When he returned, the general had dismounted, and one of his freedmen was unbuckling the spurs from his steel greaves. His sword was out, and it was evident that he was about to lead the last onset in person. "A boon, noble Petreius!" cried the youth, leaping from his horse—"By all the Gods! By all your hopes of glory! grant me one boon, Petreius." "Ha! what?" returned the general quickly—"Speak out, be brief—what boon?" "Be it mine to head the charge!" "Art thou so greedy of fame, boy; or so athirst to die!" "So greedy of Revenge, Petreius. I have a vow in Heaven, and in Hell, to slay that parricide. If he should die by any hand but mine, I am forsworn and infamous!" "Thou, boy, and to slay Catiline!" "Even I, Petreius." "Thou art mad to say it." "Not mad, not mad, indeed, Petreius—." "He _will_ slay him, Petreius," cried an old veteran of Arvina’s troop. "The Gods thundered when he swore it. We all heard it. Grant his prayer, General; we will back him to the death. But be sure, he will slay him." "Be it so," said Petreius, struck despite himself by the confidence of the youth, and the conviction of the veterans. "Be it so, if ye will. But, remember, when we have broken through the centre, wheel to the right with the dismounted horse—the Prætorians must charge to the left. Ho! we are all in line. Forward! Ho! Victory, and Rome!"— And with the word, he rushed forward, himself a spear’s length in front of his best men, who, with a long triumphant shout, dashed after him. Passing right through the wearied troops, who had sustained the shock and brunt of the whole day, and who now opened their ranks gladly to admit the reinforcement, these fresh and splendid soldiers fell like a thunderbolt upon the centre of Catiline’s army, weakened already by the loss of its best men; and clove their way clean through it, solid and unbroken, trampling the dead and dying under foot, and hurling a small body of the rebels, still combating in desperation, into the trenches of their camp, wherein they perished to a man refusing to surrender, and undaunted. Then, wheeling to the left and right, they fell on the naked flanks of the reeling and disordered mass, while the troops whom they had relieved, re-forming themselves rapidly, pressed forward with tremendous shouts of victory, eager to share the triumph which their invincible steadiness had done so much to win. It was a battle no longer; but a route; but a carnage. Yet still not one of the rebels turned to fly; not one laid down his arms, or cried for quarter. Broken, pierced through, surrounded, overwhelmed by numbers, they fought in single lines, in scattered groups, in twos or threes, back to back, intrepid to the last, and giving mortal wounds in their extreme agony.