“Wise, and wise, and wise!” the Roman broke out.  “He is a scoundrel.  It makes no difference to me so long as he keeps out of my way; but when, as has been the case for several days now, he constantly sticks close to me to spy upon me, and treats me as if he were my equal, I will show him that he is mistaken.  He has no reason to complain of my want of frankness; he knows my opinion of him, and that I am quite inclined to give him a thrashing.  If I wanted to meet his cunning with cunning I should get the worst of it, for he is far superior to me in intrigue.  I shall fare better with him by my own unconcealed mode of fighting, which is new to him and puzzles him; besides it is better suited to my own nature, and more consonant to me than any other.  He is not only sly, but is keen-witted, and he has at once connected the complaint which I have threatened to bring against him with the manuscript which Serapion, the recluse, gave me in his presence.  There it lies—­only look.

“Now, being not merely crafty, but a daring rascal too—­two qualities which generally contradict each other, for no one who is really prudent lives in disobedience to the laws—­he has secretly untied the strings which fastened it.  But, you see, he had not time enough to tie the roll up again!  He has read it all or in part, and I wish him joy of the picture of himself he will have found painted there.  The anchorite wields a powerful pen, and paints with a firm outline and strongly marked coloring.  If he has read the roll to the end it will spare me the trouble of explaining to him what I purpose to charge him with; if you disturbed him too soon I shall have to be more explicit in my accusation.  Be that as it may, it is all the same to me.”

“Nay, certainly not,” cried Lysias, “for in the first case Eulaeus will have time to meditate his lies, and bribe witnesses for his defence.  If any one entrusted me with such important papers—­and if it had not been you who neglected to do it—­I would carefully seal or lock them up.  Where have you put the despatch from the Senate which the messenger brought you just now?”

“That is locked up in this casket,” replied Publius, moving his hand to press it more closely over his robe, under which he had carefully hidden it.

“May I not know what it contain?” asked the Corinthian.

“No, there is not time for that now, for we must first, and at once, consider what can be done to repair the last mischief which you have done.  Is it not a disgraceful thing that you should betray the sweet creature whose childlike embarrassment charmed us this morning—­of whom you yourself said, as we came home, that she reminded you of your lovely sister—­that you should betray her, I say, into the power of the wildest of all the profligates I ever met—­to this monster, whose pleasures are the unspeakable, whose boast is vice?  What has Euergetes—­”

“By great Poseidon!” cried Lysias, eagerly interrupting his friend.  “I never once thought of this second Alcibiades when I mentioned her.  What can the manager of a performance do, but all in his power to secure the applause of the audience? and, by my honor! it was for my own sake that I wanted to bring Irene into the palace—­I am mad with love for her —­she has undone me.”