He used to call Aragaris cousin, not through blood relationship, but for friendship's sake. They had been taken into the Roman army from opposite ends of the world. The northern barbarian, a huge guzzler but a chaste liver, despised the voluptuous and timid Syrian who was so frugal in his eating and drinking. But while mocking him he pitied him as a child. "Cousin!" wailed Strombix. "Well, what is it? Can't you be quiet?" "Are there bears in this wood?" "Yes!" answered Aragaris sullenly. "And suppose we met one, eh?" "We should knock him on the head, sell his skin, and go and drink." "And suppose the bear, instead of being killed..." "Poltroon! it isn't difficult to see that you're a Christian!" "Why must a Christian be a coward?" said Strombix with a vexed air. "You've told me yourself that in your Book it is written _whosoever smiteth thee on thy right cheek turn to him the other also_." "True." "Well, I'm right; and if so, to my thinking you mustn't go to wars; the enemy will strike you on one cheek and you turn him round the other. You're a set of cowards, I say." "The Cæsar Julian's a Christian, and _he_ isn't a coward!" retorted Strombix. "I know, my boy," continued Aragaris, "that you can pardon enemies when you have to fight them, poor chicken! Your belly is no bigger than my fist. With a clove in it you're fed up for the whole day; and so your blood is no better than marsh-water!" "Ah, cousin! cousin!" observed Strombix reproachfully, "why did you talk about food? Now I've got another gnawing ache in my stomach. Give me a little garlic! There's some left in your bag." "If I give you what there's left we shall both starve to-morrow in this forest!" "Ah, but if you don't give me some now, I shall fall from weakness and you will be obliged to carry me." "Well, stuff and swill, dog!" "And a little bread too," begged Strombix. Aragaris gave him, with an oath, his last ration of biscuit. He himself had eaten overnight enough for two days, of fat pork and bean pottage. "Attention! Hark!" he said halting. "There's a trumpet! We're not far from the camp. We must steer round to the north.... I don't mind bears," added Aragaris thoughtfully, "but that centurion..." The soldiers had nicknamed this hated centurion "Cedo Alteram," because he used to cry out gleefully every time he broke the rod with which he was striking a delinquent, _Cedo alteram!_ that is to say, "Give us another!" "I'm certain," said the barbarian--"I'll wager that Cedo Alteram will tan my back as a tanner whacks a bullock's hide. It's abominable, my friend, abominable."