One of them, apparently fifty years old, slightly bald, and wearing over his scant locks a crown of laurel, seemed, from the attentions paid him, the central object of some affectionate ceremony.

They all sported ample togas of white wool broadly bordered with purple.
A glance had sufficed the watchman.

He knew, without question, they were of high rank, and escorting a friend to ship after a night of festivity.

Further explanation will be found in the conversation they carried on.
"No, my Quintus," said one, speaking to him with the crown, "it is ill of Fortune to take thee from us so soon.

Only yesterday thou didst return from the seas beyond the Pillars.