‘“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may: I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now, who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?’ There were not lacking Romans to answer the brave challenge:-- ‘“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee,”’ cried Spurius Lartius, one of Rome’s strongest warriors, while the voice of another brave soldier, named Herminius, rang out clear above the noise of arms:-- ‘“I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee,” For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, In the brave days of old.’ Fully armed, the three brave men sprang to the end of the bridge farthest from the city, and flung defiance at Lars Porsenna and his great army. The king and his army, seeing but three stalwart warriors, laughed them to scorn, yet ere long their scorn gave way to amazement. Before the missiles hurled upon them, before the fiercest sword-thrusts, Horatius and his comrades stood dauntless and unafraid, while at their feet rose a ghastly heap of those the brave Romans slew. And while they held the bridge thus resolutely, behind them fell the blows of mighty axes, loosening the great beams that held the bridge secure. Soon the axes had done their work. The bridge began to totter, to sway, and the Romans shouted to the noble three to come back ere the bridge gave way. At the call, Lartius and Herminius turned and darted swiftly across the swaying planks. But Horatius stayed behind. Not till the bridge fell into the river would he stir from his post. Then, with a mighty crash the bridge gave way, and fell into the rushing torrent beneath. Horatius, separated from his friends, stood alone, facing thirty thousand of the foe. Behind him tossed the broad surging river. ‘“Down with him,” cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. “Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena, “Now yield thee to our grace.” ‘Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see, Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. ‘“O Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, Take thou in charge this day!” So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide.’ Not a sound was heard from either bank as Horatius, wounded and bleeding, disappeared in the flood. Then the enemy, furious that it had allowed the great warrior to escape, hurled its spears after him.