Caesar drew rein, and cast his eyes down the swaying lines. "I dare not order up the third line so early," he began; then, with a glance to the extreme right, "Ah, _Mehercle!_ we are at the crisis now! Our cavalry have given way before the enemy's horse. They are outflanking us!" "The six cohorts!" cried Drusus. "The six cohorts--ride! Make them stop those horse, or all is lost! On your life, go!" And away went Drusus. The supreme moment of his life had come. The whole act of being, he felt, he knew, had been only that he might live at that instant. What the next hour had in store--life, death--he cared not at all. The Caesarian horse, outnumbered seven to one, had fought valiantly, but been borne back by sheer weight of numbers. With not a man in sight to oppose them, the whole mass of the splendid Pompeian cavalry was sweeping around to crush the unprotected flank of the tenth legion. The sight of the on-rushing squadrons was beyond words magnificent. The tossing mass of their panoplies was a sea of scarlet, purple, brass, and flashing steel; the roar of the hoof-beats of seven thousand blooded coursers swept on like the approaching of the wind leading the clouds in whose breast are thunder and lightning unfettered. Behind them rose the dun vapour of the dust, drifting up toward heaven,--the whirling vortex of the storm. It was indeed the crisis. The six cohorts were standing, resting on their shields, in the rear of the extreme right flank of the third line. They were in an oblique formation. The most distant cohort extended far back, and far beyond the Caesarian line of battle. The hearts of the soldiers were in the deathly press ahead, but they were veterans; discipline held them quiet, albeit restive in soul. On swept the roar of the advancing Pompeians. What must be done must be done quickly. Drusus drove the spurs into his horse, and approached the cohorts on a headlong gallop. "Forward! I will lead you against the enemy!" No need of second command. The maniples rushed onward as though the men were runners in a race, not soldiers clothed in armour. Drusus flew down the ranks and swung the farthest cohorts into alignment with the others. There was not a moment to lose. "Now, men, if ye be indeed soldiers of Caesar, at them!" Drusus was astounded at the resonance of his own voice; a thousand others caught up the shout. "_Venus victrix!_" And straight into the teeth of the galloping hosts charged the thin line of infantry.