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He entered the camp of Livius in the night, that his arrival might not be known to the Carthaginians. After a day's rest the two Consuls proceeded to offer battle; but Hasdrubal, perceiving the augmented numbers of the Romans, and hearing the trumpet sound twice, felt convinced that the Consuls had united their forces, and that his brother had been defeated. He therefore declined the combat, and in the following night commenced his retreat toward Ariminum. The Romans pursued him, and he found himself compelled to give them battle on the right bank of the Metaurus. On this occasion Hasdrubal displayed all the qualities of a consummate general; but his forces were greatly inferior to those of the enemy, and his Gaulish auxiliaries were of little service. The gallant resistance of the Spanish and Ligurian troops is attested by the heavy loss of the Romans; but all was of no avail, and seeing the battle irretrievably lost, he rushed into the midst of the enemy, and fell, sword in hand, in a manner worthy of the son of Hamilcar and the brother of Hannibal. The Consul Nero hastened back to Apulia almost as speedily as he had come, and announced to Hannibal the defeat and death of his brother by throwing into his camp the severed head of Hasdrubal.

On September 10th--that was the seventh day of our involuntary fast--we had another dreary march, again without a morsel of food. My men were so downhearted that I really thought they would not last much longer. Hunger was playing on them in a curious way. They said that they could hear voices all round them and people firing rifles. I could hear nothing at all. I well knew that their minds were beginning to go, and that it was a pure hallucination. Benedicto and Filippe, who originally were both atheists of an advanced type, had now become extremely religious, and were muttering fervent prayers all the time. They made a vow that if we escaped alive they would each give L5 sterling out of their pay to have a big mass celebrated in the first church they saw.

Now there is a hard and bitter fact of life, very different from the story of the fenland. I am not going to argue about it or discuss it, because to trace the threads of it back into life entangles one at once helplessly in a dreadful series of problems: namely, how it comes to pass that a calamity, grievous and intolerable beyond all calamities in its pain and sorrow and waste, a strife abhorred and dreaded by all who are concerned in it, fruitful in every shade of misery and wretchedness, should yet have come about so inevitably and relentlessly. No one claims to have desired war; all alike plead that it is in self-defence that they are fighting, and maintain that they have laboured incessantly for peace. Yet the great mills of fate are turning, and grinding out death and shame and loss. Everyone sickens for peace, and yet any proposal of peace is drowned in cries of bitterness and rage. The wisest spend their time in pointing out the blessings which the conflict brings. The mother hears that the son she parted with in strength and courage is mouldering in an unknown grave, and chokes her tears down. The fruit of years of labour is consumed, lands are laid desolate, the weak and innocent are wronged; yet the great war-engine goes thundering and smashing on, leaving hatred and horror behind it; and all the while men pray to a God of mercy and loving-kindness and entreat His blessing on the work they are doing.

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