Cheerful news this to the noble lords, who had for years scented in Caesar’s existence and prosperity destruction to their own oligarchic rule of almost the known world.  But when Cato, the most violent anti-Caesarian of them all, a sharp, wiry man with angular features, and keen black eyes, demanded:—­

“And now, Magnus, you will not hesitate to annihilate the enemies of the Republic?” a look of pained indecision flitted across Pompeius’s face.

“Perpol, gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “I would that I were well out of this.  Sometimes I think that you are leading me into breaking with Caesar for some ends of your own.  He was my friend before you had a word of praise for me.  He loved Julia; so did I.”  And the Magnus paused a moment, overcome by the thought of his dead wife.  “Perhaps the Republic demands his sacrifice, perhaps—­” and he cast a glance half of menace upon Lentulus Crus and Cato, “you are the guilty, not he.  But I am in grievous doubt.”

“Perhaps, Magnus,” said Favonius, with half a sneer, “you think your forces inadequate.  The two legions at Luceria are just detached from Caesar.  Perhaps you question their fidelity.”

“Man,” retorted the general, fiercely, bringing his foot down upon the soft rug on the floor, “I have but to stamp upon the ground to call up legions out of Italy; it is not that which I fear!”

The members of the conference looked uneasy; there was still a bare chance that Pompeius would go back to his old friendship with Caesar.

“Gentlemen,” went on the Magnus, “I have called you here to reach a final decision—­peace or war.  Let us consult a higher power than human.”  And he touched a little silver bell that was upon the table close at hand.

Forthwith there was a rustle of curtains, and out of the gloom of the doorway—­for the hour was now very late—­advanced a tall, gaunt figure, dressed in a plain, sleeveless robe that fell to the feet.  The skin was dry, hard, wrinkled by a hundred furrows; the bones of the face were thrust out prominently; on the head was a plain white turban, and a beard quite as white fell down upon the breast.  Only from under the turban shone the eyes, which were bright and piercing as coals of fire.

The stranger advanced without a word, till he stood before Pompeius, then knelt and made an elaborate Oriental prostration.  The noble Romans, twelve or more of the magnates of the greatest power on the earth, held their breath in uneasy anticipation.  Not one of them perhaps really believed in a personal god; but though atheists, they could not forswear their superstition.  Piso, the censor, who notoriously feared neither divine nor human law in his reckless life, spat thrice to ward off the effects of the evil eye, if the stranger were a magician.

“Ulamhala,” said Pompeius, addressing the newcomer, “arise.  Since I have been in the East,[89] I have consulted you and your science of the stars, in every intended step, and your warnings have never failed.”