of the arrival of
their pursuers; perhaps those glittering points amid distant dust
clouds meant a new pursuit. Surely none but Mercury had winged the
feet of the Cappadocians! Unwearied, like springs of steel, the stout
muscles drove them on--on over the marshland with the glint of the sea
before them--on, up the rising ground.

Again and again Sergius turned in his saddle scanning the road behind,
feeling the presence of pursuers whom he could not see. The good
horses were weakening fast. No flesh and blood could stand that
strain, and naught but the spirit of the breed kept them afoot.
Marcia's was limping painfully; the one Sergius rode was wavering in
its stride, like the Carthaginian captain when he came out of the
guard-house by the gate.

"Gods! What were those shrill sounds--half whistle, half scream?"

Too well he remembered how the Numidians urged on their bridleless
chargers. Yes, there they were now--scarce half a milestone behind and
coming up like the wind that blew through their dishevelled
manes--fifty at least. Death, then, was decreed, after all, and he
glanced toward Marcia, measuring the time when he might kiss her and
kill her ere he sold his own life to the javelins.

Suddenly he heard her cry out.

"Look!" she called, and, following her finger, he gazed eagerly ahead.

A clump of horsemen, heavy armed with helmet and corselet, crowned the
knoll of rising ground over which the road led, and, above them,
fluttering in the breeze, he saw the square vexillum of the cavalry of
the legion.

He was among them now, lifting Marcia from her horse and dimly
conscious of many words being spoken around.

"See, lord, they have halted," said a voice. "Is it your will that we
pursue?"

Then, as an answering voice replied in the negative, he kissed Marcia
and made her drink wine that some one brought. Barbarous cries that
she must not hear or understand came to his ears, and he knew that
their pursuers were wheeling in discomfited flight. The circle of
soldiers stood back. Something cold and feathery fell upon his
upturned face and turned to moisture. He saw a tall man with features
of wonderful beauty regarding them kindly and in silence; his white
paludamentum was heavily fringed with purple, and Sergius recognized
him now,--Marcus Marcellus, the new dictator. Another drop, feathery,
cold, and moist, fell upon Marcia's hand, and she roused herself at the
touch, peering up into her lover