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soldier stands like an iron statue. A centurion beside him, distinguished by a low crest to his helmet, crowned with a tuft of red feathers, and bearing in his hand the vine-stock which is his mark of office, hands the general the simple crown of oak-leaves which the Romans prized as we do the Victoria Cross. Marius, holding it in his hand, speaks a few plain words of praise, and bids the soldiers in the ranks emulate the valour of their comrade; then, as Sextius bows his head, the general places the wreath around the battered iron helmet. The legionary straightens himself up again, salutes, and takes his place in the ranks once more. Not much of a ceremony, but the men will fight the better for it to-morrow. Incidentally it has given us the chance of seeing and studying the kind of man who won Rome's battles for her. "Had I such men," said Pyrrhus, the Red King of Epirus, the day after he had beaten the legions at Heraclea, "I would conquer the world." Very likely; but they were bred nowhere but on Roman soil, though his own phalangites were brave and steady men too.
    Marius and his army, of course, are out for a battle in the open, and do not expect any siege-work, so we shall not see any of the really heavy siege-artillery which went with a Roman army when towns had to be captured. He has not with him the ram, with its huge wooden beam, tipped with a bronze or iron head, and swinging from a framework which moves up to the walls on wheels, covered by a "tortoise," whose shell is made of wood and raw hides—the dreaded weapon, irresistible as fate, before which so many proud cities have bowed and fallen. But inside the wall of the great camp to which the legions will presently return there are some of the lighter engines; for you never know what may happen, and it is best to be prepared. Here, for instance, is a light catapulta, not designed, like the boys' catapult that has taken over its name, for throwing stones, but a kind of giant crossbow, for shooting heavy arrows. It will fling, to a distance of four hundred yards or so, a thick arrow four and a half feet long, that will smash through half a dozen men in rank behind one another.
    There are no ballistas in the camp, but the ballista works on exactly the same principle as the catapulta, only it fires big stones, fifty-three pounds in weight sometimes, and it lies back on its frame like a modern howitzer, to get high-angle fire, and heave its missiles over the walls upon the garrison within. Here, however, is the next thing to a ballista—a machine which carries a big sling, with a heavy stone in it, at the end of a long wooden arm that turns on an axle, and is weighted heavily at the other end. You wind back the long arm, as far as it will go, by a windlass, and pin it by a bolt. Then suddenly you draw the bolt, and the long arm flies up till it is checked by a thick leather pad on the frame of the machine. The sudden check sends the stone from the sling whirling away with all the force of the swing of the long arm. The recoil of this instrument is terrific, and the legionaries, who have their own grim jests among themselves, call it the "Onager," the "Wild Ass," because it kicks so hard.
    And now, what is this thing coming along on a little travelling carriage drawn by two mules, and attended to by a couple of soldiers? Can it be a galloping maxim? Not exactly that, but the nearest thing the Romans possessed to such a gun. It is a galloping catapult, a light weapon which can be run about from point to point either for attack or for defence, as the case may be—a very useful and workmanlike little tool, which any two legionaries from the ranks can handle. Its arrows, of course, are not so heavy as those of its big brother, nor is its range so great; but, on the other hand, it can be worked much more quickly, and might almost be looked upon as a quick-firer.
    Altogether, you see, the Roman army is a wonderfully efficient organization, though I have only given you the