‘Three good hours—you are now to depart—make ready.’ Masthlion, with trembling hands, lifted his wallet from the floor. ‘I am ready,’ said he. They went out, and the steward never spoke until they reached the outer gate. Conversing with the soldier on guard was an individual well wrapped up in a cloak. ‘Here is your charge,’ said Zeno, addressing him. The other nodded and ejaculated, ‘Good,’ as he bestowed a sharp glance on the potter. ‘Farewell,’ pursued the Greek to the latter; ‘I come no further, and here our acquaintance ends, I suppose. Plautus goes to the opposite shore; he will take charge of you, and has instructions to see you safely bestowed—farewell, Surrentine!’ The man called Plautus laughed. Masthlion, in his eager excitement to be gone, uttered his farewell and thanks rather hastily. ‘Come, then, Surrentine,’ quoth Plautus, striding through the gate, ‘the boat waits, and I have far to go and much to do.’ The potter needed no encouragement to quit the abhorred precincts of the villa, and when once clear of its shadow, he breathed a prayer of thankfulness and relief. With a light step and eager heart he followed the rapid pace of his conductor, his mind being too full of hopes and fears to attempt a conversation. The absence of any command from the Emperor with regard to Neæra, he regarded with satisfaction, as a plausible argument that no further insistance in the matter was intended. Yet he was anxious—more anxious than he cared to own. He burned for the moment to arrive when he should enter his own door again—and yet he dreaded it too. Once he was curious enough to ask of his companion, if he was to be landed on the opposite point, in which case he would have a long journey on foot to accomplish. He received only an unintelligible growl in response; so, fearing to irritate what seemed to be a cross‐grained temper, he held his peace. Descending the steep declivity they issued on the narrow Marina, where a galley ready drawn up awaited them. Its crew of about eight men were lolling about amongst the idlers, but when the gruff voice of Plautus fell on their ears, they sprang to their places in readiness to ply their heavy oars. ‘In with you,’ said Plautus to Masthlion; and the boat, by a vigorous shove, was swept out on the bay. ‘Give way—bend your backs, and the sooner we shall be home again,’ called Plautus, as he seized the steering oar. ‘Sit you just there, and move not, Surrentine.’ He pointed to a place just astern of the stroke‐oarsman. The potter sat down and became again absorbed in his reflections.