ierly admirers, plying him with questions. There is, of course, but one topic.
Enter Drusus and Cecilius.
"Ah!" cries the young prince, throwing himself on the divan at Messala’s feet, "Ah, by Bacchus, I am tired!"
"Whither away?" asks Messala.
"Up the street; up to the Omphalus, and beyond—who shall say how far? Rivers of people; never so many in the city before. They say we will see the whole world at the Circus to-morrow."
Messala laughed scornfully.
"The idiots! Perpol! They never beheld a Circensian with Cæsar for editor. But, my Drusus, what found you?"
"Nothing."
"O—ah! You forget," said Cecilius.
"What?" asked Drusus.
"The procession of whites."
"Mirabile!" cried Drusus, half rising.
"We met a faction of whites, and they had a banner. But—ha, ha, ha!"
He fell back indolently.
"Cruel Drusus—not to go on," said Messala.
"Scum of the desert were they, my Messala, and garbage-eaters from the Jacob’s Temple in Jerusalem. What had I to do with them?"
"Nay," said Cecilius, "Drusus is afraid of a laugh, but I am not, my Messala."
"Speak thou, then."
"Well, we stopped the faction, and—"
"Offered them a wager," said Drusus, relenting, and taking the word from the shadow’s mouth. "And—ha, ha, ha!—one fellow with not enough skin on his face to make a worm for a carp stepped forth, and—ha, ha, ha! said—yes. I drew my tablets. Who is your man? I asked. ’Ben-Hur, the Jew,’ said he. Then I: ’What shall it be? How much?’ He answered, ’A—a—’ Excuse me, Messala. By Jove’s thunder, I cannot go on for laughter! Ha, ha, ha!"
The listeners leaned forward.
Messala looked to Cecilius.
"A shekel," said the latter.
