But habitual terror had made the priest an adept at self-defence. It was impossible to take him wholly off his guard. At the first sound he turned, quick as lightning, and, dropping his sword, seized with one arm the hand which grasped the reaping-hook--the gleam of which he had caught in the moonlight--and with the other dealt Onesimus a blow on the face which knocked him stunned upon the turf. To stoop over his prostrate form and wrench from his grasp the reaping-hook, was the work of a moment. With a scornful laugh he flung the weapon over the wall which enclosed the sacred shrine, and then placed his foot on the youth’s breast. Onesimus came to his senses, felt the heavy foot on his breast, and opened his eyes. ‘So,’ said the priest, with a grim laugh, ‘you wanted to be Rex Nemorensis, did you? It’s none so enviable a post, let me tell you; and it will take a stronger and craftier man than you to kill Croto when his day comes.’ ‘Kill me at once,’ said the Phrygian, with a groan. Croto stooped to pick up his sword, and placed its point at the throat of his assailant; but he paused. ‘By Hercules,’ he said--‘or perhaps officially I ought to say by Virbius--I have seen this face before!’ Onesimus looked up at him, and dimly recalled the slave-prison at Antium. ‘Do you know me?’ asked the priest. ‘I once gave an _aureus_ to a man named Croto to let me escape from a slave-prison. You are like him.’ ‘I am Croto,’ said the priest, again laughing grimly. ‘Is that how you repay your benefactor? Do you know that it is through you I am here, and am never sure any day of not being murdered before evening? Some sneaking slave betrayed that I had let you escape from Antium. I was threatened with chains and torture. I had seen enough of that sort of thing, so I fled. I thought of Aricia; plucked the golden bough, as I see you have done; and killed Manius, my predecessor.’ ‘I did not know,’ answered Onesimus. ‘Kill me. I ask nothing better.’ But Croto still did not drive home the sword. ‘Poor wretch!’ he said. ‘You are but a youth, and are you tired of life already?’ ‘Utterly tired, or I should not have been the wicked fool I have shown myself to-night.’ ‘Why should I kill thee?’ said Croto. ‘Swear never again to attack me, and thou shalt go unscathed.’ ‘It would be kinder to kill a wretch whom God hates.’ ‘Go,’ said Croto. ‘Diana has so many victims, she can spare this one. Give me your “golden bough,” and let us part good friends.’ Onesimus rose, miserable and crestfallen. ‘I am penniless,’ he said, ‘or I would try to show myself grateful.’