’"Oh, Roma Dea!” said Maximus, half aloud.  “It is always one man’s work—­always and everywhere!”

“And one man’s life,” said Allo.  “You are Emperor, but not a God.  You may die.”

’"I have thought of that too,” said he.  “Very good.  If this wind holds, I shall be at the East end of the Wall by morning.  To-morrow, then, I shall see you two when I inspect, and I will make you Captains of the Wall for this work.”

’"One instant, Caesar,” said Pertinax.  “All men have their price.  I am not bought yet.”

’"Do you also begin to bargain so early?” said Maximus.  “Well?”

’"Give me justice against my uncle Icenus, the Duumvir of Divio in Gaul,” he said.

’"Only a life?  I thought it would be money or an office.  Certainly you shall have him.  Write his name on these tablets—­on the red side; the other is for the living!” and Maximus held out his tablets.

’"He is of no use to me dead,” said Pertinax.  “My mother is a widow.  I am far off.  I am not sure he pays her all her dowry.”

’"No matter.  My arm is reasonably long.  We will look through your uncle’s accounts in due time.  Now, farewell till to-morrow, O Captains of the Wall!”

’We saw him grow small across the heather as he walked to the galley.  There were Picts, scores, each side of him, hidden behind stones.  He never looked left or right.  He sailed away southerly, full spread before the evening breeze, and when we had watched him out to sea, we were silent.  We understood that Earth bred few men like to this man.

’Presently Allo brought the ponies and held them for us to mount—­a thing he had never done before.

’"Wait awhile,” said Pertinax, and he made a little altar of cut turf, and strewed heather-bloom atop, and laid upon it a letter from a girl in Gaul.

’"What do you do, O my friend?” I said.

’"I sacrifice to my dead youth,” he answered, and, when the flames had consumed the letter, he ground them out with his heel.  Then we rode back to that Wall of which we were to be Captains.’

Parnesius stopped.  The children sat still, not even asking if that were all the tale.  Puck beckoned, and pointed the way out of the wood.  ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, ‘but you must go now.’

‘We haven’t made him angry, have we?’ said Una.  ’He looks so far off, and—­and—­thinky.’

’Bless your heart, no.  Wait till tomorrow.  It won’t be long.  Remember, you’ve been playing Lays of Ancient Rome.’

And as soon as they had scrambled through their gap where Oak, Ash, and Thorn grew, that was all they remembered.

A SONG TO MITHRAS

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall! 
‘Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!’
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!