Drusus’s eyes had been riveted on those of the general.  He saw that at Caesar’s side was girded a long slender dagger in an embossed silver sheath.  He saw the Imperator draw out the blade halfway, then point off into the river where the water ran sluggishly through a single deep mist-shaded pool.

“Do you understand?” went on Caesar, as calmly as though he had been expounding a problem of metaphysics.  “You can take this ring of mine, and by its aid go through the whole legion, and obtain the best horses for flight, before anything is discovered.  Your conscience need not trouble you.  You will only have done as I earnestly requested.”

The cold sweat started to Drusus’s forehead, his head swam; he knew that it was more than the mist of the river-fog that drifted before his eyes.  Then, filled with a sudden impulse, he sprang on the general and wrenched the dagger from its sheath.

“Here!” cried Caesar, tearing back the mantle from his breast.

“There!” cried Drusus, and the bright blade glinted once in the air, and splashed down into the dark ripple.  He caught the Imperator about the arms, and flung his head on the other’s neck.

“Oh!  Imperator,” he cried, “do not desert us.  Do not desert the Commonwealth!  Do not hand us back to new ruin, new tyrants, new wars!  Strike, strike, and so be merciful!  Surely the gods have not led you thus far, and no farther!  But yesterday you said they were leading us.  To-day they still must guide!  To you it has been given to pull down and to build up.  Fail not!  If there be gods, trust in them!  If there be none slay me first, then do whatever you will!”

Caesar shook himself.  His voice was harsh with command.

“Unhand me!  I must accomplish my own fate!” and then, in a totally different tone, “Quintus Drusus, I have been a coward for the first time in my life.  Are you ashamed of your general?”

“I never admired you more, Imperator.”

“Thank you.  And will you go aside a little, please?  I will need a few moments for meditation.”

Drusus hesitated.  His eyes wandered off to the river.  In one spot it was quite deep.

“Phui!” said the proconsul, carelessly, “I am too brave for such a venture now.  Leave me on my embankment, like Diogenes and his tub.”

Drusus clambered part way up the slope, and seated himself under a stunted oak tree.  The light was growing stronger.  The east was overshot with ripples of crimson and orange, here blending into lines each more gorgeous than a moment before.  The wind was chasing in from the bosom of Adria, and driving the fleeting mists up the little valley.  The hills were springing out of the gloom, the thrushes were swinging in the boughs overhead, and pouring out their morning song.  Out from the camp the bugles were calling the soldiers for the march; the baggage trains were rumbling over the bridge.  But still below on the marge lingered the solitary