Menelaüs’s face visibly lengthened as he read this epistle. “By the dog!” (this was a Socratic oath which he sometimes affected, as giving to his conversation a certain philosophic tinge)—“By the dog! this is worse than being dunned! I like not a journey to Antioch. A very pretty place, but expensive, dreadfully expensive, especially when one has the honour of being entertained by the King.” Cleon felt a certain pleasure in the high priest’s discomfiture. The new patron was more overbearing, less considerate, and generally more difficult to get on with than the old. Jason, coxcomb as he was, had always been kind, and Cleon felt as kindly for him as it was in his nature to feel for any one. And then the exquisite propriety with which this disturbing news followed the man’s taunts and boasts was irresistible. “It is hard,” he said, as if to himself, “when a man has got into a good place——” Menelaüs darted an angry look at his friend, but the Greek’s face, which he knew how to keep under admirable control, expressed nothing but respectful sympathy. There was an unpleasant suggestion of mockery in what he had heard; but the Greek was a useful person; he had been trusted, too, and knew things which it would not do to have published. Altogether, the high priest concluded, it would not do to quarrel with him—anyhow, for the present; some day, perhaps, he might be got rid of. “I suppose, sir, you cannot make an excuse—important affairs of State, the King’s service to be attended to, or something of that kind?” Cleon made the suggestion, knowing perfectly well that it was quite out of the question. But he enjoyed the novel position of tormenting his patron, and was taking it out, so to speak, for not a few rudenesses and slights. “Excuse!” cried Menelaüs. “It would be as much as my head is worth to do anything of the kind. No! I must go. But this is not a journey which one cares to take empty-handed. Let me see what I can take—two or three of the most portable cups, as much coin as I can scrape together, and the jewels—jewels are always useful: it is so easy to hide them. Well, I shall leave you in charge; unless, indeed, you are very much set on going yourself.” Cleon was not at all set upon going; on the contrary, nothing short of the strongest inducements would have persuaded him to the journey. Going to Antioch was like putting one’s head into the lion’s mouth. There was no particular reason, indeed, why _his_ head should be bitten off; but lions are capricious, and sometimes use their teeth for the mere fun of the thing. “I am much obliged for the chance,” he said, “but my health has been suffering lately, and I do not feel quite equal to the journey.” “Well, then,” replied Menelaüs, “stop here, and keep things as straight as you can. And if you can sell some of these pretty things for ready money, do so—the usual commission for yourself, of course. But it must all be kept quiet.”