another push would have sent him plunging into the sea; but his companions sent the attackers reeling back, and there was more breathing time.  The Alexandrians had received a taste of these Roman blades, and they did not enjoy it.  Stripping the dead and picking up lost arms was more profitable than bearding the three lions.  The galley was drawing nearer.  Drusus began to think of something else besides thrusting at men before him.

“They will give us time to escape, Imperator.”

“I think so;” but as Caesar spoke all three started in dismay.  There was a new face among the little band immediately opposed to them—­Pratinas.

The Greek had never looked so handsome as in armour.  His beautifully polished mail sat on him with perfect grace; he was a model for an artist’s Ares, the beautiful genius of battle. He, at least, knew whose were those three stern, set faces defiantly peering over the low parapet that ran waist-high along the edge of the mole.

“At them!” cried the Hellene.  “A thousand drachmas to the man who brings the middle Roman down!”

The “middle Roman” was Caesar.  The enemy came on again, this time some springing over the parapet to run along the narrow outer platform and attack from either side.  But the galley was still nearer.

“Throw off your armour and leap!” It was Drusus who commanded now, and Caesar who obeyed.  The Imperator tore off his greaves and helmet, caught his general’s cloak in his teeth, that it might not fall as a trophy to the foe, and sprang down into the waves; it was all done in a twinkling.  But, quick as the leap had been, it was but just in time.  A rush of irresistible numbers carried Drusus off of his feet, and he fell also—­but fell in all his armour.  It was an instant too crowded for sensations.  He just realized that his helmet tumbled from his head as he fell backward.  The weight of his greaves righted him while he was in the air.  He struck the water with his feet.  There was a chilling shock; and then, as he went down, the shield on his left arm caught the water in its hollow and bore him upward.  Nature reasserted itself; by a mighty tug at the straps he wrenched away his breastplate, and could make shift to float.  The short harbour waves lifted him, and he saw Caesar striking out boldly toward the now rapidly approaching galley.  Even as the general swam, Drusus observed that he held up a package of papyri in his left hand to keep it out of the wet; in uttermost perils Caesar could not forget his books.  But while the young man gazed seaward, shook the water from his eyes, and struck out to reach the friendly galley, groans and shouts arose from the waters near beside him.  A voice—­Agias’s voice—­was calling out for help.  The sound of his freedman’s cries drove the Roman to action.  Twice the waves lifted him, and he saw nothing; but at the third time he lit on two forms clinging to a bit of wreckage, and yet struggling together.  A few powerful strokes