t greater; that the saying might be fulfilled,
He that is unjust, let him be unjust still. And their rage against the
Martyrs took a new form, insomuch that we were in great sorrow for lack
of freedom to entrust their bodies to the earth.

[196] "Neither did the night-time, nor the offer of money, avail us for
this matter; but they set watch with much carefulness, as though it
were a great gain to hinder their burial. Therefore, after the bodies
had been displayed to view for many days, they were at last burned to
ashes, and cast into the river Rhone, which flows by this place, that
not a vestige of them might be left upon the earth. For they said, Now
shall we see whether they will rise again, and whether their God can
save them out of our hands."

CHAPTER XXVII: THE TRIUMPH OF MARCUS AURELIUS

[197] NOT many months after the date of that epistle, Marius, then
expecting to leave Rome for a long time, and in fact about to leave it
for ever, stood to witness the triumphal entry of Marcus Aurelius,
almost at the exact spot from which he had watched the emperor's solemn
return to the capital on his own first coming thither. His triumph was
now a "full" one--Justus Triumphus justified, by far more than the due
amount of bloodshed in those Northern wars, at length, it might seem,
happily at an end. Among the captives, amid the laughter of the crowds
at his blowsy upper garment, his trousered legs and conical wolf-skin
cap, walked our own ancestor, representative of subject Germany, under
a figure very familiar in later Roman sculpture; and, though certainly
with none of the grace of the Dying Gaul, yet with plenty of uncouth
pathos in his misshapen features, and the pale, servile, yet angry
eyes. His children, [198] white-skinned and golden-haired "as angels,"
trudged beside him. His brothers, of the animal world, the ibex, the
wild-cat, and the reindeer, stalking and trumpeting grandly, found
their due place in the procession; and among the spoil, set forth on a
portable frame that it might be distinctly seen (no mere model, but the
very house he had lived in), a wattled cottage, in all the simplicity
of its snug contrivances against the cold, and well-calculated to give
a moment's delight to his new, sophisticated masters.

Andrea Mantegna, working at the end of the fifteenth century, for a
society full of antiquarian fervour at the sight of the earthy relics
of the old Roman people, day by day returning to l