“Ah!” said Casca, “and _then_ die, and be remembered no more. Claudius, I think often of all the great dead, the old Greeks, their brave soldiers, their wise philosophers, Socrates and Plato, Aristides and Themistocles. Their poets and their heroes, all alike gone--gone as the man yesterday went on the hill-top--gone, and _whither_? If it be true that there is another life, what _is_ that life? I torture myself with questions, and I know that if I were led out to die as Alban was, I should shiver and tremble, aye, and pray for mercy. While _he_--there was light in his eye, there was a ring of victory in his voice, and no wonder that the executioner refused to perform his office, and died with Alban rather than see him die by his hand. I say, there must be something grand and noble in the faith which can give a man courage not only to meet death, but to welcome it, to court it, and to see beyond it, instead of darkness, light.” “Yes,” said Claudius, “but remember, my good Casca, that thousands of Romans, tens of thousands of Greeks, aye, and of our own poor Britons also, have met death as bravely as this man Alban did. There is a difference in our bodies--thine and mine, to wit”--and Claudius stretched out his young, muscular arm, bronzed and bare, from under the loose sleeve of his toga virilis, which was indeed a contrast to the white, slender arm of his companion. “There is a difference, my good Casca, in the make and build of men, aye, and of women too, and it is the same with their natures. Some are brave as lions, others as timid as sheep. Christian or Roman, Greek or Briton, it is the same.” “No,” said Casca, starting up, “but it is _not_ all the same. Poor Ebba was as timid and shy as any sheep, and yet she has gone to meet death, for I feel sure they will track her out. May I be gone hence ere that time comes! But I say it is something more than what we call nature, which is at work with those who meet death as Alban did.” “Hist! good Casca, be not too free with thy tongue, or it may bring trouble. Keep thy thoughts to thyself; even now I fancy I see the curtain moving. But I must away; I have to practise in the course, and I have to attend my father to a trial of strength in the circus, where he is to bestow a prize on the swiftest runner and strongest arm in throwing the quoit. Vale! good Casca, and pluck up thy courage.” Claudius sprang lightly from the couch, swept the curtain aside, and disappeared.