What will you give me ?" The audacity seemed to stun his hearers.
"Haste!" he said.

"I have an engagement with the consul." The spur was effective.
"Two to one," cried half a dozen in a voice.
"What!" exclaimed the purveyor, astonished.

"Only two to one, and yours a Roman!" "Take three, then." "Three say you--only three--and mine but a dog of a Jew! Give me four." "Four it is," said a boy, stung by the taunt.
"Five--give me five," cried the purveyor, instantly.
A profound stillness fell upon the assemblage.
"The consul--your master and mine--is waiting for me." The inaction became awkward to the many.
"Give me five--for the honor of Rome, five." "Five let it be," said one in answer.
There was a sharp cheer--a commotion--and Messala himself appeared.
"Five let it be," he said.
And Sanballat smiled, and made ready to write.
"If Caesar die to-morrow," he said, "Rome will not be all bereft.
There is at least one other with spirit to take his place.

Give me six." "Six be it," answered Messala.
There was another shout louder than the first.
"Six be it," repeated Messala.

"Six to one--the difference between a Roman and a Jew.