“Does Decius,” cried a burly German from the crowd—Decius was the name of the centurion—“does Decius recommend that we should trust to the mercy of Honorius? Very good, perhaps, for himself; for the giver of such advice could scarcely fail of a reward; but for us it means decimation(8) at the least.” A shout of applause showed that the speaker had expressed the feelings of his audience. “I propose that we all take the oath to Decius himself!” said a Batavian; “he is a brave man and an honest, and what do we want more?” The good Decius had heard undismayed the angry disapproval which his loyal proposal had called forth; but the mention of his name as a possible candidate for the throne overwhelmed him with terror. His jovial face grew pale as death; the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead; he trembled as he had never trembled in the face of an enemy. “Comrades,” he stammered, “what have I done that you should treat me thus? If I have offended or injured you, kill me, but not this.” More than half possessed by a spirit of mischief, the assembly answered this piteous appeal by continuous shouts of “Long live the Emperor Decius!” The good man grew desperate. He drew his sword from the scabbard, and pointed it at his own heart. “At least,” he cried, “you can’t forbid me this escape.” The bystanders wrested the weapon from him; but the joke had gone far enough, and the man was too genuinely popular for the soldiers to allow him to be tormented beyond endurance. A voice from the crowd shouted, “Long live the Centurion Decius!” to which another answered, “Long live Decius the subject!” and the worthy man felt that the danger was over. A number of candidates, most of whom were probably as little desirous of the honour as Decius, were now proposed in succession. “I name the Tribune Manilius,” said one of the soldiers. The name was received with a shout of laughter. “Let him learn first to be Emperor at home!” cried a voice from the back of the assembly, a sally which had considerable success, as his wife was a well-known termagant, and his two sons the most frequent inmates of the military prison. “I name the Centurion Pisinna.” “Very good, if he does not pledge the purple,” for Pisinna was notoriously impecunious. “I name the Tribune Cetronius.” “Very good as Emperor of the baggage-guard.” Cetronius had, to say the least, no high reputation for personal courage, and was supposed to prefer the least exposed parts on the field. A number of other names were mentioned only to be dismissed with more or less contumely. Tired of this sport—for it really was nothing more—the crowd cried out for a speech from a well-known orator of the camp, whose fluency, not unmixed with shrewdness and humour, had gained him a considerable reputation among his comrades.