Meanwhile Domitian had recovered from his swoon. An overwrought mind, the physician said, and anxiety for the weal of his beloved Romans had reduced the Father of his country to this condition; escape from all business, amusement, and enjoyment of every kind, were the only means of avoiding a recurrence of the attack. Domitian accepted this diagnosis with favor. The external application of Vesuvian wine, and a few mouthfuls of the strongest Samian, which he swallowed eagerly, had entirely restored his vigor; he did not even feel so languid as usual. He spent another hour in bed, by the leech’s advice, and then he allowed himself to be dressed, and ordered his litter. Just as he was quitting the room he remembered the tablet; he hastened back and raised the pillow. There it lay--the register of death. He put it in his bosom. “What are you doing here?” he said, turning sharply on Phaeton, who was standing by, pale and frightened. “Whatever my lord and god may command.” “Then order Narcissus to wait in the cubiculum,[39] and do you come with me.” Phaeton breathed once more. He obeyed with the swiftness of the wind. The Emperor passed the hours till supper-time in one of the vast pleasaunces on the top of Mons Janiculus, and to Phaeton was vouchsafed the coveted honor of entertaining the ruler of the world, while the rest of the suite stood aside in reverent silence. Domitian was remarkably gracious to-day. He condescended to pinch the boy’s rosy cheeks, and invited him to share the breakfast, which was served in a garden-house with every conceivable luxury. Then Phaeton must sing to him, and tell him once more about his mother, the beautiful, heart-broken Judith, who had been brought to Rome as a young girl from her home in Palestine, and had never ceased weeping till her large, flashing eyes were dim and blind. The boy knew how to talk, sometimes gaily, sometimes sadly--of the holy citadel of Jerusalem[40] which, to him, included all that was sacred on earth--of the horrors of the siege--the Temple of Solomon--the hoary cedars of Lebanon. Then he would relate some reminiscence of his own experience--of the first time he threw the discus on the Field of Mars, and attracted the notice of Parthenius--of the pride and awe with which he had, for the first time, entered the imperial apartments--his delight at Caesar’s approbation, when he returned from an excursion to Albanum. As he listened to this simple childlike prattle, Domitian was moved to a guileless feeling of affection, which he had long forgotten. “Tell me, Phaeton,” he said, stroking the boy’s long curls, “if base villains were to attempt your master’s life, or try to hurt him, you would stand by him?” “So far as I was able, my lord,” said the boy heartily. “But who would dare to commit so monstrous a crime?” “No one, Phaeton, by the gods! I only asked you to try your love for me.”