The occupants of the Capitol continued to hold out, or rather, to keep in, and it being desirable to communicate with them, a bold youth, named Pontius Cominius, attempted the hazardous enterprise. Having encased himself in a suit of cork, he crossed the Tiber, and clambering on his hands, he performed the wonderful feat of reaching the Capitol. He returned in the same manner; and, on the following day the Gauls observing the track, thought to be all fours with him, by stealing up on the points of their fingers and the tips of their toes, to the point he had arrived at. With a cat-like caution, which eluded even the vigilance of the dogs, and while the sentinels were off their guard, a party of the Gauls crept up one by one to the top of the rock, which was the summit of their wishes. Just as they had effected their object, a wakeful goose,[24] with a head not unworthy of the sage, commenced a vehement cackle, and the solo of one old bird was soon followed by a full chorus from a score of others. Marcus Manlius, who resided near the poultry, was so alarmed at the sound that he instantly jumped out of his skin--for, in those days, a sheep's skin was the usual bedding--and ran to the spot, where he caught hold of the first Gaul he came to, and, giving him a smart push, the whole pack behind fell like so many cards to the bottom. Manlius was rewarded with the scarcest luxury the city contained, in the shape of plenty to eat, and it cannot be said that we have greatly improved upon the early Romans in matters of the same kind, for a dinner is still a common mode of acknowledging the services of a public man, and literally feeding his vanity. The Gauls continued to invest Rome, and heard with savage delight of the diminishing supplies, or rather, to use an Irishism, the increasing scarcity. News at last came that the garrison had been for some time living upon soles, and it is an admitted fact that they had consumed all but a few remaining pairs belonging to the shoes of their generals. Driven at length to desperation, they baked as hard as they could the flour they still had on hand, and making it up into quarterns, or four pounders, threw it at the enemy. The Gauls looked up with astonishment, when another volley of crust satisfied them that bread was coming "down again;" and not wishing to get their heads broken with the staff of life, which they fancied must be very plentiful in Rome, they offered terms of ransom. The price fixed upon was one thousand pounds of gold, in the weighing of which the Gauls are said to have used false weights, but it is difficult to say what weight ought to be given to the accusation. The story goes on to say that the Gallic king, on being remonstrated with for his dishonesty, cut dissension short with his sword, and throwing it into the scale with a cry of _Væ victis_, turned the balance still more in his own favour. [Illustration: The Citadel saved by the cackling of the Geese.]