Julian ceased to see or understand the surge of battle round him; he was conscious only of intolerable thirst and a sharp aching in the bones of his sword hand; he had lost all reckoning of time. But Severus kept all his presence of mind, and directed the fight with incomparable skill. Perplexed and heart-broken, Julian perceived the orange scarf of Chlodomir in the midst of the legions; the barbarians had penetrated obliquely into the centre of the Roman army. Julian thought "All is lost!" He remembered the unfavourable presages of the morning and addressed a last prayer to the gods of Olympus-- "Come, help me! For who is there but I to restore you to power upon earth?" In the centre of the army were stationed the old veterans of the Petulant legion, so called on account of their rashness. Severus counted on them, and his reliance was not in vain. One of them shouted-- "_Viri fortissimi!_ Bravest of the brave, let us not betray Rome and our Cæsar! Let us die for Julian! Glory and prosperity to Cæsar Julian!" "For Rome ... for Rome..." stern voices responded, and these tried legions, grown grey under the flag, once again went to meet death, steady and cheery. The inspiring breath of great Rome swept over the whole army. Julian, his eyes full of enthusiastic tears, rode towards the veterans to die along with them. Again he felt the force of sheer affection, the force of the people lifting him on its wings to carry him to victory. Then terror seized the barbaric masses; they trembled, broke, and fled; and the eagles of the legions, their rapacious beaks and outspread wings glittering in the sun, swooped down again amongst the routed tribes, proclaiming the victory of the Eternal City. The Alemanni and Franks perished fighting to the last gasp. Kneeling in a pool of blood, the savage would wield his sword or lance with a slackening hand, but in his troubled eyes were to be seen neither fear nor despair, only thirst for vengeance and contempt for his conquerors. Even those who were left for dead arose, half-crushed, and fixed their teeth in the legs of their enemies. Six thousand barbarians fell in that battle or were drowned in the Rhine. The same evening, as Julian Cæsar stood on the hill, enveloped by the rays of the setting sun, King Chlodomir, who had been made prisoner on the bank of the river, was led before him. He was breathing with difficulty, his face livid and sweating, his enormous hands bound behind his back. He knelt down before his conqueror, and the young Cæsar of twenty-two laid his slight hand upon the shaggy head. XIX It was the time of vintage; all day songs had been echoing along the hill-sides around the pleasant Gulf of Naples. In the favourite country of the Romans, at Baiæ, famous for its sulphur-baths, Baiæ of which the Augustan poets used to say, _Nullus in orbe sinus Baiis prælucet amoenis,--_ idle folk were delighting in the country and Nature; there fairer and more voluptuous than man.