"It has been the fate of thousands--pshaw, what am I saying--of many hundred thousands, since we Romans bore our eagles over the world. You poets--even you, my softhearted friend--are fond of singing the praises of war. I tell you, he who knows and directs it rarely lauds it. War is necessary. I laugh at the foolish weaklings who, like the worthy stoics, or the monks, imagine that some day there will be a kingdom of eternal peace. War is grand; death for one's native land is the most powerful feeling that rules mankind; but war is horrible! To me it does not matter," he added, laughing, as he drained his goblet. "I need only make war, not answer for it, and above all, I need not sing its praises, I am neither anvil nor lyre; I am hammer, and woe to the vanquished! For a thousand years we have carried the terrors of our victories to all nations: an unprecedented loyalty on the part of Fortuna. But now--I hope I shall not witness it--now her wheel is gradually rolling backward--toward us--over us!" "Never!" cried the poet. "What can these half-naked Barbarians do against us? So long as we have warriors like you and, for the service of the Muses, minds--" "Like Ausonius's, do you mean? Enviable self-reliance! I tell you, I consider myself--and far better soldiers than I--incapable of resisting this ever-advancing ocean which is called 'Germans.' I have gone through many a campaign against them--against these very Alemanni. I think they know my name! But there is something mysterious under this surging multitude--I know not what--a motive power unintelligible to us all, which can no more be resisted with sword and spear than the sea itself. I have long sought the clue to the secret, yet cannot find it. But so far as the service of the Muses is concerned--pardon a rude soldier--we need peasants, not poets. There are only millionaires, beggars, and slaves. Give me a hundred thousand free peasants of the ancient Latin stock, and I'll sacrifice in return for them all the Latin poets, dead and living, and once more believe in the future of Rome. As things are--but it is already late," he cried, starting up. "Let us seek our couches. We shall not be able to end this old conflict of ours; coming generations will decide it, but not with words. Good-night! Dream of Bissula--that we may find her: you believe in dreams. For to-morrow--Nannienus has at least completed a couple of ships which he will send to cruise along the northern shore--we will make a little expedition eastward."