I had just fallen asleep, when suddenly the door was burst open with such violence that it was evidently not done by robbers; the hinges were absolutely broken and wrenched off, and it was thrown to the ground.  The small bedstead, minus one foot and rotten, was also upset by the shock; and falling upon me, who had been rolled out on the floor, it completely covered and hid me.  Then I perceived that certain emotions can be excited by exactly opposite causes; for as tears often come from joy, so, in spite of my terror, I could not help laughing to see myself turned from Aristomenes into a tortoise.  As I lay on the floor, completely covered by the bed, and peeping out to see what was the matter, I saw two old women, one carrying a lighted lamp and the other a sponge and a drawn sword, plant themselves on either side of Socrates, who was fast asleep.

The one with the sword said to the other:—­“This, sister Panthea, is my dear Endymion, my Ganymede, who by day and by night has laughed my youth to scorn.  This is he who, despising my passion, not only defames me with abusive language, but is preparing also for flight; and I forsooth, deserted through the craft of this Ulysses, like another Calypso, am to be left to lament in eternal loneliness!”

Then extending her right hand, and pointing me out to her friend Panthea:—­

“And there,” said she, “is his worthy counselor, Aristomenes, who was the planner of this flight, and who now, half dead, is lying flat on the ground under the bedstead and looking at all that is going on, while he fancies that he is to tell scandalous stories of me with impunity.  I’ll take care, however, that some day, aye, and before long, too,—­this very instant, in fact,—­he shall repent of his recent chatter and his present curiosity.”

On hearing this I felt myself streaming with cold perspiration, and my heart began to throb so violently that even the bedstead danced on my back.

“Well, sister,” said the worthy Panthea, “shall we hack him to pieces at once, like the Bacchanals, or tie his limbs and mutilate him?”

To this Meroe replied,—­and I saw from what was happening, as well as from what Socrates had told, how well the name fitted her,—­“Rather let him live, if only to cover the body of this wretched creature with a little earth.”

Then, moving Socrates’s head to one side, she plunged the sword into his throat up to the hilt, catching the blood in a small leathern bottle so carefully that not a drop of it was to be seen.  All this I saw with my own eyes.  The worthy Meroe—­in order, I suppose, not to omit any due observance in the sacrifice of the victim—­then thrust her right hand through the wound, and drew forth the heart of my unhappy companion.  His windpipe being severed, he emitted a sort of indistinct gurgling noise, and poured forth his breath with his bubbling blood.  Panthea then stopped the gaping wound with a sponge, exclaiming, “Beware, O sea-born sponge, how thou dost pass through a river!”