safety. After this, if you continue to deceive yourself, none can blame
me for it!"

Sextus smiled and waved a hand to him. It was no new revelation. He
understood the attitude of all his friends far better than he did his
own strange impulses that took possession of him as a rule when
circumstances least provided an excuse.

"My theory of loyalty to friendship," he remarked, "is that a man should
dare to do what he perceives is right, and thus should prove himself
entitled to respect."

"And your friends are, in consequence, to enjoy the privilege of
attending your crucifixion one of these days!" said Norbanus.

"Nonsense. Only slaves and highwaymen are crucified."

"They call any one a highwayman who is a fugitive from what our 'Roman
Hercules' calls justice," Norbanus answered with a gesture of
irritation. His own trick of finishing people's sentences did not annoy
Sextus nearly as much as Sextus's trick of pounding on inaccuracies
irritated him. He pressed his horse into a canter and for a while they
rode beside the stream called the "Donkey-drowner" without further
conversation, each man striving to subdue the ill-temper that was on the
verge of outbreak.

Romans of the old school valued inner calm as highly as they did the
outer semblances of dignity; even the more modern Romans imitated that
distinctive attitude, pretending to Augustan calmness that had actually
ceased to be a part of public life. But with Sextus and Norbanus the