an opportunity of speaking to him. Jonas had but just broken the news, that John was at hand, when they reached the spot where he was standing. "Is it indeed you, my dear young master?" the old man said, falling on John's neck. "This is unlooked-for joy, indeed. The Lord be praised for his mercies! What will your parents say, they who have wept for you for months, as dead?" "They are well, I hope, Isaac?" "They are shaken, greatly shaken," old Isaac said. "The tempest has passed over them; the destruction of Jerusalem, the woes of our people, and your loss have smitten them to the ground but, now that you have returned, it will give them new life." "And Mary, she is well, I hope, too?" John asked. "The maiden is not ill, though I cannot say that she is well," Isaac said. "Long after your father and mother, and all of us, had given up hope, she refused to believe that you were dead; even when the others put on mourning, she would not do so--but of late I know that, though she has never said so, hope has died in her, too. Her cheeks have grown pale, and her eyes heavy; but she still keeps up, for the sake of your parents; and we often look, and wonder how she can bear herself so bravely." "And how are we to break it to the old people?" John asked. Isaac shook his head. The matter was beyond him. "I should think," Jonas suggested, "that Isaac should go back, and break it to them, first, that I have returned; that I have been a slave among the Romans, and have escaped from them. He might say that he has questioned me, and that I said that you certainly did not fall at the siege of Jerusalem; and that I believe that you, like me, were sold as a slave by the Romans. "Then you can take me in, and let them question me. I will stick to that story, for a time, raising some hopes in their breasts; till at last I can signify to Mary that you are alive, and leave it to her to break it to the others." "That will be the best way, by far," John said. "Yes, that will do excellently well. "Now, Isaac, do you go on, and do your part. Tell them gently that Jonas has returned, that he has been a slave, and escaped from the Romans; and that, as far as he knows, I am yet alive. Then, when they are prepared, bring him in, and let him answer their questions." The evening meal had been ended before Isaac had left the room to feed, with some warm milk, a kid whose dam had died. It was while he was engaged upon this duty that Jonas had come upon him. When he entered the room Simon was sitting, with the open Bible before him, at the head of the table; waiting his return to commence the evening prayers. "What has detained you, Isaac?" he asked. "Surely it is not after all these years you would forget our evening prayers?" "I was detained," the old man said, unsteadily and, at the sound of his voice, and the sight of his face, as it came within the circle of the light from the lamp, Mary rose suddenly to her feet, and stood looking at him. "What is it?" she asked, in a low voice. "Why," Simon asked calmly, "what has detained you, Isaac?" "A strange thing has happened," the old man said. "One of our wanderers has returned--not he whom we have hoped and prayed for most--but Jonas. He has been a slave, but has escaped, and come back to us." "And what is his news?" Simon asked, rising to his feet; but even more imperative was the unspoken question on Mary's white face, and parted lips. "He gives us hope," Isaac said to her. "So far as he knows, John may yet be alive." "I knew it, I knew it!" Mary said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "O Lord, I thank thee. Why have I doubted Thy mercy?" And she stood, for a moment, with head thrown back and eyes upraised; then she swayed suddenly, and would have fallen, had not Isaac run forward and supported her until, at Martha's cry, two of the maids hastened up and placed her on a seat. Some water was held to her lips. She drank a little, and then said, faintly, "Tell us more, Isaac." "I have not much more to tell," he replied. "Jonas says that John certainly did not fall in Jerusalem--as, indeed, we were told by the young man of his band who returned--and that he believes that, like himself, he was sold as a slave. "But Jonas is outside. I thought it better to tell you, first. Now, I will call him in to speak for himself." When Jonas entered, Martha and Mary were clasped in each other's arms. Miriam, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, was repeating aloud one of the Psalms of thanksgiving; while Simon stood with head bent low, and his hands grasping the table, upon which the tears were raining down in heavy drops. It was some little time before they could question Jonas further. Martha and Mary had embraced him as if he had been the son of one, the brother of the other. Simon solemnly blessed him, and welcomed him as one from the dead. Then they gathered round to hear his story. "John and I both escaped all the dangers of the siege," he said. "We were wounded several times, but never seriously. God seemed to watch over us; and although at the last, of the six hundred men with which we entered Jerusalem there were but twelve who remained alive, we were among them." "Yes, yes, we knew that," Martha said. "News was brought by a young man of his band, who belonged to a village on the lake, that twelve of you had escaped together on the day the Temple fell. The others all returned to their homes, but no news ever came of you; and they said that some party of Romans must have killed you--what else could have befallen you? And now