Hadrian laughed loudly and sharply at this, and said: 

“That will turn her heart and her stomach upside down.  I wish I were there to see—­but no, by all the gods, no! for she will certainly forget to paint this morning; and who will construct that edifice of hair if all her ladies share her fate.  We will stay here to-day, for if I meet her soon after she has reached Alexandria she will be undiluted gall and vinegar.”

With these words Hadrian rose from his couch, and waving his hand to Antinous, went out of the tent with his secretary.

A third person standing at the back of the tent had heard the Emperor’s conversation with his favorite; this was Mastor, a Sarmatian of the race of the Taryges.  He was a slave, and no more worthy of heed than the dog which had followed Hadrian, or than the pillows on which the Emperor had been reclining.  The man, who was handsome and well grown, stood for some time twisting the ends of his long red moustache, and stroking his round, closely-cropped head with his bands; then he drew the open chiton together over his broad breast, which seemed to gleam from the remarkable whiteness of the skin.  He never took his eyes off Antinous, who had turned over, and covering his face with his hands had buried them in the bear’s hairy mane.

Mastor had something he wanted to say to him, but he dared not address him for the young favorite’s demeanor could not be reckoned on.  Often he was ready to listen to him and talk with him as a friend, but often, too, he repulsed him more sharply than the haughtiest upstart would repel the meanest of his servants.  At last the slave took courage and called the lad by his name, for it seemed less hard to submit to a scolding than to smother the utterance of a strong, warm feeling, unimportant as it might be, which was formed in words in his mind.  Antinous raised his head a little on his hands and asked: 

“What is it?”

“I only wanted to tell you,” replied the Sarmatian, “that I know who the little girl was that you so often took upon your shoulders.  It was your little sister, was it not, of whom you were speaking to me lately?”

The lad nodded assent, and then once more buried his head in his hands, and his shoulders heaved so violently that it would seem that he was weeping.—­Mastor remained silent for a few minutes, then he went up to Antinous and said: 

“You know I have a son and a little daughter at home, and I am always glad to hear about little girls.  We are alone and if it will relieve your heart.”

“Let me alone, I have told you a dozen times already about my mother and little Parthea,” replied Antinous, trying to look composed.

“Then do so confidently for the thirteenth,” said the slave.  “In the camp and in the kitchen I can talk about my people as much as I like.  But you—­tell me, what do you call the little dog that Panthea made a scarlet cloak for?”