"To Cornelius Cethegus Cæsarius, the Ex-prefect and ex-friend, Procopius of Cæsarea, for the last time. This is the most sorrowful business for which I have ever used either my former or my present pen-hand. And I would gladly give this my left hand, as I gave my right for Belisarius, if I need not write this letter. The revocation and renunciation of our friendship of thirty years! In this unheroic time I believed in two heroes; the hero of the sword, Belisarius; and the hero of the intellect, Cethegus. In future I must hate, and almost despise, the latter." The reader threw the letter on the couch upon which he lay. Then he took it up again with a frown and read on: "Nothing more was wanting but that Belisarius should prove to be the traitor that you would have represented him to be. But his innocence is as clearly proved as your black falsehood. I had often felt uneasy at the crookedness of your ways, into which you had partly led me also; but I believed in the grandeur and unselfishness of your design: the liberation of Italy! Now, however, I see that the mainspring of your actions was measureless, unlimited, merciless ambition! A design which necessitates such means as you have used is desecrated in my eyes for ever. You tried to ruin Belisarius, that brave and simple-minded man, by means of his own repentant wife, and to sacrifice him to Theodora and to your own ambition. That was devilish; and I turn away from you for ever." Cethegus closed his eyes. "I ought not to wonder at it," he said to himself. "He too has his idol: Belisarius! Whoever touches that idol is as hateful to the wise Procopius as he who sees in the Cross merely a piece of wood is to the Christian. Therefore I ought not to wonder at it--but it pains me! Such is the power of a thirty years' habit. During all those years a warmer feeling came over my heart at the sound of the name, Procopius! How weak does custom make us! The Goth deprived me of Julius--Belisarius deprives me of Procopius! Who will deprive me of Cethegus, my oldest and last friend? No one. Neither Narses nor Fate. Away with you, Procopius, out of the circle of my life! Almost too lachrymose, certainly too long, is the funeral speech which I have held over you. What else does the dead man say?" And he continued to read: