“Well,” went on the poet, “I have since thought that if I had been a man I should have died with him. But when I knew that he was dead, I was coward enough to fly. You would not care to hear how I spent the next few days. I had a few gold pieces in my pocket, and I found a wretched lodging in one of the worst parts of the city, and I lay there in hiding. One day I was having my morning meal at a wine shop, when a shabbily dressed old man, who sat next, turned to me in a meaning way, and, pouring a few drops out of his wine cup, said, ‘To Apollo and the Muses.’ That is a crime now-a-days, in some places at least, Ravenna among them; and he wanted, I suppose, to put me at my ease. ‘Will you not do the same,’ he went on, ‘of all men in the world there is no one who has better cause.’ Pardon me, illustrious Count, if I repeat his flatteries. ‘Whom do you take me for?’ said I, for one gets to be a sad coward after a few days’ hiding, and I was unwilling to declare myself. He replied by repeating some of my verses in so meaning a way that I could not misunderstand him. ‘These wine-bibbers here,’ he went on, ‘don’t know one verse from another, but they might catch up a name. Come along with me; I will give you a flask of something better than this sour stuff.’ Well, we went to his house, which was close to the harbour. He was the owner, I found, of two or three small trading vessels. The house was a veritable temple of the Muses, ornamented with busts of the poets—my own I was flattered to see among them—and containing an excellent library of books. Manlius—that was my friend’s name—had heard me recite at Rome; and he recognized me partly from memory, partly from my resemblance to the bust. To make a long story short, he entertained me most hospitably for several days, while we discussed the question what was to become of me. Home I could not go, not, at least, till there should be a change in the Emperor’s surroundings. The further I got from Italy the more chance there would be of safety. We thought of North-western Gaul or Britain, or of getting across the Rhine. The end of it was that the good fellow took me across Italy, disguised as his servant, to Genoa, where he had correspondents. From Genoa I went to Marseilles, and from Marseilles overland to Narbonne, using now the character of a bookseller’s agent, one which I thought myself better qualified to sustain than any other. At Narbonne I found employment as a bookseller’s assistant, till I could get a letter from my wife in Africa with some money. That came in due course, and then I set off on my travels again, still working northwards. Then, sir, I thought of you. I had often heard the great man speak of you. You served under him against the Bastarnæ,(51) I think, and it occurred to me that for Stilicho’s sake you might give me shelter. Not that it matters much to me. To Stilicho I owe so much that I can scarcely imagine life without him. He gave me honour,