Afer had gauged with tolerable accuracy the depth to which he had stirred
the heart of Plautia, in spite of her efforts to counterfeit indifference.
Indeed, with the actual knowledge he possessed of her feelings towards the
Centurion Martialis, he could scarcely be misled.
‘She will go straightway and lock herself up alone, to give it all vent,’
he thought to himself, with a grin, ‘and quite right that she should know
the flavour of what she deals so liberally to others.’
What the knight thus shrewdly conjectured was actually the course which
Plautia followed. No sooner had she quitted him, than, impatiently
refusing all the attentions of her women, she closed the door upon them,
and gave a full rein to the feelings which choked her.
Furious resentment against the betrayer of her confidence was uppermost;
and reflection on the consequences of publicity was maddening to one whose
intense pride had never been thwarted in any particular. She would now be
haunted by the covert smile, the half‐hidden sneer and giggle, though
masked by the obsequious court and service which hung upon her nod. She
shook her clenched fists in dull fury.
It was the nervous dread of this which formed the obstacle to her burning
desire of making personal inquiries into the extent of the evil. To watch
the smile on a menial’s face in answer to her questions, would be truly
insupportable; but, more than all, would her pride disdain to betray the
least token that the matter gave her concern, even to the extent of a
simple question. The thoughts, therefore, which remained to comfort her in
some degree, may easily be perceived. Her fevered mind was filled with the
form of the imagined author of her trouble. ‘Coward, coward!’ she muttered
from time to time, in the accents of the deepest rage and contempt, though
once or twice it fell whispered from her lips, like an echo of reproach
and despair, rounded by a half‐hysterical sob.
But all such passing weaknesses were swallowed up in the overpowering
resentment which thirsted for revenge. What mischief had already been done
it was impossible to remedy. Nothing was left to her but a counter scheme,
which might eventually enable her to cry quits. With this intention in
full possession of her mind she paced the room, yet was without a
sufficiently plausible idea to work upon, when the customary invitation to
the supper‐table of Caesar arrived. Her first impulse was to remain in
seclusion, but, on second thoughts, she reproached herself with want of
courage, and determined to boldly accept her position at once. The hour
for the meal being near at hand, she summoned her attendants for the
business of her toilet.
There was seldom much change in the party at the Imperial supper‐table.
Plautia, therefore, met the familiar faces, amongst whom were Afer and the
Prefect. The task of appearing utterly indifferent and unobservant when,
at the same time, the breast is unusually susceptible and sick with
nervous dread, is so difficult as to be seldom or never acted with
success. The result with Plautia was, that her bearing became haughty and
stiff to an unusual degree. Her distempered mind appropriated every smile
and jest as in some way connected with herself. Her disordered fancy even
reached to the slaves behind her back, furnishing them with imagined nods
and winks, and _sotto‐voce_ jokes. The exclusive demands on her vigilance
by this morbid sensitiveness naturally engendered an abstraction from the
conversation of the company, which was particularly noticeable, in
contrast to her customary mood. As she was moreover, somewhat pale,
Tiberius expressed a fear that she was unwell. Assuring him to the
contrary, she made a spasmodic attempt to recover her sprightliness, but,
unable to sustain it, she gradually relapsed into her former mood. No
further notice, however, was taken.
When the business of eating was over, and the conversation began to lag
somewhat, Zeno, whose watchfulness had a care for everything, leaned over
the Imperial couch and whispered in his master’s ear. Tiberius nodded.
‘’Tis an artisan from Surrentum, friends, who desires to show me
something—some extraordinary discovery. It may amuse us to see what it
is,’ said the Emperor.
In a few moments the Greek returned, followed by Masthlion, who seemed to
be dazzled for a moment by the lights and glitter of the luxuriously‐
appointed apartment. The Surrentine’s eyes had never been suffered to fall
upon such magnificence crowded within the limits of four walls. When to
this was added the scrutiny of the richly‐attired guests at table, whom he
concluded to be people of the highest rank, including Caesar himself, his
temporary embarrassment was only natural. As he stepped inside the room,
he made a deep obeisance towards a confused gleam, mingled with forms and
faces. But speedily recovering himself, his keen eye roved swiftly round,
and noted every particular and face, even of the slaves who stood
clustered aside. Thence his gaze returned and rested on the pale, blotched
face and brilliant eyes, which, by repute, he knew belonged to his ruler.
‘Approach!’ said Tiberius.
