stopped, and looked over it and at the players, they all turned to him, with a shout like a cheer.
"Messala! Messala!" they cried.
Those in distant quarters, hearing the cry, re-echoed it where they were. Instantly there were dissolutions of groups, and breaking-up of games, and a general rush towards the centre.
Messala took the demonstration indifferently, and proceeded presently to show the ground of his popularity.
"A health to thee, Drusus, my friend," he said to the player next at his right; "a health—and thy tablets a moment."
He raised the waxen boards, glanced at the memoranda of wagers, and tossed them down.
"Denarii, only denarii—coin of cartmen and butchers!" he said, with a scornful laugh. "By the drunken Semele, to what is Rome coming, when a Cæsar sits o' nights waiting a turn of fortune to bring him but a beggarly denarius!"
The scion of the Drusi reddened to his brows, but the bystanders broke in upon his reply by surging closer around the table, and shouting, "The Messala! the Messala!"
"Men of the Tiber," Messala continued, wresting a box with the dice in it from a hand near-by, "who is he most favored of the gods? A Roman. Who is he lawgiver of the nations? A Roman. Who is he, by sword right, the universal master?"
The company were of the easily inspired, and the thought was one to which they were born; in a twinkling they snatched the answer from him.
"A Roman, a Roman!" they shouted.
"Yet—yet"—he lingered to catch their ears—"yet there is a better than the best of Rome."
He tossed his patrician head and paused, as if to sting them with his sneer.
"Hear ye?" he asked. "There is a better than the best of Rome."
"Ay—Hercules!" cried one.
"Bacchus!" yelled a satirist.
"Jove—Jove!" thundered the crowd.
"No," Messala answered, "among men."