we are in February--nearly six months have passed--and no word of you!" "We were carried off as slaves," Jonas said, "and taken, like Joseph, to be sold in Egypt." "And have you seen him, since?" Simon asked. "Yes, I saw him in Egypt." "And he was well then?" "Quite well," Jonas replied. "I was sent to Rome, and thence managed to make my way back by ship." "We must purchase him back," Simon said. "Surely that must be possible! I have money, still. I will make the journey, myself, and buy him." And he rose to his feet, as if to start at once. "Well, not now," he went on, in answer to the hand which Martha laid on his shoulder, "but tomorrow." While he was speaking, Mary had touched Jonas, gazing into his face with the same eager question her eyes had asked Isaac. The thought that Jonas was not alone had flashed across her. He nodded slightly, and looked towards the door. In a moment she was gone. "John!" she cried, as she ran out of the house; at first in a low tone, but louder and louder as she ran on. "John! John! Where are you?" A figure stepped out from among the trees, and Mary fell into his arms. A few minutes later, she re-entered the room. "Father," she said, going up to Simon, while she took Martha's hand in hers, "do you remember you told me, once, that when you were a young man you went to hear the preaching of a teacher of the sect of the Essenes, whom they afterwards slew. You thought he was a good man, and a great teacher; and you said he told a parable, and you remembered the very words. I think I remember them, now: "'And his father saw him, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him, and said, "Let us be merry, for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost and is found."' "And so, father, is it even unto us." Illustration: The Return of John to his House on the Lake. Martha gave a loud cry, and turned to the door and, in another moment, was clasped in John's arms. Then his father fell on his neck. There was no happier household in the land than that which joined in the Psalms of thanksgiving that night. The news spread quickly to the fishermen's cottages, and the neighbours flocked in to congratulate Simon and Martha on the return of their son; and it was long since the strains of the songs of joy had floated out so clear and strong over the water of Galilee for, for years, strains of lamentation and humiliation, alone, had been on the lips of the Jewish maidens. After the service of song was over, Miriam and the maids loaded the table, while Isaac fetched a skin of the oldest wine from the cellar, and all who had assembled were invited to join the feast. When the neighbours had retired, John asked his father and Isaac to come down with him, and Jonas, to the side of the lake, to bring up a chest that was lying there. "It is rather too heavy for Jonas and me to carry, alone." "It would have been better, my son, to have asked some of our neighbours. They would gladly have assisted you, and Isaac and I have not, between us, the strength of one man." "I know it, father, but I do not wish that any, besides ourselves, should know that the box is here. We will take a pole and a rope with us, and can adjust the weight so that your portion shall not be beyond your strength." On arriving at the spot, Simon was surprised at seeing a small box, which it would be thought a woman could have lifted, with ease. "Is this the box of which you spoke, John? Surely you want no aid to carry this up?" "We do, indeed, father, as you will see." With the assistance of Jonas, John put the rope round the box, and slung it to the pole near one end. He and Jonas then took this end. Simon and Isaac lifted that farthest from the box, so that but a small share of the weight rested upon them. So the chest was carried up to the house. "What is this you have brought home?" Martha asked, as they laid the box down in the principal room. "It is gold, mother--gold to be used for the relief of the poor and distressed, for those who have been made homeless and fatherless in this war. It was a gift to me, as I will tell you, tomorrow; but I need not say that I would not touch one penny of it, for it is Roman gold. But it will place it in our power to do immense good, among the poor. We had best bury it, just beneath the floor, so that we can readily get at it when we have need." "It is a great responsibility, my son," Simon said; "but truly, there are thousands of homeless and starving families who sought refuge among the hills, when their towns and villages were destroyed by the Romans and, with this store of gold, which must be of great value, truly great things can be done towards relieving their necessities." The next morning, John related to his family the various incidents which had befallen him and Jonas since they had last parted; and their surprise was unbounded, when he produced the three documents with which he had been furnished by Titus. The letters, saying that the favour of Caesar had been bestowed upon John as a token of admiration, only, for the bravery with which he had fought, and ordering that all Romans should treat him as one having the favour and friendship of Titus, gave them unbounded satisfaction. That appointing him procurator of the whole district bordering the lake to the east surprised, and almost bewildered them. "But what are you going to do, my son? Are you going to leave us, and live in a palace, and appear as a Roman officer?" "I am not thinking of doing that, father," John said, with a smile. "For myself I would much rather that