saeviat aucta lues et miles probra superbus ingerat obsesso captivaque pignora monstret: non tamen aut morbi tabes aut omne periclum docta subire fames aut praedae luctus ademptae 245 aut pudor aut dictis movere procacibus irae, ut male temptato totiens se credere campo comminus auderet. nulla est victoria maior, quam quae confessos animo quoque subiugat hostes. iamque frequens rarum decerpere transfuga robur 250 coeperat inque dies numerus decrescere castris, nec iam deditio paucis occulta parari, sed cunei totaeque palam discedere turmae. consequitur vanoque fremens clamore retentat cumque suis iam bella gerit; mox nomina supplex 255 cum fletu precibusque ciet veterumque laborum admonet et frustra iugulum parcentibus offert, defixoque malis animo sua membra suasque cernit abire manus: qualis Cybeleia quassans Hyblaeus procul aera senex revocare fugaces 260 tinnitu conatur apes, quae sponte relictis descivere favis, sonituque exhaustus inani raptas mellis opes solitaeque oblita latebrae perfida deplorat vacuis examina ceris. Ergo ubi praeclusae voci laxata remisit 265 frena dolor, notas oculis umentibus Alpes adspicit et nimium diversi stamine fati * * * * * Page 93 aggravated by the season’s heat, though the soldiers arrogantly heaped abuse on their beleaguered leader and reminded him of their captured children; yet neither the ravages of disease nor famine that teaches men to face all dangers, nor grief for spoils lost, nor the voice of shame nor anger at bitter gibes could tempt him to brave the perils of a hand-to-hand fight, tried so often before and with such ill success. What triumph more complete than that of extorting from a conquered foe the admission that he is conquered? And now numbers of deserters began to weaken his already reduced strength and day by day his forces were diminished. Sedition was not now the hidden work of a few but meant the open defection of whole sections and squadrons. Their general rides after them and with angry curses and vain clamour seeks to hold them back, waging war now on his own troops. He weeps, calls the men by name, recalls them with prayers and supplications; he reminds them of past campaigns and all to no purpose offers his throat to their reluctant hands. His mind a prey to melancholy he sees his forces desert him, his army melt away, even as an old bee-master of Hybla, beating Cybele’s gong, tries, by means of that noise, to recall his scattered bees who have wantonly left their combs and fled the hive, till, himself wearied of the useless sound, he weeps the loss of his store of honey and cries out upon the faithless swarm that has forgotten its accustomed home and left its cells empty.