"I have seen the Cæsar, and I like him. Quite young, fair as flax, with a good-natured, fat face. But, as you say, what crimes are committed nowadays! what crimes indeed! Why one can't put one's nose outside the door without danger." "Ah, that's nothing to do with Cæsar! it's his wife, Constantia, the old witch, that does it!" But strange personages came near the knot of talkers and thrust themselves forward, as if desiring to take part in the conversation. If the kitchen firelight had been brighter, it would have been noticed that their faces were begrimed and their clothes fouled and torn like those of stage-beggars; and notwithstanding their raggedness the hands of these persons were fine and white, and their nails pared and crimsoned. One of them whispered in his comrade's ear-- "Listen, Agamemnon; here also they're talking about Cæsar." He whom they called Agamemnon appeared to be drunk. He wore a beard, which was too thick and long to be natural, and gave him the aspect of a fantastic brigand. His eyes were debonair, almost boyish, and of a bright blue. His friends frequently pulled him back, muttering-- "Now then be careful!" The consumptive old man went on in a whining tone-- "Now tell me plainly, my friends, is it just? The price of bread is going up every day. People dying like flies. And, suddenly, guess what happens? Lately a great ship came from Egypt; everybody's happy, thinking that it brings bread. The word goes round that Cæsar has made the ship come to feed the people. And what do you think it was, my friends? Powder, Alexandrian powder, if you please! a special pink Libyan powder to rub down the wrestlers!--powder for the Emperor's gladiators--powder instead of bread!... Eh?... Now is that justice?" Agamemnon nudged his companion's elbow. "Ask his name, quick--ask!" "Gently, wait a bit...." A leather dresser remarked-- "Here in Seleucia the town is quiet, but up at Antioch there are nothing but traitors, spies, and informers." The dyer, licking the mallow-leaf for the last time, growled and mumbled-- "Yes, unless God comes down to help us, soon flesh and blood will be going a deal cheaper than bread and wine!" The currier, a philosophic tippler, sighed-- "Ah! ah! ah! we're all poor creatures! The gods of Olympus play at ball with us! Men weep and the gods laugh!" The companion of Agamemnon meanwhile had succeeded in joining the conversation, and with nonchalant adroitness acertained the names of the talkers. He had intercepted the news, conveyed by the cobbler to the leather-dresser, about a plot hatched against Cæsar's life by the soldiers of the Pretorian guard. Then, strolling on a few paces, he had written down the names of the talkers with a jewelled stilus on tablets of soft wax, where many other names were inscribed already. At this moment hoarse sounds like the roarings of some subterranean monster came from the market square. They were the notes, now plaintive, now lively, of a hydraulic organ.