The first syllable of "aurum" pulsated in a "wow," "wow," "wow" like the snarl of a horde of ravening wild beasts. Ravening wild beasts the men would be next instant unless Pompey saved the situation. Calmly and resolutely he faced them until they hushed from mere breathlessness.
Then his voice rang out, clear, magnetic, full of resonance and fire.
"You want gold?"
Again the roar, the harsh, hoarse, rasping roar of fifty thousand angry fighters, again he waited for it to die down.
"You want gold?" he repeated.
The roar redoubled and through its continuance Pompey's face was not that of a man baffled and defeated, not that of one in a quandary, it was the face of a capable man seeing his opportunity and rising to grasp it. It was not the face of one who doubts or fears. It wore the expression of the man who comprehends his countrymen to the recesses of their souls, knows all the modulations of their heart-strings, understands a situation in all its complexities and means to do the one thing sure to touch the right chord.
Silence fell again, not so much now that the men were breathless as that those in front felt the compulsion of Pompey's magnetic gaze,
