him, ordering the crowd, to give them passage.

"Hail, Theron!" shouted Lachares. "We will see what Hannibal will do
when he meets you in battle."

"Hail to the Saguntine Hercules!" replied the other youths, leaning
weakly on the backs of their little slave boys.

The giant looked over the encampment, in which trumpets began to sound,
and the soldiers ran to form in rank. The slingers cautiously advanced,
sheltering themselves behind buildings and hummocks. The attack was
about to begin. On the walls the bowmen drew their bows, and the boys
piled up stones to hurl with their slings. The old men compelled the
women to retire. At the head of the stairway leading up to the top of
the wall, Euphobias the philosopher stood haranguing in the midst of a
group, paying no heed to the indignation of his hearers.

"Blood is going to flow," he shouted; "you will all perish, and for
what? I ask you what do you gain by not obeying Hannibal? You will
always have a master, and it is just as well to be friends of Carthage
as of Rome. The siege will be prolonged, and you will die of hunger; I
shall outlive you all, because I know hunger from of old like a faithful
friend. But again I ask you, what more does it profit you to be Romans
than Carthaginians? Live and enjoy! Leave shedding of blood to the
butchers, and before you think of putting another man to death, study
your own selves. If you would give heed to my wisdom, if instead of
scorning me, you would feed me in exchange for my advice, you would not
be shut up in your city like foxes in a trap."

A chorus of imprecations and a row of threatening fists answered the
philosopher.

"Parasite! Slave of poverty!" they shouted. "You are worse than those
_lupas_ who throw themselves at the barbarians."

Euphobias, whose insolence increased as the indignation blazed higher,
opened his mouth to reply; but he hesitated, beholding a dark mass which
shut out the sunlight. The gigantic Theron was before him, looking at
him as scornfully as would one of those elephants that the besiegers had
near the river. He raised his left hand carelessly, as if he were going
to flip off an insect; he barely grazed the insolent face when the
philosopher tumbled down the steps from the wall, his head bleeding,
silent, bumping from step to step without a groan, like a man accustomed
to such caresses, and convinced that pain is but a figment of the
imagination.

At the same moment a cloud of black arrows