The potter stepped forward into the middle of the floor opposite to the
table, and on his flanks, at the same time, moved the Pretorian of the
guard, who had attended him into the room. He was dressed in his best dark
woollen tunic, and carried in his hand a wallet. His striking face, with
its pale massive brow and deep‐set bright eyes, caught the attention of
all and he stood calmly sustaining the scrutiny of every eye.
‘We are ready to see what you have to show, artisan, and to hear what you
have to say,’ said Caesar. ‘Who and what are you?’
‘I am a potter of Surrentum, and well known to the townsfolk. My name is
Masthlion, so please you, Caesar.’
Plautia started in surprise as the name fell on her ears, and she roused
with eager attention to what should follow. She found the glance of Afer
also resting on her, and he slightly raised his eyebrows and smiled.
‘Proceed, then, Masthlion the potter,’ said Tiberius.
‘May it please you, Caesar,’ responded Masthlion, ‘although a potter by
trade, I have devoted much time to the art of making glass,—as much in the
way of inclination as of making profit. Twenty‐five years ago, whilst
working under my old master, I chanced to fall upon a piece of glass of
very strange quality, amongst a pile of fragments and rubbish of the
workshop. It had been fused and formed by some strange accident, and ever
since that time I have never ceased in trying to discover the secret of
its formation. Within the last two or three days I have, by the favour of
the gods, succeeded in my endeavours, and to you, Caesar, first after my
own family, I considered it my foremost duty to show it.’
Tiberius nodded.
‘Twenty‐five years! At any rate such wonderful perseverance should command
respect,’ remarked Sejanus drily.
‘It was the belief that my labour, if successful, would prove a benefit to
the world, that has upheld me under much disappointment and poverty.’
‘Very disinterested and laudable,’ said Afer, in a tone which brought a
laugh to the lips of the Prefect.
‘You would seem to doubt my sincerity, noble sir,’ said the potter,
bestowing a keen glance on the knight, and at the same time opening his
wallet, ‘and without being selfish, I think that my long labour and
sacrifices should meet with a just return, if the fruit of it prove of
real service to others.’
‘Doubtless,’ quoth Afer.
‘Doubtless,’ murmured Caesar, and the knight became silent.
‘This is the specimen I have made to test my words,’ proceeded Masthlion,
as he drew out a plain bowl of dull‐coloured glass. He handed it to Zeno,
who stood by, and the Greek took it to his master who briefly examined it.
With a shrug of his shoulders it was handed back to the steward. A smile
rested on the lips of the potter.
‘It is true that its appearance has nothing to commend it,’ said the
latter, ‘but I will explain that, by saying, that it was made in haste
during the past night, that I might hasten hither to‐day. It is not the
appearance of the glass I wish your highness to judge of—that can be made
to suit every taste, with better appliances than my humble workshop
possesses. The same principle which constructs this poor bowl can be
applied to produce such costly and priceless articles as those I see
there,’—he pointed to some magnificent vases on the table. ‘It is the
nature of the material which forms my secret. You know of what worth those
vases would be if flung on the floor; they would be shivered to a million
atoms. Will Caesar bid the strongest slave take this poor bowl of mine and
dash it on the floor with all his might, that he may see the result?’
Tiberius turned his head slightly toward his gigantic Nubian servant who
stood behind him. The black went round and took the cup from Zeno. Raising
it to the full height of his arm, he dashed it down on the marble floor
with terrific force. The derisive smile on his thick lips changed to
complete surprise, for, instead of the expected crash was a dull thud. He
stooped quickly and lifted on high the bowl with one side completely
flattened in.
Exclamations and murmurs of wonder arose, and the bowl was given over once
more to the inspection of Caesar, from whom it was passed to the others.
‘Good,’ said Tiberius. ‘What next?’
‘I will proceed to restore it to its original shape, if Caesar will
permit.’
Receiving the customary nod, the potter took from his wallet a small
block, slightly concave on one surface, together with a mallet and a piece
of wood, which had one end fashioned like a wedge, and the other broad and
round like a pestle. Placing the bowl on the hollow side of the block, he
proceeded to distend the crushed glass with the thin end of the wedge,
and, when sufficient space had been made, he inserted the blunt end, and
so hammered the malleable glass to its original shape.
Springing up Masthlion once more passed the bowl for examination.
