"Yet I was not always thus, a hired butcher, a savage chief of savage men.
My father was a reverent man, who feared great Jupiter, and brought the
rural deities his offerings of fruits ad flowers. He dwelt among the
vine-clad rocks and olive groves at the foot of Helicon. My early life ran
quiet as the brook by which I sported. I was taught to prune the vine, to
tend the flock; and then, at noon, I gathered my sheep beneath the shade,
and played upon the shepherd's flute. I had a friend, the son of our
neighbor; we led our flocks to the same pasture, and shared together our
rustic meal.

"One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath
the myrtle that shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling
of Marathon and Leuctra, and how, in ancient times, a little band of
Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, withstood a whole army. I did not
then know what war meant; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why; and I
clasped the hand of that venerable man, till my mother, parting the hair
from off my brow, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and
think no more of those old tales and savage wars.

"That very night the Romans landed on our shore, and the dash of steel was
heard within our quiet vale. I saw the breast that had nourished me
trampled by the iron hoof of the warhorse; the bleeding body of my father
flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling. To-day I killed a man in
the arena, and when I broke his helmet clasps, behold!--it was my friend!
He knew me,--smiled faintly,--gasped,--and died. The same sweet smile that
I had marked upon his face, when, in adventurous boyhood, we scaled some
lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish
triumph. I told the Prator he was my friend, noble and brave, and I begged
his body, that I might burn it upon the funeral-pile, and mourn over him.