CHAPTER THE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIRST.

"He spake . . . and attempted to clasp the right hand of Fortuna,

But ruptured the crust of the earth, deeply cloven, asunder.

Then from her capricious heart Fortune made answer: 'O father

Whom Cocytus' deepest abysses obey, if to forecast

The future I may, without fear, thy petition shall prosper;

For no less consuming the anger that wars in this bosom,

The flame no less poignant, that burns to my marrow All favors

I gave to the bulwarks of Rome, now, I hate them. My

Gifts I repent! The same God who built up their dominion

Shall bring down destruction upon it. In burning their manhood

My heart shall delight and its blood-lust shall slake with their slaughter.

Now Philippi's field I can see strewn with dead of two battles

And Thessaly's funeral pyres and Iberia mourning.

Already the clangor of arms thrills my ears, and rings loudly:

Thou, Lybian Nile, I can see now thy barriers groaning

And Actium's gulf and Apollo's darts quailing the warriors!

Then, open thy thirsty dominions and summon fresh spirits;

For scarce will the ferryman's strength be sufficient to carry

The souls of the dead in his skiff: 'tis a fleet that is needed!

Thou, Pallid Tisiphone, slake with wide ruin, thy thirsting

And tear ghastly wounds: mangled earth sinks to hell and the spirits.'"