“The gods would be exorbitant indeed if they were not content with your blood for mine!”

“Life is life, and that of the young is of better worth than that of the old.  Many joys will yet bloom for you.”

“And you are indispensable to the whole world.”

“After me another will come.  Are you ambitious, boy?”

“No, my Lord.”

“What then can be the meaning of this:  that every one wishes me joy of my son Verus excepting you.  Do you not like my choice?”

Antinous colored and looked at the ground, and Hadrian went on: 

“Say honestly what you feel.”

“The praetor is ill.”

“He can have but a few years to live, and when he is dead—­”

“He may recover—­”

“When he is dead, I must look out for another son.  What do you think now?  Who is the being that every man, from a slave to a consul, would soonest hear call him ‘Father?"’

“Some one he tenderly loved.”

“True—­and particularly when that one clung to him with unchangeable fidelity.  I am a man like any other, and you, my good fellow, are always nearest to my heart, and I shall bless the day when I may authorize you, before all the world, to call me ‘Father.’  Do not interrupt me.  If you resolutely concentrate your will and show as keen a sense for ruling men as you do for the chase, if you try to sharpen your wits and take in what I teach you, it may some day happen that Antinous instead of Verus—­”

“Nay, not that, only not that!” cried the lad, turning very pale and raising his hands beseechingly.

“The greatness with which Destiny surprises us seems terrible so long as it is new to us,” said Hadrian.  “But the seaman is soon accustomed to the storms, and we come to wear the purple as you do your chiton.”

“Oh, Caesar, I entreat you,” said Antinous, anxiously, “put aside these ideas; I am not fit for great things.”

“The smallest saplings grow to be palms.”

“But I am only a wretched little herb that thrives awhile in your shadow.  Proud Rome—­”

“Rome is my handmaid.  She has been forced before now to be ruled by men of inferior stamp, and I should show her how the handsomest of her sons can wear the purple.  The world may look for such a choice from a sovereign whom it has long known to be an artist, that is a high-priest of the Beautiful.  And if not, I will teach it to form its taste on mine.”

“You are pleased to mock me, Caesar,” cried the Bithynian.  “You certainly cannot be in earnest, and if it is true that you love me—­”

“What now, boy?”

“You will let me live unknown for you, care for you; you will ask nothing of me but reverence and love and fidelity.”

“I have long had them, and I now would fain repay my Antinous for all these treasures.”

“Only let me stay with you, and if necessary let me die for you.”