Pompeius had evidently ordered out a _turma_[150] of mounted men to chase down the runaways.
More and more frantic the race--Drusus's tongue hung from his mouth like a dog's.

He flew past a running fountain, and was just desperate enough to wonder if it was safe to stop one instant and touch--he would not ask to drink--one drop of the cool water.

Fortunately the Caesarians were all active young men, of about equal physical powers, and they kept well together and encouraged one another, not by word--they had no breath for that--but by interchange of courage and sympathy from eye to eye.

The heavy legionaries had given up the chase; it was the cavalry, now flying almost at their very heels, that urged them to their final burst of speed.
[150] Squadron of 30 horse.
At last! Here were the gardens of Caesar, and close by the roadway under a spreading oak, their grooms holding them in readiness for instant service, were six of the best specimens of horseflesh money could command.
None of the little party had breath left to speak a word.

To fling themselves into the saddles, to snatch the reins from the attendants' hands, to plunge the heels of their sandals, in lieu of spurs, into the flanks of their already restless steeds,--these things were done in an instant, but none too soon.