tervals and bearing small
bucklers of lynx-hide--the famous Balearic slingers that always opened
the day of battle for Carthage. The heart of Sergius swelled within
him, beating hard and fast under the tension of the moment. Only a few
minutes more, and those magnificent armies would crash together, not to
part until the plain should be heaped with corpses that were now men;
until the gods should adjudge the sovereignty of Italy. Then he grew
calm, calm as the consul himself, and gazed enraptured upon the
picture, as if it meant no more than art and show--only the wind came
fresher from the south, and the fine dust, ground up by marching
thousands, smarted and blinded his eyes.

Nearer and nearer they drew, with steady, slow advance, while Rome
stood still and awaited their coming. And now a commotion seemed to
start from the far distant south: the roar of voices, the blinding
flash of the sun on tossing swords, a cloud of dust distinct upon the
plain, a clump of horse-head standards rising amid it, and a group of
riders urging their galloping steeds along the invaders' front. Rich
armour of strange pattern shone among them, and, a length ahead of the
rest, Sergius could see a white stallion with close-cropped mane, and
hoofs and fetlocks stained vermilion, that danced and curvetted and
arched its proud neck under the touch of a master. He was not an
over-tall man, but his figure as he rode seemed well knit and graceful.
His armour was of brown-bronze scale-work, rich with gold and jewels,
while a white mantle fringed with Tyrian purple hung from his
shoulders; a helmet of burnished gold, horned and crested, gleamed like
a star upon his head, while, even at the distance, even through the
swirl, of dust, Sergius saw the crisp curled, black beard, and dreamed
that he caught the flash of dark, deep-set eyes. There was no need of
the beating of weapons against shields, no need of the roar and howls
and shrill screaming in a score of tongues to tell the stranger's name.
Most of the soldiers kept ranks, but here and there a Gaul would bound
forward, dancing with strange leaps and whirling his sword about his
head, to throw himself prone before and beneath the vermilion hoofs
that never paused or swerved in their gallop. Not a movement, not a
glance of the rider gave sign of acknowledgment or recognition; not a
look was cast upon the grovelling form, safe or hurt or maimed--only
the soldier's comrades howled their plau