It is a Roman supper. Rose-crowned men lean upon Indian cushions, holding golden beakers in their right hands. Women in yielding nakedness cower at their feet. Through the open door streams in a Bacchic procession with fauns and panthers, the drunken Pan in its midst. Brown-skinned slaves with leopard skins about their loins make mad music. Among them is one who at once makes me forget the tumult. She leans her firm, naked body surreptitiously against the pillar. Her form is contracted with weariness. Thoughtlessly and with tired lips she blows the _tibia_ which her nerveless hands threaten to drop. Her cheeks are yellow and fallen in, her eyes are glassy, but upon her forehead are seen the folds of lordship and about her mouth wreaths a stony smile of irony. Who is she? Whence does she come? I ask myself. But I feel a dull thud against my shoulder. My bosom friend has fallen asleep and is using me as a pillow. "Look here, you!" I call out to him, for I have for the moment forgotten his name. "Go home and go to bed." He starts up and gazes at me with swimming eyes. "Do you mean me?" he stutters. "That's a good joke." And next moment he begins to snore. I hide him as well as possible with my broad back and bend down over the glittering samovar before me. The fragrant steam prickles my nose. It is time that the little woman turn up if I am to amuse her guests. I think of the brown-skinned woman yonder in the painting. I open my eyes. Merciful heaven! What is that? For the woman stands erect now in all the firm magnificence of her young limbs, presses her clenched fists against her forehead and stares down at me with glowing eyes. And suddenly she hurls the flutes from her in a long curve and cries with piercing voice: "No more ... I will play no more!" It is the voice of a slave at the moment of liberation. "For heaven's sake, woman!" I cry. "What are you doing? You will be slain; you will be thrown to the wild beasts!" She points about her with a gesture that is full of disgust and contempt. Then I see what she means. All that company has fallen asleep. The men lie back with open mouths, the goblets still in their hands. Golden cascades of wine fall glittering upon the marble. The women writhe in these pools of wine. But even in the intoxication of their dreams they try to guard their elaborate hair dress. The whole mad band, musicians and animals, lies there with limbs dissolved, panting for air, overwhelmed by heavy sleep. "The way is free!" cries the flute player jubilantly and buries her twitching fingers into the flesh of her breasts. "What is there to hinder my flight?" "Whither do you flee, mad woman?" I ask. A gleam of dreamy ecstasy glides over her grief-worn face which seems to flush and grow softer of outline. "Home--to freedom," she whispers down to me and her eyes burn. "Where is your home?"