this dignity had not been conferred on me by Titus; and I would gladly put this commission, with its imperial seal, into the fire. But I feel that I cannot do this, for it gives me great power of doing good to our neighbours. I shall be able to protect them from all oppression by Roman soldiers, or by tax gatherers. There is no occasion for me to live in a palace, or to wear the garments of a Roman official. The letter of Titus shows that it is to a Jew that he has given this power, and as a Jew I shall use it. "While journeying here from Rome, I have thought much over the matter. At first, I thought of suppressing the order. Then, I felt that a power of good had been given into my hands; and that I had no right, from selfish reasons, to shrink from its execution. Doubtless, at first I shall be misunderstood. They will say that I, like Josephus, have turned traitor, and have gone over to the Romans. Even were it so, I should have done no more than all the people of Tiberias, Sepphoris, and other cities which submitted to them. "But I do not think this feeling will last long. All those who fought with me outside Jerusalem, against the Romans, know that I was faithful to the cause of my country. The few survivors of the band I led into Jerusalem can testify that I fought until the Temple fell, and that I escaped by my own devices, and not from any agreement with the Romans. "Moreover they will, in time, judge me by my acts. I shall rule, as I said, as a Jew, and not as a Roman--rule as did the judges in the old times, sitting under my own fig tree, here, and listening to the complaints that may be brought to me--and I trust that wisdom will be given to me, by the Lord, to judge wisely and justly among them." "You have decided well, my son," Simon said. "May God's blessing be upon you! "What think you, little Mary? How do you like the prospect of being the wife of the ruler of this district?" "I would rather that he had been the ruler only of this farm," Mary said, "but I see that a great power of good has been given into his hands, and it is not for me to complain." "That reminds me," Simon said, "of what Martha and I were speaking together, last night. You have both waited long. There is no occasion for longer tarrying. The marriage feast will be prepared, and we will summon our neighbours and friends to assemble here, this day week. "And now, John, what are you going to do?" "I am going, father, at once to Hippos, the chief town in the district. I shall see the authorities of the town, and the captain of the Roman garrison, and lay before them the commission of Caesar. I shall then issue a proclamation, announcing to all people within the limits of the district that have been marked out that I have authority, from Rome, to judge all matters that may come before me, in the district; and that all who have causes of complaint, or who have been wronged by any, will find me here, ready to hear their cause, and to order justice to be rendered to them. I shall also say that I shall shortly make a tour through the district, to see for myself into the condition of things, and to give aid to such as need it." Great was the surprise of the Roman and Jewish authorities, in Hippos, when John produced the imperial commission. There was, however, no doubting or disputing it. The Roman officers at once placed themselves under his orders, and issued proclamations of their own, in addition to that of John, notifying the fact to all the inhabitants of the district. Among the Jewish authorities there was, at first, some feeling of jealousy that this young man should be placed over them; but they felt, nevertheless, the great benefits that would arise from the protection which one of their own countrymen, high in the favour of Titus, would be able to afford them. When showing his commission, John had also produced the letter of Titus, giving his reasons for the nomination; and indeed, the younger men in the district, many of whom had followed John in his first campaigns--and who had hitherto, in accordance with the oath of secrecy taken on enrollment, concealed their knowledge that John of Gamala was the son of Simon--now proclaimed the fact, and hailed his appointment with joy. On the appointed day, the marriage of John and Mary took place and, as the news had spread through the country, a vast gathering assembled, and it was made the occasion of a public demonstration. The preparations which Martha and Mary had made for the feast, ample as they had been, would have availed but little among such a multitude; but Isaac and the menservants drove in and slaughtered several cattle and, as those who came for the most part bore presents of wine, oil, bread, goats, and other articles, and the neighbours lent their assistance in preparing a feast at the great fires which were lighted along the shore, while Simon contributed all the contents of his wine store, the feast proved ample for all assembled. John and his wife moved among the throng, receiving congratulations and good wishes; Mary blushing, and tearful with happiness and pride in the honour paid to John; John himself radiant with pleasure, and with satisfaction at the thought of the good which the power, so strangely conferred upon him, would enable him to effect for his neighbours. After that, things went on in their ordinary routine at the farm; save that John was frequently away visiting among the villages of the district, which was some thirty miles long by ten wide. The northern portion was thinly inhabited; but in the south the