randished clubs, cleavers, knives, styli--any weapon
that could be snatched up from the booths--the nearest score of the
crowd made a dash at the presumptuous noble.

The litter-bearers were sturdy fellows, and their staves were stout,
but the contest was far too unequal. One had gone down with a deep
gash in the shoulder, and the others were quickly forced back upon
their master.

Sergius stood with his back to one of the square pillars of peperino,
with folded arms and pale face upon which hovered a smile of ineffable
scorn. He recognized his peril: the fate that had befallen many noble
Romans in the election riots of the Republic; but his sentiment was
rather one of indifference than of perturbation, and he was about to
order his slaves to give up their hopeless defence, in order that the
crowd might let them, at least, go without further hurt, when an
entirely unexpected diversion brought him relief and safety.

Varro had viewed the attack upon his critic with a pleasure that he
scarcely tried to conceal. He kept begging his adherents to be
moderate and abstain from violence, but in so low a voice that his
counsels could not be heard except by those immediately around him, and
were entirely inaudible to the howling assailants to whom they were
presumably addressed. Another voice, however, a shrill, female voice,
came suddenly to Sergius' ears:--

"Would that my brother could come to life and command another fleet,
that the streets might be less crowded!"

Sergius recognized, in a rich litter that was tossed hither and thither
by the billows of the mob, the face of the sister of that Publius
Claudius who had lost for Rome the naval battle off Drepanum. The mob,
too, recognized her, and the scornful speech bit deeply. All around
arose a cry of--

"To the aediles with her! To the aediles! She has rejoiced in the
death of our brothers! May the gods curse the noble!" and, in a
moment, Sergius found himself alone but for his bruised and bleeding
servants, while the tide of riot swept up the Forum, bearing the litter
upon its tossing crests, and the virago within continued to scream out
her defiance and contempt.

Varro remained, surrounded by a few friends, and, as Sergius
approached, he drew himself up, as if to reenforce his courage with a
sense of his importance. The tribune was about to pass him without a
word; but the demagogue, emboldened by this seeming unwillingness for
an encounter, placed hims