towards him from the river. Weary and spent, drenched with water and
caked with dirt and sweat, both horse and man were at the last stage of
their endurance. With amazement the Roman watched their progress, and
recognized in the ragged, swaying figure, with flying hair and staring
eyes, the hermit of the eastern desert. He ran to meet him, and caught
him in his arms as he reeled from the saddle.

"What is it, then?" he asked. "What is your news?"

But the hermit could only point at the rising sun. "To arms!" he
croaked. "To arms! The day of wrath is come!" And as he looked, the
Roman saw--far across the river--a great dark shadow, which moved slowly
over the distant plain.



THE LAST OF THE LEGIONS


Pontus, the Roman viceroy, sat in the atrium of his palatial villa by
the Thames, and he looked with perplexity at the scroll of papyrus which
he had just unrolled. Before him stood the messenger who had brought
it, a swarthy little Italian, whose black eyes were glazed with want of
sleep, and his olive features darker still from dust and sweat.
The viceroy was looking fixedly at him, yet he saw him not, so full was
his mind of this sudden and most unexpected order. To him it seemed as
if the solid earth had given way beneath his feet. His life and the
work of his life had come to irremediable ruin.

"Very good," he said at last in a hard dry voice, "you can go."