“Some enjoyment that is not followed by depression. I do not know of one.” “That is a desire you share with all the youth of Rome, only they are apt to postpone the reaction. Well, and what next?” “I cannot tell you.” “What prevents your speaking openly to me?” “You, yourself did.” “I?” “Yes, you; for you forbid me to speak of my home, my mother, and my people.” The Emperor’s brow darkened, and he answered sternly: “I am your father and your whole soul should be given to me.” “It is all yours,” answered the youth, falling back on to the bear-skin, and drawing the pallima closely over his shoulders, for a gust blew coldly in at the side of the tent, through which Phlegon, the Emperor’s private secretary, now entered and approached his master. He was followed by a slave with several sealed rolls under his arms. “Will it be agreeable to you, Caesar, to consider the despatches and letters that have just arrived?” asked the official, whose carefully-arranged hair had been tossed by the sea-breeze. “Yes, and then we can make a note of what I was able to observe in the heavens last night. Have you the tablets ready?” “I left them in the tent set up especially for the work, Caesar.” “The storm has become very violent.” “It seems to blow from the north and east both at once, and the sea is very rough. The Empress will have a bad voyage.” “When did she set out?” “The anchor was weighed towards midnight. The vessel which is to fetch her to Alexandria is a fine ship, but rolls from side to side in a very unpleasant manner.” Hadrian laughed loudly and sharply at this, and said: “That will turn her heart and her stomach upside down. I wish I were there to see--but no, by all the gods, no! for she will certainly forget to paint this morning; and who will construct that edifice of hair if all her ladies share her fate. We will stay here to-day, for if I meet her soon after she has reached Alexandria she will be undiluted gall and vinegar.” With these words Hadrian rose from his couch, and waving his hand to Antinous, went out of the tent with his secretary. A third person standing at the back of the tent had heard the Emperor’s conversation with his favorite; this was Mastor, a Sarmatian of the race of the Taryges. He was a slave, and no more worthy of heed than the dog which had followed Hadrian, or than the pillows on which the Emperor had been reclining. The man, who was handsome and well grown, stood for some time twisting the ends of his long red moustache, and stroking his round, closely-cropped head with his bands; then he drew the open chiton together over his broad breast, which seemed to gleam from the remarkable whiteness of the skin. He never took his eyes off Antinous, who had turned over, and covering his face with his hands had buried them in the bear’s hairy mane.