of communities by erecting splendid public buildings.  So great is his present power!  What he will do in a second consulship I dare not say.  I dare not assign bounds to his ambition.  Conscript Fathers, shall we vote ourselves freemen or slaves?  What more can I add to the words of the consul?  I vote to ratify the proposition of Lucius Lentulus, that Caesar either disband his army on a fixed day, or be declared a public enemy!”

“And what is your opinion, Lucius Domitius?” demanded Lentulus, while never a voice was raised to oppose Scipio.

“Let the Senate remember,” replied Domitius, “that Caesar will justify the meaning of his name—­the ‘hard-hitter,’ and let us strike the first and telling blow.”

A ripple of applause swept down the Senate.  The anti-Caesarians had completely recovered from their first discomfiture, and were carrying all sentiment before them.  Already there were cries of “A vote! a vote!  Divide the Senate!  A vote!”

“Conscript Fathers,” said Lentulus, “in days of great emergency like this, when your minds seem so happily united in favour of doing that which is for the manifest safety of the Republic, I will not ask for the opinions of each senator in turn.  Let the Senate divide; let all who favour the recall of the proconsul of the Gauls pass to the right, those against to the left.  And so may it be well and prosperous for the Commonwealth.”

But Antonius was again on his feet; and at his side stood Quintus Cassius.

“Lucius Lentulus,” he thundered, “I forbid the division. Veto!”

“Veto!” shouted Cassius.

Domitius, too, had risen.  “Conscript Fathers, let the consuls remonstrate with the tribunes to withdraw their prohibition.  And, if they do not succeed, let them lay before the Senate that order which is the safeguard of the Republic.”

Everybody knew what Domitius meant.  If Antonius would not give way, martial law was to be declared.  Hot and furious raged the debate.  More and more passionate the expressions of party hatred.  More and more menacing the gestures directed upon the two Caesarian tribunes.  But even the impetuous fierceness of Lentulus, Cato, Scipio, and Domitius combined could not drive the browbeaten Senate to cast loose from its last mooring that night.  Domitius’s measure went over.  It was late—­the stars were shining outside.  Lamps had been brought in, and threw their ruddy glare over the long tiers of seats and their august occupants.  Finally the angry debate ended, because it was a physical impossibility to continue longer.  Senators went away with dark frowns or care-knit foreheads.  Out in the Forum bands of young “Optimates” were shouting for Pompeius, and cursing Caesar and his followers.  Drusus, following Antonius, felt that he was the adherent of a lost cause, the member of a routed army that was defending its last stronghold, which overwhelming numbers must take, be the defence never so valiant.  And when very late he lay down on his bed that night, the howls of the fashionable mob were still ringing in his ears.