“That is the Pearl-Maiden,” said one of them, whereon they all crowded around her, criticising her aloud in their idle curiosity.

“Too short,” said one.  “Too thin,” said another.  “Too small in the foot for her ankle,” said a third.  “Fools,” broke in a fourth, a young man with a fine figure and dark rings round his eyes, “what is the use of trying to cheapen this piece of goods thus in the eyes of the experienced?  I say that this Pearl-Maiden is as perfect as those pearls about her own neck; on a small scale, perhaps, but quite perfect, and you will admit that I ought to know.”

“Lucius says that she is perfect,” remarked one of them in a tone of acquiescence, as though that verdict settled the matter.

“Yes,” went on the critical Lucius, “now, to take one thing only, a point so often overlooked.  Observe how fresh and firm her flesh is.  When I press it thus,” and he suited the action to the word, “as I thought, my finger leaves scarcely any mark.”

“But my arm does,” said a gruff voice beside him, and next moment this scented judge of human beings received the point of the elbow of Gallus between the eyes just where the nose is set into the forehead.  With such force and skill was the blow directed that next instant the critic was sprawling on his back upon the pavement, the blood gushing from his nostrils.  Now most of them laughed, but some murmured, while Gallus said: 

“Way there, friends, way there!  I am charged to deliver this lady to the Caesars and to certify that while she was in my care no man has so much as laid a finger on her.  Way there, I pray you!  And as for that whimpering puppy on his back, if he wishes it, he knows where to find Gallus.  My sword will mark him worse than my elbow, if he wants blood-letting, that I swear.”

Now with jests and excuses they fell back one and all.  There were few of them who did not know that, lame as he might be now, old Gallus was still the fiercest and most dreaded swordsman of his legion.  Indeed he was commonly reported to have slain eighteen men in single combat, and when young even to have faced the most celebrated gladiator of the day for sport, or to win a private bet, and given him life as he lay at his mercy.

So they passed on through long halls guarded by soldiers, till at length they came to a wide passage closed with splendid curtains, where the officer on duty asked them their business.  Gallus told him and he vanished through the curtains, whence he returned presently, beckoning them to advance.  They followed him down a corridor set with busts of departed emperors and empresses, to find themselves in a round marble chamber, very cool and lighted from above.  In this chamber sat and stood three men:  Vespasian, whom they knew by his strong, quiet face and grizzled hair; Titus, his son, “the darling of mankind,” thin, active, and aesthetic-looking, with eyes that were not unkindly, a sarcastic smile playing about the corners of his mouth; and Domitian, his brother, who has already been described, a man taller than either of them by half a head, and more gorgeously attired.  In front of the august three was a master of ceremonies clad in a dark-coloured robe, who was showing them drawings of various sections of the triumphal procession, and taking their orders as to such alterations as they wished.