‘Most surely—robbed of what little money I have about me, and deprived of my life as well. I have been decoyed into a trap,’ said Fabricius, rising to his feet, with the help of the Centurion’s arm. ‘Thanks! My name is Quintus Fabricius, and I dwell on the Janiculum. I owe my life to you this night, and I will prove my gratitude, if my means and exertions are able to do so.’ ‘There needs no thought, but thankfulness, that we chanced to arrive so opportunely. The rest was easy—they ran off when they caught sight of us—we came, saw, and conquered!’ said the officer, laughing. ‘Be that for me to determine,’ rejoined Fabricius; ‘I will ask but two things of you.’ ‘Name them.’ ‘The first is the name of one I have cause to remember.’ ‘We are a good score of fellows—would you wish for them all?’ ‘Thine only. Through you I shall know the rest.’ ‘For their sakes, then, we are Pretorians.’ ‘So I see,’ observed Fabricius, with gentle impatience. ‘Well, then, I am Centurion thereof, and my name Martialis. But what of that? We all have done, one as much as another, and the whole amounts to nothing,—come, sir, and I will send two or three to guard you home.’ The old man, still somewhat confused and trembling, murmured once or twice the name he had heard, as if it bore some familiar sound. ‘Your name seems to ring in my ears as if I had heard it of old,’ he said; ‘but that in good time. Having given me your name, you will not, therefore, refuse me the honour of your friendship. Give me your word, you will visit me, and speedily. In the Transtibertine I am to be found by the simple asking.’ ‘Willingly! I accept your kindness with pleasure,’ answered Martialis, with growing impatience to go onward. ‘Come with me now! Your men could return without you,’ urged the old man. ‘What—entice me from my duty! Nay, you would not,’ cried Martialis, shaking his head and laughing. ‘He would be bold, indeed, who would try to seduce an officer of our Prefect,’ interposed the quietly bitter voice of him who sat on the led horse, ‘especially when that zealous and frank‐minded Prefect sends his officer to lead a son of Germanicus, like a felon, to Rome.’ ‘What!—of Germanicus!’ exclaimed Fabricius, in astonishment, and ere he could be stopped he pushed up to the speaker and seized his hand. ‘Drusus—of that same unhappy family. Evil fate spares us not.’ ‘Your pardon, Prince, but this is against my orders,’ interposed Martialis, quickly and firmly; ‘you will not compel me to enforce them?’ ‘Enough! Lead on!’ responded the ill‐fated prince, in a mournful voice. ‘Farewell, friend, whoever thou art.’