these must perish!” and plunging the rowels into his horse’s sides, he dashed between the conflicting bands.  We, his staff, followed him to surround and protect him; obeying his signal, however, we fell back somewhat.  The soldiery perceiving him, paused in their onset; he did not swerve from the bullets that passed near him, but rode immediately between the opposing lines.  Silence succeeded to clamour; about fifty men lay on the ground dying or dead.  Adrian raised his sword in act to speak:  “By whose command,” he cried, addressing his own troops, “do you advance?  Who ordered your attack?  Fall back; these misguided men shall not be slaughtered, while I am your general.  Sheath your weapons; these are your brothers, commit not fratricide; soon the plague will not leave one for you to glut your revenge upon:  will you be more pitiless than pestilence?  As you honour me—­as you worship God, in whose image those also are created—­as your children and friends are dear to you,—­shed not a drop of precious human blood.”

He spoke with outstretched hand and winning voice, and then turning to our invaders, with a severe brow, he commanded them to lay down their arms:  “Do you think,” he said, “that because we are wasted by plague, you can overcome us; the plague is also among you, and when ye are vanquished by famine and disease, the ghosts of those you have murdered will arise to bid you not hope in death.  Lay down your arms, barbarous and cruel men—­men whose hands are stained with the blood of the innocent, whose souls are weighed down by the orphan’s cry!  We shall conquer, for the right is on our side; already your cheeks are pale—­the weapons fall from your nerveless grasp.  Lay down your arms, fellow men! brethren!  Pardon, succour, and brotherly love await your repentance.  You are dear to us, because you wear the frail shape of humanity; each one among you will find a friend and host among these forces.  Shall man be the enemy of man, while plague, the foe to all, even now is above us, triumphing in our butchery, more cruel than her own?”

Each army paused.  On our side the soldiers grasped their arms firmly, and looked with stern glances on the foe.  These had not thrown down their weapons, more from fear than the spirit of contest; they looked at each other, each wishing to follow some example given him,—­but they had no leader.  Adrian threw himself from his horse, and approaching one of those just slain:  “He was a man,” he cried, “and he is dead.  O quickly bind up the wounds of the fallen—­let not one die; let not one more soul escape through your merciless gashes, to relate before the throne of God the tale of fratricide; bind up their wounds—­restore them to their friends.  Cast away the hearts of tigers that burn in your breasts; throw down those tools of cruelty and hate; in this pause of exterminating destiny, let each man be brother, guardian, and stay to the other.  Away with those blood-stained arms, and hasten some of you to bind up these wounds.”