‘Hush, man—you will stir the goddess of the grove—leave the owls in peace!’ said Fabricius.
Cestus accordingly desisted, having done as much as he required. In a few strides they were opposite the altar. The Suburan stopped, and wheeled round so suddenly, that the old Senator and his two slaves well-nigh ran against him.
‘What now, man—what possesses you?’ said Fabricius sharply.
‘One minute, so please you, to pray to the goddess for my poor comrade?’ asked Cestus.
‘Go, then!’ replied Fabricius in a gentle tone, and the pretended workman stepped aside to the altar, where he appeared to engage himself in devotion. He prayed, as follows, in whispered tones:
‘Are you all there, and ready?’
A murmur and a voice rose from the thick shadow of the stones, ‘Ready, ay, and sick of waiting—are they yonder?’
‘Three dogs of slaves who will run at a shout, and the old man himself. I have come, on leave, for a minute to pray for a sick comrade to get better who died five years ago. When we move on I shall whistle, and then come you on our backs like four thunderbolts.’
Having said this Cestus turned to go back, when a sibilant ‘sh!’ detained him.
‘Wait, Cestus, I think I hear horses’ feet, and the game will be spoiled—hark!’