'Hm!' said King drily. 'I was going to say--_Flagito additis d.a.m.num_, but I think--I think I see the process. Beetle, the translation of _delubris_, please.'

Beetle raised his head from his shaking arm long enough to answer: 'Ruins, sir.'

There was an impressive pause while King checked off crimes on his fingers. Then to Beetle the much-enduring man addressed winged words:

'Guessing,' said he. 'Guessing, Beetle, as usual, from the look of _delubris_ that it bore some relation to _diluvium_ or deluge, you imparted the result of your half-baked lucubrations to Winton who seems to have been lost enough to have accepted it. Observing next, your companion's fall, from the presumed security of your undistinguished position in the rear-guard, you took another pot-shot. The turbid chaos of your mind threw up some memory of the word "dilapidations" which you have pitifully attempted to disguise under the synonym of "ruins."'

As this was precisely what Beetle had done he looked hurt but forgiving.

'We will attend to this later,' said King. 'Go on, Winton, and retrieve yourself.'

_Delubris_ happened to be the one word which Winton had not looked out and had asked Beetle for, when they were settling into their places. He forged ahead with no further trouble. Only when he rendered _scilicet_ as 'forsooth,' King erupted.

'Regulus,' he said, 'was not a leader-writer for the penny press, nor, for that matter, was Horace. Regulus says: "The soldier ransomed by gold will come keener for the fight--will he by--by gum!" _That's_ the meaning of _scilicet_. It indicates contempt--bitter contempt.

"Forsooth," forsooth! You'll be talking about "speckled beauties" and "eventually transpire" next. Howell, what do you make of that doubled "Vidi ego--ego vidi"? It wasn't put in to fill up the metre, you know.'

'Isn't it intensive, sir?' said Howell, afflicted by a genuine interest in what he read. 'Regulus was a bit in earnest about Rome making no terms with Carthage--and he wanted to let the Romans understand it, didn't he, sir?'

'Less than your usual grace, but the fact. Regulus _was_ in earnest. He was also engaged at the same time in cutting his own throat with every word he uttered. He knew Carthage which (your examiners won't ask you this so you needn't take notes) was a sort of G.o.d-forsaken n.i.g.g.e.r Manchester. Regulus was not thinking about his own life. He was telling Rome the truth. He was playing for his side. Those lines from the eighteenth to the fortieth ought to be written in blood. Yet there are things in human garments which will tell you that Horace was a flaneur--a man about town. Avoid such beings. Horace knew a very great deal. _He_ knew! _Erit ille fortis_--"will he be brave who once to faithless foes has knelt?" And again (stop pawing with your hooves, Thornton!) _hic unde vitam sumeret inscius_. That means roughly--but I perceive I am ahead of my translators. Begin at _hic unde_, Vernon, and let us see if you have the spirit of Regulus.'

Now no one expected fireworks from gentle Paddy Vernon, sub-prefect of Hartopp's House, but, as must often be the case with growing boys, his mind was in abeyance for the time being, and he said, all in a rush, on behalf of Regulus: '_O magna Carthago probrosis altior Italiae ruinis_, O Carthage, thou wilt stand forth higher than the ruins of Italy.'

Even Beetle, most lenient of critics, was interested at this point, though he did not join the half-groan of reprobation from the wiser heads of the Form.

'_Please_ don't mind me,' said King, and Vernon very kindly did not. He ploughed on thus: 'He (Regulus) is related to have removed from himself the kiss of the shameful wife and of his small children as less by the head, and, being stern, to have placed his virile visage on the ground.'

Since King loved 'virile' about as much as he did 'spouse' or 'forsooth'

the Form looked up hopefully. But Jove thundered not.

'Until,' Vernon continued, 'he should have confirmed the sliding fathers as being the author of counsel never given under an alias.'

He stopped, conscious of stillness round him like the dread calm of the typhoon's centre. King's opening voice was sweeter than honey.

