“Old fool!” cried the other soldier. “Fling away that dagger, or by Hercules....”
“Thrax, miserable man! For Christ’s sake!” A score of voices appealed to him at once. But Thrax had raised the blade again, and charged the foe like a lion.
“Well, he will have it!” said the soldiers, now falling upon him from all sides.
The next instant Thrax Barbatus fell, pierced by three swords at once, on the ground by Glauce’s side. Not a groan of pain parted his set lips, not a throe, not a sign, betrayed the pain of such a death; only his hand feebly felt for Glauce’s.
Quintus gazed down at the dead.
“Would I might have died so!” he said to himself. “Almighty God, Thy will be done.”
“Now, men—are you ready?” cried the centurion, sheathing his weapon.
“As you say.”
“Very well, then; away to the city! Give over crying, you women. A crime was never yet atoned for by howling and wailing. Onwards—march!”
And the long and melancholy procession set out. None remained behind but the dead—the free and happy dead.