For a moment he could not see Galen, there was such confusion of shadow and light.  High shelves around the walls of a long, shed-like room were crowded with retorts and phials.  An enormous, dusty human skeleton, articulated on concealed wire, moved as if annoyed by the intrusion.  There were many kinds of skulls of animals and men on brackets fastened to the wall, and there were jars containing dead things soaked in spirit.  Some of the jars were enormous, having once held olive oil.  On a table down the midst were instruments, a scale for weighing chemicals, some measures and a charcoal furnace with a blow-pipe; and across the whole of one end of the room was a system of wooden pigeon-holes, stacked with chemicals and herbs, for the most part wrapped in parchment.

Sunlight streaming through narrow windows amid dust of drugs and spices made a moving mystery; the room seemed under water.  Galen, stooping over a crucible with an unrolled parchment on the table within reach, was not distinguishable until he moved; when he ceased moving he faded out again, and Sextus had to go and stand where he could touch him, to believe that he was really there.

“You told me you had ceased experiments.”

“I lied.  The universe is an experiment,” said Galen.  “Such gods as there are perhaps are looking to evolve a decent man, or possibly a woman, from the mess we see around us.  Let us hope they fail.”

“Why?”

“There appears to be hope in failure.  Should the gods fail, they will still be gods and go on trying.  If they ever made a decent man or woman all the rest of us would turn on their creation and destroy it.  Then the gods would turn into devils and destroy us.”

“What has happened to you, Galen?  Why the bitter mood?”

“I discover I am like the rest of you—­like all Rome.  At my age such a discovery makes for bitterness.”  For a minute or two Galen went on scraping powder from the crucible, then suddenly he looked up at Sextus, stepping backward so as to see the young man’s face more clearly in a shaft of sunlight.

“Did you send that Christian into the tunnel to kill Commodus?” he asked.

“I?  You know me better than that, Galen!  When the time comes to slay Commodus—­but is Commodus dead?  Speak, don’t stand there looking at me!  Speak, man!”

Galen appeared satisfied.

“No, not Commodus.  The blow miscarried.  Somebody slew Nasor.  A mistake.  A coward’s blow.  If you had been responsible—­”

“When—­if—­I slay, it shall be openly with my own hand,” said Sextus.  “Not I alone, but Rome herself must vomit out that monster.  Why are you vexed?”

“That wanton blow that missed its mark has stripped some friends of mine too naked.  It has also stripped me and revealed me to myself.  Last night I saw a falling star—­a meteor that blazed out of the night and vanished.”

“I, too,” said Sextus.  “All Rome saw it.  The cheap sorcerers are doing a fine trade.  They declare it portends evil.”