confederates were sent to their deaths; it was the ardour of a young politician.  I defied the rage of the Senate, while I was praetor; still more hot madness.  I faced death a thousand times in Gaul, against the Nervii, in the campaign with Vercingetorix; all this was the mere courage of the common soldier.  But it is not of death I am afraid; be it death on the field of battle, or death at the hands of the executioner, should I fall into the power of my enemies, I fear myself.

“You ask me to explain?” went on the general, without pausing for a question.  “Hearken!  I am a man, you are a man, our enemies are men.  I have slain a hundred thousand men in Gaul.  Cruel?  No, for had they lived the great designs which the deity wills to accomplish in that country could not be executed!  But then my mind was at rest.  I said, ‘Let these men die,’ and no Nemesis has required their blood at my hands.  What profit these considerations?  The Republic is nothing but a name, without substance or reality.  It is doomed to fall.  Sulla was a fool to abdicate the dictatorship.  Why did he not establish a despotism, and save us all this turmoil of politics?  But Lentulus Crus, Pompeius, Cato, Scipio—­they are men with as much ambition, as much love of life, as myself.  The Republic will fall into their hands.  Why will it be worse off than in mine?  Why shed rivers of blood?  After death one knows no regrets.  If I were dead, what would it matter to me if obloquy was imputed to my name, if my enemies triumphed, if the world went to chaos over my grave.  It would not mean so much as a single evil dream in my perpetual slumber.”

Caesar was no longer resting on the bank.  He was pacing to and fro, with rapid, nervous steps, crushing the dry twigs under his shoes, pressing his hands together behind his back, knitting and unknitting his fingers.

Drusus knew enough to be aware that he was present as a spectator of that most terrible of all conflicts—­a strong man’s wrestle with his own misgivings.  To say something, to say anything, that would ease the shock of the contest—­that was the young man’s compelling desire; but he felt as helpless as though he, single handed, confronted ten legions.

“But your friends, Imperator,” he faltered, “think of them!  They have made sacrifices for you.  They trust in you.  Do not abandon them to their enemies!”

Caesar stopped in his impetuous pacings.

“Look here,” he exclaimed, almost fiercely, “you wish to be happy.  You are still very young; life is sweet.  You have just forsaken wealth, friends, love, because you have a fantastic attachment for my cause.  You will live to repent of your boyish decision.  You will wish to win back all you have lost.  Well, I will give you the chance; do what I tell you, and you shall ride into Rome the hero of Senate and people!  The consuls will be to you all smiles.  Pompeius will canvass for you if you desire to become a candidate for curule office before you reach the legal age limit.  Cicero will extol your name in an immortal oration, in which he will laud your deed above the slaying of the dangerous demagogue Maelius by Servilius Ahala.  Will you do as I shall bid you?”