iled the
notice of a looker-on this night in Antioch. Nearly everybody wore
the colors of one or other of the charioteers announced for the
morrow's race. Sometimes it was in form of a scarf, sometimes a
badge; often a ribbon or a feather. Whatever the form, it signified
merely the wearer's partiality; thus, green published a friend of
Cleanthes the Athenian, and black an adherent of the Byzantine.
This was according to a custom, old probably as the day of the
race of Orestes--a custom, by the way, worthy of study as a
marvel of history, illustrative of the absurd yet appalling
extremities to which men frequently suffer their follies to
drag them.

The observer abroad on this occasion, once attracted to the wearing
of colors, would have very shortly decided that there were three
in predominance--green, white, and the mixed scarlet and gold.

But let us from the streets to the palace on the island.

The five great chandeliers in the saloon are freshly lighted. The
assemblage is much the same as that already noticed in connection
with the place. The divan has its corps of sleepers and burden of
garments, and the tables yet resound with the rattle and clash of
dice. Yet the greater part of the company are not doing anything.
They walk about, or yawn tremendously, or pause as they pass
each other to exchange idle nothings. Will the weather be fair
to-morrow? Are the preparations for the games complete? Do the
laws of the Circus in Antioch differ from the laws of the Circus
in Rome? Truth is, the young fellows are suffering from ennui.
Their heavy work is done; that is, we would find their tablets,
could we look at them, covered with memoranda of wagers--wagers
on every contest; on the running, the wrestling, the boxing;
on everything but the chariot-race.

And why not on that?

Good reader, they cannot find anybody who will hazard so much as
a denarius with them against Messala.

There are no colors in the saloon but his.

No one thinks of his defeat.

Why, they say, is he not perfect in his training? Did he not
graduate from an imperial lanista? Were not his horses winners
at the Circensian in the Circus Maximus? And then--ah, yes! he
is a Roman!

In a corner, at ease on the divan, Messala himself may be seen.
Around him, sitting or standing, are his courtierly admirers,
plying him with questions. There is, of course, but one topic.

Enter Drusus and Cecilius.

"Ah!" cries the young prince, throwing himsel