No one spoke, unless the incoherent shouts of the German to the mules be termed speech.  Antiochus and Caesar were sunk in stupor or reverie.  Drusus settled back on the cushions, closed his eyes, and bade himself believe that it was all a dream.  Six months ago he had been a student at Athens, wandering with his friends along the trickling Cephissus, or climbing, in holiday sport, the marble cone of Hymettus.  And now—­he was a proscribed rebel!  Enemies thirsted for his blood!  He was riding beside a man who made no disclaimer of his intention to subvert the constitution!  If Caesar failed, he, Drusus, would share in “that bad eminence” awarded by fame to the execrated Catilinarians.  Was it—­was it not all a dream?  Connected thought became impossible.  Now he was in the dear old orchard at Praeneste playing micare[156] with Cornelia and AEmilia; now back in Athens, now in Rome.  Poetry, prose, scraps of oratory, philosophy, and rules of rhetoric,—­Latin and Greek inextricably intermixed,—­ideas without the least possible connection, raced through his head.  How long he thus drifted on in his reverie he might not say.  Perhaps he fell asleep, for the fatigue of his extraordinary riding still wore on him.  A cry from Antiochus, a curse from the German, startled him out of his stupor.  He stared about.  It was pitch dark.  “The gods blast it!” Antiochus was bawling.  “The lantern has jolted out!”

  [156] A finger-guessing game.

To relight it under existing circumstances, in an age when friction matches were unknown, was practically impossible.

“Fellow,” said the proconsul’s steady voice, “do you know the road to Ariminum?”

The driver answered in his broken Latin that he was the slave of the stable keeper who had let the carriage, and had been often over the road, but to go safely in the dark was more than he could vouch for.  The only thing the German saw to be done was to wait in the road until the morning, or until the moon broke out through the clouds.

“Drusus,” remarked the proconsul, “you are the youngest.  Can your eyes make out anything to tell us where we are?”

The young man yawned, shook off his drowsiness, and stared out into the gloomy void.

“I can just make out that to our left are tall trees, and I imagine a thicket.”

“Very good.  If you can see as much as that here, it is safe to proceed.  Let us change places.  I will take the reins.  Do you, Drusus, come and direct me.”

“Oh! domine!” entreated Antiochus, “don’t imperil yourself to-night!  I’m sure some calamity impends before dawn.  I consulted a soothsayer before setting out, and the dove which he examined had no heart—­a certain sign of evil.”

“Rascal!” retorted his patron, “the omens will be more favourable when I please.  A beast wants a heart—­no very great prodigy! men lose theirs very often, and think it slight disgrace.  Change your seat, sirrah!”