“Domine, you have not rashly determined this?” he hinted.

“I have determined nothing.  I never rashly determine anything.  Hark!  Some one is at the door.”

There was a loud military knock, and the clang of armour.

“Enter,” commanded Caesar.

Decimus Mamercus hastened into the room.  So great was his excitement that his Roman discipline had forsaken him.  He neglected to salute.

“News! news!  Imperator! from Rome!  News which will set all Italy afire!”

Whereupon the man who had but just before been talking of suicide, with the greatest possible deliberation seated himself on a comfortable chair, arranged his dress, and remarked with perfect coldness:—­

“No tidings can justify a soldier in neglecting to salute his general.”

Decimus turned red with mortification, and saluted.

“Now,” said Caesar, icily, “what have you to report?”

“Imperator,” replied Decimus, trying to speak with unimpassioned preciseness, “a messenger has just arrived from Rome.  He reports that the Senate and consuls have declared the Republic in peril, that the veto of your tribunes has been over-ridden, and they themselves forced to flee for their lives.”

Caesar had carelessly dropped a writing tablet that he was holding, and now he stooped slowly and picked it up again.

“The messenger is here?” he inquired, after a pause.

“He is,” replied the centurion.

“Has he been duly refreshed after a hard ride?” was the next question.

“He has just come.”

“Then let him have the best food and drink my butler and cellarer can set before him.”

“But his news is of extreme importance,” gasped Decimus, only half believing his ears.

“I have spoken,” said the general, sternly.  “What is his name?”

“He is called Quintus Drusus, Imperator.”

“Ah!” was his deliberate response, “send him to me when he will eat and drink no more.”

Decimus saluted again, and withdrew, while his superior opened the roll in his hands, and with all apparent fixity and interest studied at the precepts and definitions of the grammar of Dionysius Thrax, the noted philologist.

At the end of some minutes Quintus Drusus stood before him.

The young Praenestian was covered with dust, was unkempt, ragged; his step was heavy, his arms hung wearily at his side, his head almost drooped on his breast with exhaustion.  But when he came into the Imperator’s presence, he straightened himself and tried to make a gesture of salutation.  Caesar had risen from his chair.

“Fools!” he cried, to the little group of slaves and soldiers, who were crowding into the room, “do you bring me this worn-out man, who needs rest?  Who dared this?  Has he been refreshed as I commanded?”

“He would take nothing but some wine—­” began Decimus.