‘This virtue is my discovery, Caesar,’ said he with pride. ‘That frail
glass is made well‐nigh indestructible. That is my feat accomplished at
last. To others who follow it will be easier to further develop the
principle.’
The potter and his novel exhibition had now aroused very considerable
curiosity in the spectators. Plautia’s interest was in the man rather than
in his work, not only by reason of the relation he bore to the affair
which absorbed her mind, but also by the natural inclination of her sex.
The Prefect was genuinely interested, whilst Afer assumed an amused
indifference. Tiberius himself betrayed evident attention to Masthlion’s
work, and asked many questions in reference to its qualifications and
fitness for further development, not omitting to draw from the inventor
brief details concerning himself.
At length the potter received the signal to retire, and Zeno was
instructed to retain him in the villa until further notice. One old man at
table had kept his peace, watching all and hearing all, with knitted brows
and pursed mouth. He was one of the philosophers whose company was so much
affected by the Emperor, and his profession was the abstruse science of
astrology, a pursuit whose attributes of mystery and superstition
especially recommended it to his master’s favour.
‘Look how rapt in meditation is our worthy Thrasullus,’ remarked Sejanus,
with ill‐concealed raillery; ‘his mind is amid the stars. Say, learned
sage of Chaldean mysteries, if this new birth of plastic glass pots has
been recorded in the heavens?’
‘In the eternal stars are written all things, but few only of their
inscrutable secrets fall within the narrow scope of the human
understanding,’ responded the philosopher, in a low tone. ‘My own poor
powers have been engaged in tracing weightier destinies than that of a
wretched potter.’
‘Oh, for a lesson therein from your learned lips, Chaldean!’
‘Nothing is sacred to the ears of a scoffer,’ said the old man. ‘Thou wilt
know well enough some day all that I could tell thee now, Prefect.’
‘And much more too—it requires no planets to tell us that,’ said Sejanus
derisively.
Thrasullus smiled scornfully and, without deigning to reply, turned to the
Emperor and said, ‘What does Caesar think of this new species of
glassware, which would seem to be practically indestructible?’
‘Indestructible material must ever have the preference over the
perishable.’
‘Yes, when there is tolerable equality in other respects. For the kitchen
and tables of the poor, the ware that is proof against time and usage is
priceless. But how, if, as this potter says, the principle can be applied
to works of the highest beauty and art, such as deck the boards and
mansions of the noble and wealthy, the chosen of mankind?’
‘It does not alter the circumstances. I should prefer to have this
precious vase before me safe from all possible fracture.’
‘And so would the rest of mankind owning such a treasure. Thus then, this
union of beauty and economy becoming universal, to what esteem and value
will the precious metals sink? Look to it, Caesar, and great ones of the
earth, possessors of the priceless wealth of gold and silver! This poor
potter with his bowl is a leveller and cheapener of ye all.’
‘Thank heaven ’tis a danger I am quit of,’ quoth Afer, in a tone which
raised a laugh; and, after Plautia retired a few minutes later, the
discussion upon the very plausible theory put forward by Thrasullus was
continued with animation some time longer.
The appearance of Masthlion in the character of an inventor struck Plautia
as a very extraordinary coincidence, and added fresh fuel to her excited
thoughts. She lay sleepless for hours, turning restlessly from side to
side with the sharply graven image of the potter rooted in her brain. The
mystery of the man’s daughter tormented her. A mental portrait of her she
had formed long ago, but now a fierce desire to see with her own eyes took
possession of her. She must visit Surrentum—she would request it of
Caesar—nay, she would demand it. The old man was infatuated and would
grant her any wish—any whim. A thought struck her, and she started up with
the blood tingling through her veins. Would not this man’s lovely daughter
be a more acceptable and interesting object in the villa than his
glassware! Fool she was not to think of it before!
To find the cherished flower—the paragon of loveliness within the fatal
walls of the villa when he returned! Ha, then would Martialis have his
due. She sank back with a sinister laugh.
When the morning came she despatched a messenger to Priscus, a knight and
personal friend and follower of Tiberius. He had been of the party at the
supper‐table the previous evening. In half an hour he entered the
apartment, newly‐shaven, curled, fresh and wreathed in smiles. She had
chosen her man well, for in all matters domestic he was Caesar’s
confidant. With political matters he meddled not, repelled alike by
inclination and prudence. But in the daily minutiæ of the personal and
private occupations of his Imperial friend and ruler he was indispensable,
inestimable as thinker, provider, arranger—a true lion’s jackal.
