"Name him, name him!" they demanded.
"I will," he said, the next lull. "He who to the perfection of Rome hath added the perfection of the East; who to the arm of conquest, which is Western, hath also the art needful to the enjoyment of dominion, which is Eastern."
"Perpol! His best is a Roman, after all," some one shouted; and there was a great laugh, and long clapping of hands—an admission that Messala had the advantage.
"In the East," he continued, "we have no gods, only Wine, Women, and Fortune, and the greatest of them is Fortune; wherefore our motto, ’Who dareth what I dare?’—fit for the senate, fit for battle, fittest for him who, seeking the best, challenges the worst."
His voice dropped into an easy, familiar tone, but with out relaxing the ascendency he had gained.
"In the great chest up in the citadel I have five talents coin current in the markets, and here are the receipts for them."
From his tunic he drew a roll of paper, and, flinging it on the table, continued, amidst breathless silence, every eye having him in view fixed on his, every ear listening:
"The sum lies there the measure of what I dare. Who of you dares so much? You are silent. Is it too great? I will strike off one talent. What! still silent? Come, then, throw me once for these three talents—only three; for two; for one—one at least—one for the honor of the river by which you were born—Rome East against Rome West!—Orontes the barbarous against Tiber the sacred!"
He rattled the dice overhead while waiting.
"The Orontes against the Tiber!" he repeated, with an increase of scornful emphasis.
Not a man moved; then he flung the box upon the table, and, laughing, took up the receipts.
"Ha, ha, ha! By the Olympian Jove, I know now ye have fortunes to make or to mend; therefore are ye come to Antioch. Ho, Cecilius!"
"Here, Messala!" cried a man behind him; "here am I, perishing in the mob, and begging a drachma to settle with
