“What you could do out of terror of your master you can do still better for love of him,” retorted the praetor.  “The problem is an easy one; and if after all you should not succeed I shall feel it no less than my duty to explain to Hadrian how well Antinous can take care of his own interests and how badly of his master’s peace of mind.  Till to-morrow, my handsome friend—­and if for the future you have flowers to send, my slaves are quite at your service.”

With these words the praetor left the room, but Antinous stood like one crushed, pressing his brow against the cold porphyry pillar by the window.  What Verus required of him did not seem to have any harm in it, and yet it was not right.  It was treason to his noble master, whom he loved with tender devotion as a father, a wise, kind friend, and preceptor, and whom he reverenced and feared as though he were a god.  To plot to hide impending trouble from him, as if he were not a man but a feeble weakling, was absurd and contemptible, and must introduce an error of unknown importance and extent into his sovereign’s far-seeing predeterminations.  Many other reasons against the praetor’s demands crowded on him, and as each occurred to his mind he cursed his tardy spirit which never let him see or think the right thing till it was too late.  His first deceit had already involved him in a second.

He hated himself; he hit his forehead with his fists and sobbed aloud bitterly again and again, though he shed no tears.  Still, in the midst of his self-accusation, the flattering voice made itself heard in his soul:  “It is only to preserve your master from sorrow, and it is nothing wrong that you are asked to do.”  And each time that his inward ear heard these words he began to puzzle his brain to discover in what way it might be possible for him to tempt the Emperor, at the hour named, down from his watch-tower in the palace.  But he could hit on no practicable plan.

“It cannot be done, no—­it cannot be done!” he muttered to himself and then he asked himself if it were not even his duty to defy the praetor and to confess to Hadrian that he had deceived him in the morning.  If only it had not been for the little bottle!  Could he ever confess that he had heedlessly parted with this gift of all others from his master?  No, it was too hard, it might cost him his sovereign’s affection for ever.  And if he contented himself with a half-truth and confessed, merely to anticipate the praetor’s accusation, that Selene was still living, then he would involve the daughters of the hapless Keraunus in persecution and disgrace Selene whom he loved with all the devotion of a first passion, which was enhanced and increased by the hindrances that had come in its way.  It was impossible to confess his guilt-quite impossible.  The longer he thought, tormenting himself to find some way out of it all, the more confused he became, and the more impotent his efforts at resistance.  The praetor had entangled him with thongs and meshes, and at every struggle to escape they only seemed knotted more closely round him.