"To our Redeemer, that he might give you also joy. She died for Christ Jesus; now she is with him, and he will grant her prayers." Antinous was silent for a while, then he said: "Once more give me your hand, Mary, and now farewell. Will you sometimes think of me, and pray for me too, to your Redeemer?" "Yes, yes, and you will not quite forget me, the poor cripple?" "Certainly not, you good, kind girl! Perhaps we may some day meet again." With these words Antinous hurried down the hill and through the town to the Nile. The moon had risen and was mirrored in the rough water. Just so had its image played upon the waves when Antinous had rescued Selene from the sea. The lad knew that Hadrian would be expecting him, still he did not seek his tent. A violent emotion had overpowered him; he restlessly paced up and down the river-bank rapidly reviewing in his memory the more prominent incidents of his past life. He seemed to hear again every word of the dialogue that had taken place yesterday between Hadrian and himself. Before his inward eye he saw once more his humble home in Bithynia, his mother, his brothers and sisters whom he should never see again. Once more he lived through the dreadful hour when he had deceived his beloved master and had been an incendiary. An overmastering dread fell upon him as he thought of Hadrian's wish to put him in the place of the man whom the prudent sovereign had chosen as his successor--a choice that was perhaps the direct outcome of his own crime. He, Antinous, who to-day could not think of the morrow, who always kept out of the way of the discourse of grave men because he found it so hard to follow their meaning, he who knew nothing but how to obey, he who was never happy but alone with his master and his dreaming, far from the bustle of the world --he, to be burdened with the purple, with anxiety, with a mountain-load of responsibility! No, no; the idea was unheard-of--impossible! And yet Hadrian never gave up a wish he had once expressed in words. The future loomed before his soul like some overpowering foe. Suffering, unrest, and misfortune stared him in the face, turn which way he would. What was the hideous fatality that threatened his sovereign? It was approaching, it must come if no one--aye, if no one should be found to stand between him and the impending blow, and to receive in his own breast--in his own heart, bared to receive the wound--the spear hurled by the vengeful god. And he--he, and he alone was the one who might do this.