“What ails thee, child?” he inquired anxiously.

“Oh, father, in what a frightful position do I find myself!”

“Speak,” he said, “and rely on my counsel.”

“When I entered the Court,” she proceeded, “I found at first but one human creature I could love or trust, and he—­let me so call him—­seemed to make up for the deficiencies of all the rest.  It was the cupbearer Helladius.”

“I hope he is still thy friend,” interrupted Photinius.  “The good graces of an Imperial cupbearer are always important, and I would have bought those of Helladius with a myriad of bezants.”

“They were not to be thus obtained, father,” said she.  “The purest disinterestedness, the noblest integrity, the most unselfish devotion, were the distinction of my friend.  And such beauty!  I cannot, I must not conceal that my heart was soon entirely his.  But—­most strange it seemed to me then—­it was long impossible for me to tell whether Helladius loved me or loved me not.  The most perfect sympathy existed between us:  we seemed one heart and one soul:  and yet, and yet, Helladius never gave the slightest indication of the sentiments which a young man might be supposed to entertain for a young girl.  Vainly did I try every innocent wile that a modest maiden may permit herself:  he was ever the friend, never the lover.  At length, after long pining between despairing fondness and wounded pride, I myself turned away, and listened to one who left me in no doubt of the sincerity of his passion.”

“Who?”

“The Emperor!  And, to shorten the story of my shame, I became his mistress.”

“The saints be praised!” shouted Photinius.  “O my incomparable daughter!”

“Father!” cried Euprepia, blushing and indignant.  “But let me hurry on with my wretched tale.  In proportion as the Emperor’s affection became more marked, Helladius, hitherto so buoyant and serene, became a visible prey to despondency.  Some scornful beauty, I deemed, was inflicting on him the tortures he had previously inflicted upon me, and, cured of my unhappy attachment, and entirely devoted to my Imperial lover, I did all in my power to encourage him.  He received my comfort with gratitude, nor did it, as I had feared might happen, seem to excite the least lover-like feeling towards me on his own part.”

“Euprepia,” he said only two days ago, “never in this Court have I met one like thee.  Thou art the soul of honour and generosity.  I can safely trust thee with a secret which my bursting heart can no longer retain, but which I dread to breathe even to myself.  Know first I am not what I seem, I am a woman!” And opening his vest—­”

“We know all about that already,” interrupted Photinius.  “Get on!”