“Hail! Cæsar Emperor, the starving salute thee!”(1) and the speaker made a military salute to a silver coin, evidently brand-new from the mint (which did not seem, by the way, to turn out very good work), and bearing the superscription, “Gratianus Cæsar Imperator Felicissimus.” He was a soldier of middle age, whose jovial face did not show any sign of the fate which he professed to have so narrowly escaped, and formed one of a group which was lounging about the _Quæstorium_, or, as we may put it, the paymaster’s office of the camp at the head of the Great Harbour.(2) A very curious medley of nationalities was that group. There were Gauls; there were Germans from the Rhine bank, some of them …
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