tanding first causes, the human race
never had and never could; and as for a belief in heavenly revelations
or in divine influences, all such tendencies ended in philosophic
absurdity. Why, then, at this late day, should he remember that night,
on the road from Marathon to Athens, when the ancient struggle for
liberty had stirred in his own heart "a mood deep and undismayed,"
and when an impalpable ideal, under the power of a rushing torrent
of melody, had come to seem a "light for man to trust?"

Was it, indeed, days like these that had made Brutus's work so easy
when he began to collect his young company about him? And what if
Brutus had been "mistaken?" Was there not a higher wisdom than that
which could fashion nations? Horace had seen his dead face at
Philippi. Had he done right ever afterwards, however reverently, to
attribute a blunder to that mighty spirit which had left upon the
lifeless body such an imprint of majesty and repose? Surely common
sense, temperance, honest work, honourableness, fidelity, were good
fruits of human life and of useful citizenship. But was there a vaster
significance in a noble death? Was there even a truer citizenship
in the prodigal and voluntary pouring out of life, on a field of
defeat, amid alien and awful desolation?

The sun was hurrying toward the west, and Horace realised, with a
quick chill, that he was entirely in the shadow. Beyond the meadow
he could see a team of oxen turn wearily, with a heavily loaded wagon,
toward their little stable. The driver walked with a weary limp. Even
the little boy by his side forgot to play and scamper, and rather
listlessly put the last touches to a wreath of autumn flowers which
he meant to hang about the neck of the marble Faunus at the edge of
the garden.

Where could Davus be? Ah, there he came, half-running already as if
he knew his master wanted him.

"Davus," he called out, "make haste. I have had a visit from the
shades, and it has been as unpleasant as those cold baths the doctor
makes me take." Then, as he saw the look of fright on the wrinkled
face of the old slave who had been with his father when he died, he
broke into a laugh and put his hand on his shoulder. "Calm yourself,
my good fellow," he said, "we shall all be shades some day, and to-day
I feel nearer than usual to that charming state. But in the meantime
there is a chance for Bacchus and the Muses. Tell them to get out
a jar of Falernian to-night, and do you unrol