Your cry of distress is fully justified, my friend.  But do you really believe in the power of light to diminish noise?”

“At any rate,” replied Pollux, “where it is absent, that is to say in the dark, every noise seems redoubled.”

“That is true, but there are other reasons for that,” answered the architect.  “To-morrow in an interval of work we will discuss these matters.  Now I will go to provide you with lamps and lights.”

“Urania, the protectress of the fine arts, will be beholden to you,” cried Pollux as the architect went away.

Pontius meanwhile sought his chief foreman to ask him whether he had delivered his orders to Keraunus, the palace-steward, to come to him, and to put the cressets and lamps commonly used for the external illuminations, at the service of his workmen.

“Three times,” was the answer “have I been myself to the man, but each time he puffed himself out like a frog and answered me not a word, but only sent me into a little room with his daughter—­whom you must see, for she is charming—­and a miserable black slave, and there I found these few wretched lamps that are now burning.”

“Did you order him to come to me?”

“Three hours ago, and again a second time, when you were talking with Papias.”

The architect turned his back upon the foreman in angry haste, unrolled the plan of the palace, quickly found upon it the abode of the recalcitrant steward, seized a small red-clay lamp that was standing near him, and being quite accustomed to guide himself by a plan, went straight through the rooms, which were not a few, and by a long corridor from the hall of the Muses, to the lodging of the negligent official.  An unclosed door led him into a dark ante-chamber followed by another room, and finally into a large, well-furnished apartment.  All these door-ways, into what seemed to be at once the dining and sitting-room of the steward, were bereft of doors, and could only be closed by stuff curtains, just now drawn wide open.  Pontius could therefore look in, unhindered and unperceived, at the table on which a three-branched bronze lamp was standing between a dish and some plates.  The stout man was sitting with his rubicund moon-face towards the architect, who, indignant as he was, would have gone straight up to him with swift decision, if, before entering the second room, a low but pitiful sob had not fallen on his ear.

The sob proceeded from a slight young girl who came forward from a door beyond the sitting-room, and who now placed a platter with a loaf on the table by the steward.

“Come, do not cry, Selene,” said the steward, breaking the bread slowly and with an evident desire to soothe his child.

“How can I help crying,” said the girl.  “But tomorrow morning let me buy a piece of meat for you; the physician forbade you to eat bread.”

“Man must be filled,” replied the fat man, “and meat is dear.  I have nine mouths to fill, not counting the slaves.  And where am I to get the money to fill us all with meat?”