He was barely middle‐aged, with regular, comely features, which a puffy
face and pasty complexion marred considerably. His figure exhibited the
same overload of fat, and, altogether, he presented the idea of a man,
whose habits of life might more wisely have lain in the way of increased
bodily exercise and Spartan fare. He used his hands very freely to
accentuate his speech, but, more probably, because they were very small,
plump, white, and soft.
‘Plautia’s message reached me in the midst of important business, but at
the very moment of relief I came,’ he said, with a charming smile and wave
of his white hand.
‘It is more than I deserved, so trifling are my requirements,’ replied
Plautia. ‘I left the table last night somewhat early, and I am anxious to
know whether I missed anything in the affair of that wonderful potter and
his glass. See how interested I am, when I presume so far as to bring you
hither at the sacrifice of your own affairs to enlighten me.’
‘Ah,’ replied Priscus, with a smirk, a bow, and a flash of his snowy
fingers, ‘would to heaven your summons came oftener to bid me attend your
presence. In the matter of the potter and his glass, which was, as you
say, so highly remarkable, there followed a long discussion, of which, to
my deep sorrow, I am utterly unable to give you a detailed account. I
believe the fellow is still detained during Caesar’s pleasure, and the
decided opinion last night was, that his new fashioned glass, if brought
into general use, would sadly interfere with the more highly esteemed
metals. So that, in case this opinion be retained, I should say the
unlucky man will have small cause to rejoice in his invention.’
‘A very hard fate, no doubt, after his toil.’
‘Doubtless,’ said Priscus, shrugging his shoulders; ‘but it cannot be
helped. If his invention be disadvantageous, Caesar must interdict it in
the interest of all.’
‘Naturally! And so, noble Priscus, let me thank you for your courtesy. I
am sorry to think the poor man will be no gainer—he seemed so intelligent,
I was quite interested.’
‘Undoubtedly above the standard of his class.’
‘He seems, moreover, to be tolerably well known,’ uttered Plautia, with a
careless yawn. ‘Somebody about me—I know not who—told me he possessed a
daughter at home, a girl of surpassing loveliness.’
‘Ah, indeed!’ said the knight, with the slightest wrinkle of his brows.
‘Now, to my humble taste, that would be infinitely more interesting than
the child of his genius—a glass bowl. But yet to speak of surpassing
loveliness when the beauteous Plautia is not excepted is absurd.’
Priscus bowed and smirked again with effusive gallantry which Plautia, as
affectedly, returned.
‘And now I will detain you no longer, my friend,’ said Plautia; ‘forgive
my idle message!’
‘Ah, say no more of that—would I could remain! But there is an excursion
half resolved upon to‐day to inspect the works at the new villa of Mars.
You will doubtless hear of it in due course, if finally resolved on. Till
then farewell, noble Plautia.’
As the day wore on, Priscus came again with the anticipated invitation for
Plautia to accompany the afternoon’s expedition.
The effect of yesterday’s experience had far from passed away from her
mind, and, although she had recovered much of her nerve, there yet
remained a dread of appearing among the people. The hesitation did not
last long. Her courage was equal to the occasion, and she had now,
moreover, a definite plan of action. The man before her, she thought, as
that individual chattered away, must know, if any one knew, of every
rumour and piece of gossip current in the villa and island. She longed to
question him, but her pride recoiled from the attempt.
As the knight was going out of the room, he suddenly turned back and
whispered, with portentous secrecy, ‘Concerning that potter, I had nearly
forgotten to tell you. I am afraid the verdict goes dead against
him—Caesar has been closeted with his philosophers all morning—lengthy
discussion and opinion entirely unfavourable to said potter’s
invention—Silenus tells me this, _sub rosa_—I tell it to you, divine
Plautia, but you will respect the secret and save me the fate of a
talebearer, I know—in half an hour your litter will await you at your
garden entrance.’
At the time appointed Plautia was borne away by the stout slaves, and
joined Tiberius and his small retinue which awaited her without the villa
gates. After a minute inspection of the villa, which was rapidly rising on
a height beyond the village, the party returned, and Plautia was escorted
to her rooms by her host himself. Refreshments were served. Tiberius,
drinking wine, reclined on a couch.
‘You eat nothing, Caesar,’ said Plautia, whose healthy appetite, sharpened
by the open air, was not so easily appeased.
