ers robed in military cloaks of purple cloth; behind came a small
troop of illustrious Romans--his legati, his staff, nominated by him
and sanctioned by the Senate for their fame and skill in war; also such
senators as had elected, by way of personal compliment, to ride with
the general and to partake as volunteers in whatever share of the war
he might set for them.

Quintus Fabius Maximus seemed a man just passing the prime of life.
His figure, as he sat his horse, was squat rather than tall, though
this appearance might be due, in a measure, to the great breadth of his
shoulders; altogether his frame seemed one better adapted to feats of
strength and endurance than for those of agility. The face, with its
grizzled hair and beard, both cut short, suited well the figure that
bore it. Dignity, firmness, and kindliness were in its strong and
rugged outlines, with less, perhaps, of the pride of race and rank than
might have been looked for in the head of the great family whose name
he bore--he who was now twice dictator of the destinies of Rome. For
dress, his purple cloak, similar to those of his lictors, hung loosely
from his shoulders to below his knees, and, opening in front, disclosed
a corselet of leather overlaid with metal across chest and abdomen, and
embossed with bronze designs of ancient pattern and workmanship. The
hem of the white tunic showed below the leathern pendants that hung a
foot down from his girdle; the greaves were ornamented at the knees
with lions' heads; an armour-bearer carried his master's bronze helmet
with its crest of divergent red plumes.

Such was the man upon whom Rome now depended for her saving--"for
victory," dreamed such of the unthinking as had recovered from their
terror; "for time, time, time," reasoned the man with the deep-set,
gray eyes upon whom they had pinned their faith.

Hardly a stride behind him rode Marcus Minucius Rufus, tall and
well-built, with bold, coarse features and fierce, roving eyes. His
red hair bristled from his brow, and he seemed to restrain with
difficulty either his steed or himself from darting forward into the
lead.

"Yonder is the sword of the Republic," said one of Sergius' men, as the
master-of-the-horse rode by the escort; but the man to whom he said
it--an old soldier of the Spanish wars--only shrugged his shoulders. A
moment later he grunted in reply:--

"Like enough; but it is a shield that the Republic needs most of all."

Then the