'I am painfully aware by bitter experience that I cannot give you any idea of the pa.s.sion, the power, the--the essential guts of the lines which you have so foully outraged in our presence. But--' the note changed, 'so far as in me lies, I will strive to bring home to you, Vernon, the fact that there exist in Latin a few pitiful rules of grammar, of syntax, nay, even of declension, which were not created for your incult sport--your Boeotian diversion. You will, therefore, Vernon, write out and bring to me to-morrow a word-for-word English-Latin translation of the Ode, together with a full list of all adjectives--an adjective is not a verb, Vernon, as the Lower Third will tell you--all adjectives, their number, case, and gender. Even now I haven't begun to deal with you faithfully.'

'I--I'm very sorry, sir,' Vernon stammered.

'You mistake the symptoms, Vernon. You are possibly discomfited by the imposition, but sorrow postulates some sort of mind, intellect, _nous_.

Your rendering of _probrosis_ alone stamps you as lower than the beasts of the field. Will some one take the taste out of our mouths?

And--talking of tastes--' He coughed. There was a distinct flavour of chlorine gas in the air. Up went an eyebrow, though King knew perfectly well what it meant.

'Mr. Hartopp's st--science cla.s.s next door,' said Malpa.s.s.

'Oh yes. I had forgotten. Our newly established Modern Side, of course.

Perowne, open the windows; and Winton, go on once more from _interque maerentes_.'

'And hastened away,' said Winton, 'surrounded by his mourning friends, into--into ill.u.s.trious banishment. But I got that out of Conington, sir,' he added in one conscientious breath.

'I am aware. The master generally knows his a.s.s's crib, though I acquit _you_ of any intention that way. Can you suggest anything for _egregius exul_? Only "egregious exile"? I fear "egregious" is a good word ruined.

No! You can't in this case improve on Conington. Now then for _atqui sciebat quae sibi barbarus tortor pararet_. The whole force of it lies in the _atqui_.'

'Although he knew,' Winton suggested.

'Stronger than that, I think.'

'He who knew well,' Malpa.s.s interpolated.

'Ye-es. "Well though he knew." I don't like Conington's "well-witting."

It's Wardour Street.'

'Well though he knew what the savage torturer was--was getting ready for him,' said Winton.

'Ye-es. Had in store for him.'

'Yet he brushed aside his kinsmen and the people delaying his return.'

'Ye-es; but then how do you render _obstantes_?'

'If it's a free translation mightn't _obstantes_ and _morantem_ come to about the same thing, sir?'

'Nothing comes to "about the same thing" with Horace, Winton. As I have said, Horace was not a journalist. No, I take it that his kinsmen bodily withstood his departure, whereas the crowd--_populumque_--the democracy stood about futilely pitying him and getting in the way. Now for that n.o.blest of endings--_quam si clientum_,' and King ran off into the quotation:

'As though some tedious business o'er Of clients' court, his journey lay Towards Venafrum's gra.s.sy floor Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.

All right, Winton. Beetle, when you've quite finished dodging the fresh air yonder, give me the meaning of _tendens_--and turn down your collar.'

'Me, sir? _Tendens_, sir? Oh! Stretching away in the direction of, sir.'

'Idiot! Regulus was not a feature of the landscape. He was a man, self-doomed to death by torture. _Atqui, sciebat_--knowing it--having achieved it for his country's sake--can't you hear that _atqui_ cut like a knife?--he moved off with some dignity. That is why Horace out of the whole golden Latin tongue chose the one word "tendens"--which is utterly untranslatable.'

The gross injustice of being asked to translate it, converted Beetle into a young Christian martyr, till King buried his nose in his handkerchief again.

'I think they've broken another gas-bottle next door, sir,' said Howell.

'They're always doing it.' The Form coughed as more chlorine came in.

'Well, I suppose we must be patient with the Modern Side,' said King.

'But it is almost insupportable for this Side. Vernon, what are you grinning at?'

Vernon's mind had returned to him glowing and inspired. He chuckled as he underlined his Horace.

'It appears to amuse you,' said King. 'Let us partic.i.p.ate. What is it?'

'The last two lines of the Tenth Ode, in this book, sir,' was Vernon's amazing reply.

'What? Oh, I see. _Non hoc semper erit liminis aut aquae caelestis patiens latus_[2].' King's mouth twitched to hide a grin. 'Was that done with intention?'

[Footnote 2: 'This side will not always be patient of rain and waiting on the threshold.']

'I--I thought it fitted, sir.'