about or sweeping away up the rugged slope of the
Capitoline to where the great fane of Jupiter Capitolinus shed its
protecting glory over the destinies of Rome.

Below, the broad expanse of Forum and Comitia was thronged with a
surging crowd--patricians and plebeians,--elbowing and pushing one
another in mad efforts to get closer to the Rostra and to a small group
of magistrates, who, with grave faces, were clustered at the foot of
its steps. These latter spoke to each other in whispers, but such a
babel of sounds swelled up around them that they might safely have
screamed without fear of being overheard.

The booths were emptied of their cooks and butchers and silversmiths.
Waving arms and the flutter of robes emphasized the discussions going
on on every side. Here a rumour-monger was telling his tale to a
gaping cluster of pallid faces; there a plebeian pot-house orator was
arraigning the upper classes to a circle of lowering brows and clenched
fists, while the sneering face of some passing patrician told of a
disdain beyond words, as he gathered his toga closer to avoid the
contamination of the rabble.

One sentiment, however, seemed to prevail over all, and, beside it,
curiosity, party rancour, wrath, and contempt were as nothing. It was
anxiety sharpened even into dread that brooded everywhere and
controlled all other passions, while itself threatening at every moment
to sweep away the barriers and to loose the warm southern blood of the
citizens into a seething flood of furious riot or headlong panic.

The two young men had descended into this maelstrom of popular
excitement, and were making such headway as they could toward the
central point of interest. Now and again they passed friends who
either looked straight into their faces, without a sign of recognition,
or else burst out into floods of information,--prayers for news or
vouchsafings of it,--news, good or bad, true or false. Perhaps
three-fourths of the distance had been covered at the expense of torn
togas and bruised sides, when a sudden commotion in front showed that
something was happening. The next moment the hard, stern face of
Marcus Pomponius Matho, the praetor peregrinus, rose above the crowd,
and then the broad purple band upon his toga, as he mounted the steps
of the Rostra.

It seemed hours--almost days--that he stood there, grave and silent,
looking down into the sea of upturned faces, while the roar of the
multitude died away in