villages were thick, and the people had suffered greatly from the excursions of the Roman foragers, at the time of the siege of Gamala. Many of the villages had been rebuilt, since that time; but there was still great distress, heightened by the number of fugitives from the other side of Jordan. The aid which John gave enabled most of the fugitives in his district to return to their distant villages, and to rebuild their homes, where there was now little fear of their being again disturbed. The distress in his own district was also relieved. In some cases money was given, in others lent, to enable the cultivators to till their fields, to replant vineyards, and to purchase flocks so that, in the course of a year, the whole district was restored to its normal appearance, and the signs of the destructive war were almost entirely effaced. Then John was able to settle down in his quiet home. In the morning he worked with his father. In the afternoon he listened to the complaints, or petitions, of those who came before him; settling disputes between neighbours, hearing the stories of those who considered that they were too hardly pressed upon by the tax collector, and doing justice to those who were wronged. Soon after he married, mindful of the doctrines he had heard during his visit among the community of Nazarites by the Dead Sea, John made inquiries and found that many of the sect, who had left the land when the troubles with the Romans commenced, had now returned; and were preaching their doctrines more openly than before, now that those of the ancient religion could no longer persecute them. At Tiberias a considerable community of the sect soon established themselves; and John, going over, persuaded one of their teachers to take up his abode with him, for a time, and to expound their doctrines to him and his family. He was astonished at the spirit of love, charity, and goodwill which animated the teaching of the Christians--still more at the divine spirit that breathed in the utterances and animated the life of their Master. The central idea, that God was the God of the whole world--and not, as the Jews had hitherto supposed, a special Deity of their own--struck John particularly, and explained many things which had, hitherto, been difficult for him to understand. It would have been galling to admit as much, in the days of Jewish pride and stubbornness; but their spirit was broken, now; and John could understand that although, as long as the nation had believed in him and served him, God had taken a peculiar interest in them, and had revealed to them much of his nature and attributes--while the rest of the world had had been left to worship false gods--He yet loved all the world, and was now about to extend to all men that knowledge of him hitherto confined to the Jews. Above all, John saw how vastly higher was the idea of God, as revealed in the new teaching, than that which the Jews had hitherto entertained regarding him. A month after the arrival of the teacher, John and Mary were baptized into the new faith; and a few months later Simon and Martha, who had been harder to convince, also became converts. When Titus was raised to the imperial throne, John, in compliance with the request he had made him, journeyed to Rome, and remained there for a short time as his guest. Titus received him with affection. "I shall not try to tempt you with fresh offers of honours," he said, "though I regret that you should refuse to accept a sphere of wider usefulness. From time to time, I have heard of you from the reports of my governors; who say that the district under your charge is the most prosperous and contented in all Palestine, that there is neither dispute nor litigation there, that there are no poor, that the taxes are collected without difficulty; and that, save only that you do not keep up the state and dignity which a Roman official should occupy, you are in all respects a model ruler." "I have every reason to be thankful," John said. "I have been blessed in every way. My parents still survive. I am happy with my wife and children. Your bounty has enabled me to bind up the wounds, and relieve the distress caused by the war. My mind has been opened to heavenly teaching, and I try humbly to follow in the steps of that divine teacher, Jesus of Nazareth." "Ah, you have come to believe in him!" Titus said. "There are many of his creed, here in Rome, and they say that they are even on the increase. I would gladly hear, from you, something of him. I have heard somewhat of him from Josephus, who for three years dwelt among the Essenes, and who has spoken to me very highly of the purity of life, the enlightenment, and religious fervour of that sect--to which, I believe, he himself secretly inclines; although, from the desire not to offend his countrymen, he makes no open confession of his faith." John, before he left, explained to the emperor the teachings of his Master; and it may be that the wisdom, humanity, and mildness which Titus displayed, in the course of his reign, was in no small degree the result of the lessons which he learned from John. The latter came no more to Rome but, to the end of his life, dwelt on the shore of Galilee, wisely governing his little district after the manner of the judges of old. Jonas never left his friend. He married the daughter of one of the fishermen, and lived in a small house which Simon built for him, close to his own. At the death of the latter, he became John's right hand on the farm; and remained his friend, and brother, to the end.