"Let us abuse them, not the gods.

In learning to trade they forgot how to fight." With these words, the party passed the gateway, and came upon the mole, with the bay before them beautiful in the morning light.
To the veteran sailor the plash of the waves was like a greeting.
He drew a long breath, as if the perfume of the water were sweeter than that of the nard, and held his hand aloft.
"My gifts were at Praeneste, not Antium--and see! Wind from the west.

Thanks, O Fortune, my mother!" he said, earnestly.
The friends all repeated the exclamation, and the slaves waved their torches.
"She comes--yonder!" he continued, pointing to a galley outside the mole.

"What need has a sailor for other mistress?
Is your Lucrece more graceful, my Caius ?" He gazed at the coming ship, and justified his pride.

A white sail was bent to the low mast, and the oars dipped, arose, poised a moment, then dipped again, with wing-like action, and in perfect time.
"Yes, spare the gods," he said, soberly, his eyes fixed upon the vessel.