he one side and distrust upon the other,
the chances for hilarity and good fellowship looked scanty enough, and
yet Stenius Ninius was too much a man of the world to yield readily to
untoward social conditions.

Clapping his hands, he cried out, as the head butler bowed before him:--

"Now, my good Cappadox, let us have no more of these native vintages.
Good though they were, they but serve to cultivate the taste for the
wines that cement friendships such as ours. Henceforth pour for us
only the Coan, Leucadian, and Thasian, and see that you select those
amphorae whose contents are toothless with age."

A rough laugh rolled up from the other table, and the voice of
Hannibal-the-Fighter broke out with:--

"It is well said, host. Truly I was wondering if we had been drinking
from the famous cellars of Capua. We washed our horses with better
wine in the north."

Stenius flushed. Then he smiled.

"And, Cappadox," he went on, in an unruffled voice, "do you send what
remains in my cellar of the vintages we have been drinking, to the
horse of my worthy guest."

At the giant's discourteous words, Hannibal himself had started from
the mood of thought in which he had seemed well-nigh buried. A quick
glance shot from his eye, and his brow furrowed. Then the courtly
answer of Stenius relieved the situation, and he turned to his host.

"You must pardon rough words to rough soldiers, my friend. We of
Carthage have had but slender chances to avail ourselves of Greek
culture and urbanity. We are mere merchants and warriors--not men of
letters or of social manners."

The hulking savage grew purple and trembled under the rebuke of his
chief. Twice he essayed to speak and then discreetly gulped down the
words, for Hannibal's face, though calm and courtly, showed a hardening
of its lines which meant much to those who knew him.

As for the Campanian, he raised his hands in voluble deprecation of the
apology.

Did _he_ not realize that but for soldiers and merchants, letters and
social manners would never have come into being? It was the privilege
of so brave a warrior as Hannibal-the-Fighter to say what he pleased,
and when and where. Ordinary rules were only for little men. Besides,
the best of Campanian wines were truly all too poor for heroes whose
souls were already attasted to the nectar of the gods.

The suppressed fury and shame of the offender melted away under the
balm of these honeyed words, and, laughin