‘Age wants for less than youth,’ replied Tiberius, with his admiring gaze
fixed upon her. ‘This island wine will suffice me till supper.’
She refilled his cup and acted as his cupbearer, with such charming,
smiling grace, that his pale face was suffused with a faint hue of
pleasure.
‘You sent for Priscus this morning,’ murmured he, between the sips of the
wine which she had tasted for him with her ripe lips.
She started and he smiled.
‘Priscus told me,’ he said, laying his thin hand quietly on her arm. ‘Why
do you start? Do you think you have committed some grave offence? Can you
not send for whom you please—myself included?’
‘You are too good,’ murmured Plautia, with a pretty assumption of bashful
pleasure.
‘Yes,’ continued the Emperor, feasting his eyes on the lovely colour which
deepened in her face. ‘You feel interested in the artisan and the work he
showed us last night, and you sent for Priscus. I am displeased—you ought
to have sent your pleasure to me, who can better serve you than Priscus.’
‘It was nothing—yet I confess the man’s appearance and his work interested
me—I wished to know what you had determined with regard to him!’
‘I am counselled to think that his invention would not be the benefit
which, at first glance, it would seem to be. It is necessary to consider
it in conjunction with other things. However, if the fellow is likely to
suffer by his unlucky idea, we may be able to make it up in some other
particular—let us have him here and hear what he has to say.’
One of the attendants was despatched, and in a short time returned with
Masthlion.
The potter came before them with his customary respectful, but self‐
possessed bearing; but his expression was a trifle more anxious and
careworn, as if delay and want of encouragement had dispirited him. His
hopes had been very sanguine.
His eyes eagerly tried to glean from the Emperor’s impassive face some
trace of the bent of his thoughts, but without result.
‘This noble lady,’ said Tiberius, ‘who saw you last night, has deigned to
take so much interest in you, as to wish to hear from your own lips the
story of your life. With regard to the specimen you brought us, that is
yet under consideration.’
‘The noble lady honours me with her regard,’ replied Masthlion, gazing at
her with undisguised admiration; ‘I will tell her willingly; but there is
little worthy of notice. The life of a poor workman is seldom anything but
the dreary history of toil for daily bread. One day resembles another,
save when food is scarcer and labour harder.’
‘Go on!’ said Plautia.
Masthlion did as he was requested, and gave a brief sketch of his life,
down to the discovery already described. Plautia listened attentively,
whilst Caesar beguiled the time in sipping his wine and gazing at her
face.
‘Good!’ said Tiberius, as the speaker concluded; ‘and now it would be idle
to mislead you with sanguine hopes. After so long a labour it must needs
be disappointing to know, that the verdict upon your invention seems to be
unfavourable. Build not, therefore, extravagant visions of success.’
Masthlion listened in silence. It sounded like the knell of his hopes. His
eyes first sought one and then the other, as if to assure himself that no
joke was being passed upon him; then he folded his arms across his breast
with quiet dignity, but infinite sadness.
‘Take heart, potter!’ said Plautia, who seemed really touched, as far as
it was possible for an aristocrat to be with one of Masthlion’s degree.
‘A lifelong task must needs be rooted in one’s breast—it is idle to deny
it,’ said Masthlion, sick at heart. ‘Will Caesar deign to say in what
respect my work has met with disapproval?’
‘Its bad effect upon a more important industry.’
‘One industry can scarce injure another, when both are useful. To my own
poor thoughts they would rather tend to mutual good.’
‘Older and wiser heads than yours think differently. Your views are
prejudiced and circumscribed by the narrow limits of your own particular
work—it will be necessary for your secret to remain undivulged.’
‘And yet there is no one living who would not seek the benefit of my
glass—is it possible, then, for such a thing to be hurtful?’ muttered
Masthlion in the keen bitterness of his soul.
‘’Tis strange, to say the least of it,’ said Plautia; ‘but courage—it will
be approved—some day you will become famous.’
Tiberius smiled coldly. Seeing Masthlion about to speak again, he shot him
a warning glance and raised his finger.
‘It is enough,’ he said; ‘I admit the disappointment, but it is
unavoidable. At the same time your honest perseverance merits praise,
whatever its fate. We may be able to recompense you in some way. You are a
poor man, and I am told you have a comely daughter—let her come to Capreae
and attend on this noble lady, whose interest you have won. In addition to
the great honour and advancement it will confer on the girl, she will be
bestowed upon the protection and kindness of the best of mistresses. It is
a chance such as seldom offers.’
