"Rejoice! Favour--great and speedy favour--awaits thee from thy great
master Augustus Constantius!"
During several moments he scrutinised the hand of Scuda narrowly.
Then, stooping to the level of his ear, muttered, so as to be heard by
none but the tribune--
"This hand is dyed with blood--the blood of a great prince!"
Scuda grew afraid.
"What dost thou dare to say, cursed hound of a Chaldean? I am a loyal
servant."
But the other probed him with his searching eyes and half ironically
responded--
"What dost thou fear? Given a few years.... And is glory won without
the spilling of blood?"
Pride and joy filled the heart of Scuda when at the head of his
soldiery he quitted the tavern. He drew near the sacred fountain,
crossed himself, and quaffed that virtuous water, invoking in a
fervent prayer St. Cosmas and St. Damian, that the prediction of
Nogodarès should not fall fruitless. Then he vaulted upon his haughty
Cappadocian charger and gave the legionaries the order "March." The
standard-bearer raised the ensign above his bared head. It was the
image of a large dragon, fixed upon a lance, with gaping jaws of
silver and the rest of its body formed of coloured silk. Unable to
withstand the wish to parade before the crowd assembled at the door of
the inn, and although conscious of peril, intoxicated with wine and
pride, the tribune stretched his sword up the misty road, and in a
loud voice commanded--
"To Macellum!"
A hum of astonishment ran through the crowd. The names of Julian and
of Gallus were uttered. The legionary who led the column raised his
skyward-twisted horn, sounded it, and the echoing note of the Roman
trumpet vibrated away amongst the mountains.