It was a horrible crime of which his client was accused, and the punishment the most awful known to the Roman law.  The face of the guilty man was covered with a wolf’s skin, as being one who was not worthy to see the light; shoes of wood were put upon his feet that they might not touch the earth.  He was then thrust into a sack of leather, and with him four animals which were supposed to symbolize all that was most hideous and depraved—­the dog, a common object of contempt; the cock, proverbial for its want of all filial affection; the poisonous viper; and the ape, which was the base imitation of man.  In this strange company he was thrown into the nearest river or sea.

Cicero begins by explaining why he had undertaken a case which his elders and betters had declined.  It was not because he was bolder, but because he was more insignificant than they, and could speak with impunity when they could not choose but be silent.  He then gives the facts in detail, the murder of Roscius, the seizure of his property, the fruitless deputation to Sulla, the flight of the son to Rome, and the audacious resolve of his enemies to indict him for parricide.  They had murdered his father, they had robbed him of his patrimony, and now they accused him—­of what crime?  Surely of nothing else than the crime of having escaped their attack.  The thing reminded him of the story of Fimbria and Scaevola.  Fimbria, an absolute madman, as was allowed by all who were not mad themselves, got some ruffian to stab Scaevola at the funeral of Marius.  He was stabbed but not killed.  When Fimbria found that he was likely to live, he indicted him.  For what do you indict a man so blameless? asked some one.  For what? for not allowing himself to be stabbed to the heart.  This is exactly why the confederates have indicted Roscius.  His crime has been of escaping from their hands.  “Roscius killed his father,” you say.  “A young man, I suppose, led away by worthless companions.”  Not so; he is more than forty years of age.  “Extravagance and debt drove him to it.”  No; you say yourself that he never goes to an entertainment, and he certainly owes nothing.  “Well,” you say, “his father disliked him.”  Why did he dislike him?  “That,” you reply, “I cannot say; but he certainly kept one son with him, and left this Roscius to look after his farms.”  Surely this is a strange punishment, to give him the charge of so fine an estate.  “But,” you repeat, “he kept his other with him.”  “Now listen to me,” cries Cicero, turning with savage sarcasm to the prosecutor, “Providence never allowed you to know who your father was.  Still you have read books.  Do you remember in Caecilius’ play how the father had two sons, and kept one with him and left the other in the country? and do you remember that the one who lived with him was not really his son, the other was true-born, and yet it was the true-born who lived in the country?  And is it such a disgrace to live in the country?  It is well that you did not live in old times when