Pontius had erected this slight structure expressly for Hadrian’s nightly observations.  It was built of timber and Nile-mud and stood up as a tall turret on the secure foundation of an ancient watch-tower built of hewn stone, which, standing among the low buildings that served as storehouses for the palace, commanded a free outlook over all the quarters of the sky.  Hadrian, who liked to be alone and undisturbed when observing the heavens, had preferred this erection—­even after he had made himself known to the Alexandrians—­to the great observatory of the Serapeum, from which a still broader horizon was visible.

After Antinous had got out of the smaller and newer tower into the larger and older one he sat down on one of the lowest steps to collect his thoughts and to quiet his loudly-beating heart.  His vain cogitations began all over again.  Time slipped on-between the present moment and the deed to be done there were but a certain number of minutes.  He told himself so, and his weary brain stirred more actively, suggesting to him to feign illness and bring the Emperor to his bedside.  But Hadrian was physician enough to see that he was well, and even if he should allow himself to be deceived, he, Antinous, was a deceiver.  This thought filled him with horror of himself and with dread for the future, and yet it was the only plan that gave any hope of success.  And even when he sprang to his feet and walked hastily up and down among the out-houses he could hit upon no other scheme.  And how fast the minutes flew!  The third hour after midnight must be quite close at hand, and he had scarcely left himself time to rush back into the palace, throw himself on his couch, and call Mastor.  Quite bewildered with agitation and tottering like a drunken man he hastened back into the old tower where he had left his torch leaning against the wall and looked up the stone stairs; it suddenly flashed through his mind that he might go up again to fling himself down them.  What did he care for his miserable life.

His fall, his cry, would bring the Emperor down from his observatory and he knew that he would not leave his bleeding favorite uncared for and untended he could count upon that.  And if then Hadrian watched by his bed it would be that, perhaps, of a dying man, but not of a deceiver.  Fully determined on extreme measures, he tightened the girdle which held his chiton above his hips and once more went out into the night to judge by the stars what hour it was.  He saw the slender sickle of the waning moon-the same moon which at the full had been mirrored in the sea when he had gone into the water to save Selene.  The image of the pale girl rose before him, tangibly distinct.  He felt as if he held her once more in his arms—­saw her once more lying on her bed-could once more press his lips to her cold brow.  Then the vision vanished; instead he was possessed by a wild desire to see her, and he said to himself that he could not die without having seen her once more.