"Quirites," he began, "I call upon you all to become legionaries. Famine and treachery--a shameful thing to say of Romans!--have thinned the ranks of our defenders. Do you hear the sound of hammers? A crucifix is being erected to punish all deserters. Rome demands still greater sacrifices from her citizens, for _they_ have no choice. The citizens of other towns choose between surrender or destruction. We, who have grown up in the shadow of the Capitol, have no choice; for more than a thousand years of heroism sanctify this place. Here no coward thought dare arise. You cannot again endure to see the barbarians tie their horses to the columns of Trajan. We must make a last effort. The marrow of heroism ripens early in the descendants of Romulus and Cæsar; and late is spent the strength of the men who drink of the waters of the Tiber. I call upon all boys from their twelfth, all men until their eightieth year, to help to man the walls. Silence! Do not murmur. I shall send my tribunes and the lance-bearers into every house--only to prevent boys of too tender years and too aged men from volunteering their services--then why do you murmur? Does any one know of something better? Let him speak out boldly; from this place, which I now vacate in his favour." At this, the group at which the Prefect looked became perfectly silent. But behind him, amid those whom his eye could not intimidate, there arose a threatening cry: "Bread!" "Surrender!" "Bread!" Cethegus turned. "Are you not ashamed? You, worthy of your great name, have borne so much, and now, when it is only necessary to hold out a little longer, you would succumb? In a few days Belisarius will bring relief." "You told us so seven times already!" "And after the seventh time Belisarius lost almost all his ships. "Which now aid in blocking our harbour!" "You should name a term; a limit to this misery. My heart bleeds for this people!" "Who are you?" the Prefect asked the invisible speaker of the last sentence; "you can be no Roman!" "I am Pelagius the deacon, a Christian and a priest of the Lord. And I fear not man but God. The King of the Goths, although a heretic, has promised to restore to the orthodox the churches of which his fellow-heretics, the Arians, have deprived them, in every town which surrenders. Three times already has he sent a herald to the citizens of Rome with the most lenient proposals--they have never been permitted to speak to us." "Be silent, priest! You have no fatherland but heaven; no people but the communion of saints; no army but that of the angels. Manage your heavenly kingdom, but leave to men the kingdom of the Romans." "But the man of God is right!" "Set us a term." "A short one!" "Till then we will still hold out." "But if it elapse without relief----" "Then we will surrender!" "We will open the gates."