The words fell on Masthlion like a blight. Terror froze his heart with an
icy grip, and animation seemed congealed, for a few moments, so sudden and
dread was the blow.
The warnings and censure of his kinsman came back upon him. Their echo no
longer sounded foolish. He was in the toils—in the midst of the vast
palace, with guards and sleepless eyes environing down the water’s edge.
In the very clutch of the ruthless being, the savour of whose public
reputation was as the scent of blood: whose simple request was tantamount
to a command.
How came he to know of her existence? Those two visitors to his shop, whom
Cestus had warned him of! But then Neæra was as well known in the town as
himself.
His mind flew back to his lowly home, and pictured his darling so vividly,
that the fire of desperation rose upon the chill horror which filled him.
She, who was all purity and womanliness, to inhabit there! They might rend
him in pieces ere he would consent.
He moistened his parched lips with his tongue, and could scarcely trust
his voice to frame an answer. He looked up again. Caesar and the beautiful
woman were watching him. The immovable eyes of the former seemed to pierce
him to the marrow, and he shuddered.
‘What troubles you, fellow?’ said Tiberius, in harsh tones; ‘have you not
a daughter to send hither?’
‘So please you, Caesar, and this noble lady, I have a daughter, and I am
grateful for the gracious favour you propose for her; but for her to leave
me would be to take from my life the only joy and consolation it has left,
since the hopes of my work have been destroyed.’
‘Tush! This is the way that the maudlin childishness of old age speaks,
and not the common‐sense words of hale and hearty manhood. The lady has
need of her—it will be to the benefit of the girl, and she will be nigh at
hand for your occasional visits.’
‘The noble lady will not deal so hardly with us,’ said Masthlion; ‘she
will not insist on removing from our poor home the only light it
possesses?’
‘My service will be easy and pleasant, and the girl will be happy—you
distress yourself without reason,’ said Plautia, with singular
satisfaction at the unexpected turn things had taken.
‘Enough,’ said Tiberius, ‘it is settled. It is the bare idea which
frightens you—you will grow wiser on reflection. Now go—you will receive
your instructions to‐morrow.’
Masthlion seized upon a last thought which struck his mind, and, instead
of obeying the command, fell on his knees.
‘Pardon, Caesar, but it cannot be—this daughter, as I have called her, is
not my own begotten child. Those, to whom she belongs, still live, and it
is beyond my power to dispose of her, whether I would or no.’
‘It matters nothing,’ said Tiberius ironically; ‘refer them to me—who are
they?’
‘I know them not, save that they are noble and wealthy and dwell in Rome,’
said Masthlion wildly.
‘The children of nobles are not put into the hovels of potters,’ returned
the Emperor contemptuously.
‘She was stolen and brought to me when an infant.’
‘Then your head is in danger.’
‘I knew it not until within the last few weeks—she was delivered to me as
an orphan child of poor parents—I was childless and I took her in.’
‘Dare you tell fables to me—go!’
‘It is truth, before the gods—she is a noble’s daughter and cannot come!’
cried the potter in reckless desperation.
‘Away—you destroy all lenience,’ said Tiberius, starting up with a
terrible frown; ‘cannot come—insolent! Ho! Zeno! Who waits there?’
Both the steward and the soldier on guard appeared in the room, almost as
soon as the words had left the Emperor’s lips. By the wrathful tone and
the angry glow in their master’s eyes, they expected a summary order. The
Pretorian’s heavy grasp had already fallen on the potter’s shoulder, but
Tiberius merely waved his hand impatiently toward the door, and fell back
on his cushions.
‘Quick, you fool!’ whispered Zeno in Masthlion’s ear, and, aided by the
Pretorian on the other side, the wretched potter was hurried staggering
from the room.
‘Haste!’ said the steward again, when outside, ‘before he changes his
mind.’ He dragged his charge along through the mazes of the palace,
without stop, until he deposited him, more like a man in a dream, in the
narrow little closet which contained his sleeping pallet.
Masthlion sank thereon and buried his face in his hands with a groan.
‘Hark’ee, comrade,’ said Zeno, after regarding him for a while, ‘take my
word for it, you are well out of that. I have seen better men come worse
off. It is only for madmen and fools to make experiments on the temper of
Caesar—do you take my advice and be careful and less ambitious in your
business—take your wares to a safer market.’