he supreme moment of his life had come. The
whole act of being, he felt, he knew, had been only that he might live
at that instant. What the next hour had in store--life, death--he
cared not at all. The Caesarian horse, outnumbered seven to one, had
fought valiantly, but been borne back by sheer weight of numbers. With
not a man in sight to oppose them, the whole mass of the splendid
Pompeian cavalry was sweeping around to crush the unprotected flank of
the tenth legion. The sight of the on-rushing squadrons was beyond
words magnificent. The tossing mass of their panoplies was a sea of
scarlet, purple, brass, and flashing steel; the roar of the hoof-beats
of seven thousand blooded coursers swept on like the approaching of
the wind leading the clouds in whose breast are thunder and lightning
unfettered. Behind them rose the dun vapour of the dust, drifting up
toward heaven,--the whirling vortex of the storm. It was indeed the
crisis.

The six cohorts were standing, resting on their shields, in the rear
of the extreme right flank of the third line. They were in an oblique
formation. The most distant cohort extended far back, and far beyond
the Caesarian line of battle. The hearts of the soldiers were in the
deathly press ahead, but they were veterans; discipline held them
quiet, albeit restive in soul.

On swept the roar of the advancing Pompeians. What must be done must
be done quickly. Drusus drove the spurs into his horse, and approached
the cohorts on a headlong gallop.

"Forward! I will lead you against the enemy!"

No need of second command. The maniples rushed onward as though the
men were runners in a race, not soldiers clothed in armour. Drusus
flew down the ranks and swung the farthest cohorts into alignment with
the others. There was not a moment to lose.

"Now, men, if ye be indeed soldiers of Caesar, at them!"

Drusus was astounded at the resonance of his own voice; a thousand
others caught up the shout.

"_Venus victrix!_" And straight into the teeth of the galloping hosts
charged the thin line of infantry.

The line was weak, its members strong. They were rural Italians,
uncorrupted by city life, hardy, god-fearing peasants and sons of
peasants, worthy descendants of the men who died in the legions at
Cannae, or triumphed at the Metaurus. Steady as on a review the six
cohorts bore down into action. And when they struck the great mass of
horsemen they thrust their pila into the riders' eyes and pro