What was this?
Soft arms around him....

Victoria's! 'Save him! spare him! He saved us! Sir! It is my brother! We are safe! Oh, spare the dog! It saved my father!' 'We have mistaken each other, indeed, sir!' said a gay young Tribune, in a voice trembling with joy.

'Where is my father ?' 'Fifty yards behind.

Down, Bran! Quiet! O Solomon, mine ancestor, why did you not prevent me making such an egregious fool of myself?
Why, I shall be forced, in self-justification, to carry through the farce!' There is no use telling what followed during the next five minutes, at the end of which time Raphael found himself astride of a goodly war-horse, by the side of the young Tribune, who carried Victoria before him.

Two soldiers in the meantime were supporting the Prefect on his mule, and convincing that stubborn bearer of burdens that it was not quite so unable to trot as it had fancied, by the combined arguments of a drench of wine and two sword-points, while they heaped their general with blessings, and kissed his hands and feet.
'Your father's soldiers seem to consider themselves in debt to him: not, surely, for taking them where they could best run away ?' 'Ah, poor fellows!' said the Tribune; 'we have had as real a panic among us as I ever read of in Arrian or Polybius.