nd 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."

[89] "Chaldean" astrologers played an almost incredibly important
part among even the highest-class Romans of the period.

"My lord doth overcommend the wisdom of his slave," replied Ulamhala
(for such was his name) in Syriac Greek, with a second deep obeisance.

"Now, therefore," went on Pompeius--and his voice was unsteady with
evident excitement and anxiety,--"I have called you hither to declare
the warnings of the stars upon the most important step of my life.
What lies now at stake, you know full well. Three days ago I bade you
consult the heavens, that this night you might be able to declare
their message, not merely to me, but to these my friends, who will
shape their actions by mine. Have you a response from the planets?"

"I have, lord," and again Ulamhala salaamed.

"Then declare, be it good or ill;" commanded Pompeius, and he gripped
the arms of his chair to conceal his anxiety.

The scene was in a way weird enough. The visitors exchanged uneasy
glances, and Cato, who broke out in some silly remark to Favonius, in
a bold attempt to interrupt the oppressive silence, suddenly found his
words growing thick and broken, and he abruptly became silent. Each
man present tried to tell himself that Pompeius was a victim of
superstition, but every individual felt an inward monition that
something portentous was about to be uttered.

The conference had lasted long. The lamps were flickering low. Dark
shadows were loitering in every corner of the room. The aroma of
flowers from the adjacent gardens floated in at th