‘Well, but, patron—the soldiers! Who could be at both ends of the road at once? Another minute and I had done my work to perfection—I had finished it even now, but for that meddling fool, who chose to put in his word. Be reasonable, patron; I carried out your plans to the very letter and minute, but you made no provision for a troop of legionaries to interfere.’ ‘Silence, blockhead! could I not see?’ fumed Afer. ‘Why, the old dotard, if they had left you to it, would have cracked your skull, thick as it is.’ ‘No, never—if he outlived Saturn!’ retorted the Suburan, with rising voice, as well as choler, ‘nor fifty dotards from fifty Janiculums. Let me do the job in my own way, without the useless tomfoolery of a whining tale and a moonlight walk, and a cohort of asses lurking on one’s steps—leave it to me alone and you shall see.’ ‘Yes, I should see you with thy neck in a noose and myself proclaimed,’ sneered Afer. ‘Leave it to you, indeed! If you cannot do better than this, with four stout fellows to back you, what would you do alone? Fool!’ ‘I am no fool!’ returned Cestus fiercely; for the cutting contempt and epithets of his patron were more than he could bear. ‘A double fool—a swaggering, bragging, drunken fool, thick of sense and slow of hand—faugh!’ ‘I tell thee, Afer, I am no fool!’ bawled Cestus; ‘it is thyself!’ ‘I was, to trust your workmanship. Fabricius eats his postponed supper, and you are off to your foxholes, like a cur, with its tail between its legs. Begone and trouble me no more!’ thundered Afer, in uncontrollable passion. ‘You shall know that—clever as you think yourself, you are under my thumb. One word from me——’ ‘Silence, you dog, when I bid you!’ hissed the knight, striding up to him and clutching his collar. ‘Not I, by Hercules!’ cried Cestus, thoroughly roused and reckless as he shook off the grasp. ‘You, a chicken‐hearted, double‐faced pauper, to be my master——’ ‘_Accipe——!_ Let that silence thee for ever!’ The knight threw up his arm as he spoke, and the Suburan, giving a sharp cry, fell heavily, stabbed in the breast. Afer hastily wiped his poniard and replaced it in the folds of his cloak. ‘There is no bungling in this,’ he muttered; ‘dead men tell no tales.’ Only delaying to drag the fallen man by the heels more into the shadow of a wall, he hurried swiftly on; and, before morning dawned, he entered the yet sleeping town of Tibur, disappointed in mind, and yet not altogether without a feeling of satisfaction and relief at the course circumstances had taken. CHAPTER X.