In the midst of some camp story, which the majority received with peals of applause, the captain glanced upon me, and asking “whether I was not ill,” held out his flask. I took it, and never did I taste draught so delicious. Thirst and hunger are the true secrets of luxury. I absolutely felt new life rushing into me with the wine. [Sidenote: The Haughtiness of a Tribune] “There,” said the old man, “see how the fellow’s eye sparkles. Falernian is the doctor, after all. I have had no other those forty years. For hard knocks, hard watches, and hard weather, there is nothing like the true juice of the vine. Try it again, Arab.” I declined the offer in civil terms. “There,” said he, “it has made the man eloquent. By Hercules, it would make his mare speak. And now that I look at her, she is as prettily made a creature as I have seen in Syria; her nose would fit in a drinking-cup. What is her price, at a word?” I answered that “she was not to be sold.” “Well, well, say no more about it,” replied the jovial old man; “I know you Arabs make as much of a mare as of a child, and I never meddle in family affairs.” A haughty-looking tribune, covered with embroidery and the other coxcombry of the court soldier, spurred his charger between us and uttered with a sneer: “What, captain, by Venus and all the Graces! giving this beggar a lecture in philosophy or a lesson in politeness? If you will not have the mare, I will. Dismount, slave!” The officers gathered to the front, to see the progress of the affair. I sat silent. “Slave! do you hear? Dismount! You will lose nothing, for you will steal another in the first field you come to.” “I know but one race of robbers in Judea,” replied I. The old captain reined up beside me, and said in a whisper: “Friend, let him have the mare. He will pay you handsomely, and besides, he is the nephew of the procurator. It will not be wise in you to put him in a passion.” “That fellow never shall have her, tho he were to coin these sands into gold,” replied I. “Do you mean to call us robbers?” said the tribune, with a lowering eye. “Do you mean to stop me on the high-road and take my property from me, yet expect that I shall call you anything else?” was the answer. “Sententious rogues, those Arabs! Every soul of them has a point, or a proverb, on his tongue,” murmured the captain to the group of young men, who were evidently amused at seeing their unpopular companion entangled with me. [Sidenote: The Tribune’s Rage] “Slave!” said the tribune fiercely, “we must have no more of this. You have been found lurking about the camp. Will you be hanged for a spy?” “A spy!” said I—and the insult probably colored my cheek; “a spy has no business among the Romans.” “So,” observed the captain, “the Arab seems to think that our proceedings are in general pretty palpable: slay, strip, and burn.” He turned to the patrician tribune. “The fellow is not worth our trouble. Shall I let him go about his business?”