A round of applause greeted this spontaneous outburst of Chœras, and the pedant was snuffed out.
“Maharbal,” quoth Hannibal, when the merriment had died down and the wine cups had been replenished, “doth this not indeed a little remind thee of thine own case? Mightest not thou thyself have been slain, and only last week, solely for the bright eyes of a woman—ay, even mine own daughter, Elissa? But, instead of falling, thou hast deprived me for ever of the services of one of my most excellent officers, poor Idherbal; I pray thee earnestly not to do so again.”
Maharbal sat silent under the well-merited reproach.
“My lord Hannibal,” quoth Sosilus, “this remark of thine remindeth me exactly of a verse I once read when I was but a boy; it was written by an author who lived at Tyre, and was named Pygmalion, after the king, who was the brother of Dido. He was a writer who possessed a great amount of erudition, and had considered several cases much resembling that of Maharbal here, who, somewhat too rashly, albeit to preserve his own honour, in the most chivalrous way slew Idherbal the other day in the street. Now to get back to Pygmalion. He said—yet I must remember in which of his books it was; I think in the thirteenth stanza of his nineteenth volume.”
“Oh, confound his books!” said Chœras, again rudely interrupting the learned man. “I will tell thee what he said, oh, Sosilus. Was it not something like this?—
“Maharbal was in a sense
Bound to seek some recompense.
He was mocked at, and the crowd
Echoed out the laugh aloud.
Thus the warrior lit and drew
Forth his blade—the scoffer slew.
Once more woman by her wiles
Sent a soul to Heaven’s smiles.”
“Bravo, Chœras!” shouted out Mago, thumping on the table. “Thou art the boy for me, and if my lord and brother Hannibal will allow me, I will take thee with me, when first he deigns to give me a separate command somewhere or other. For by the gods, I like thy pithy verses—
“ ‘Once more woman by her wiles
Sent a man to Heaven’s smiles.’
But come, Maharbal, my lad, why sittest thou so glum thyself, while thou and Monomachus are giving us such a pleasant and instructive subject of conversation? Cheer up, lad, and join me in a cup of wine. What hast been thinking about while looking as melancholy as a dog about to be led out to execution? There are plenty more bright eyes besides those of my pretty niece Elissa in the world, and thou and I shall in our leisure moments oft pursue them together, that I’ll warrant thee. Or is it the excellent but unfortunate deceased young woman Melania of whom thou art thinking? Ah! there was a girl for thee if thou wilt, who would never have betrayed a man—nay, nor even a woman either. Thou shouldst give me thanks for having first put it into Hannibal’s head to give her unto thee; for by Melcareth, I saw her value from the first, and would gladly have had her as a companion myself. Her’s was a noble disposition.”
“What I am thinking about is this, oh Mago!” responded Maharbal, “that while echoing the praise that thou hast paid to poor Melania’s memory, which is well deserved, it seemeth to me that the conversation hath, with all due deference to Hannibal, been concerned quite long enough either with women or myself, and that now it would be far better if we could get back to some subject that is important at the moment, such as the news of the Iberian war, or the attitude of the Romans now that they know not only that we have taken Saguntum, but further, in direct defiance of the treaty the late Hasdrubal made with them, that we have crossed the Iber, and are hunting their allies about like foxes to their dens in the mountains.”