“How is that?” asked Hadrian, rising from his seat and signing to Antinous to hold back the hound, which manifested a peculiar aversion to the steward.  It no doubt detected that he had come to show no special friendliness to his owner.

“Is that dangerous dog, gnashing its teeth there, your property?” asked Keraunus.

“Yes.”

This morning it threw down my daughter and smashed a costly pitcher, which she is fond of carrying to fetch water in the dawn.”

“I heard of that misadventure,” said Hadrian, “and I would give much if I could undo it.  The vessel shall be amply made good to you.”

“I beg you not to add insult to the injury, we have suffered by your fault.  A father whose daughter has been knocked down and hurt—­”

“Then, Argus actually bit her?” cried Antinous, horrified.

“No,” Keraunus replied.  “But as she fell her head and foot have been injured, and she is suffering much pain.”

“That is very sad,” said Hadrian, “and as I am not ignorant of the healing art, I will gladly try to help the poor girl.”

“I pay a professional leech, who attends me and mine,” replied the steward, in a repellant tone, “and I came hither to request—­or, to be frank with you—­to require—­”

“What?”

“First, that my pardon shall be asked.”

“That, the artist, Claudius Venator, is always ready to do when any one has suffered damage by his fault.  What has happened—­I repeat it—­grieves me sincerely, and I beg you tell the maiden to whom the accident happened, that her pain is mine.  What more do you desire?”

The steward’s features had calmed down at these last words, and he answered with less excitement than before: 

“I must request you to chain up your dog, or to shut it up, or in some way to keep it from mischief.”

“That is pretty strong!” cried the Emperor.

“It is only a reasonable demand, and I must stand by it,” replied Keraunus decidedly.  “Neither I—­nor my children’s lives are safe, so long as this wild beast is prowling about at pleasure.”

Hadrian had, ere now, erected monuments to deceased favorites, both dogs and horses, and his faithful Argus was no less dear to him, than other four-footed companions have been to other childless men; hence the queer fat man’s demand seemed to him so audacious and monstrous, that he indignantly exclaimed: 

“Folly!—­the dog shall be watched, but nothing farther.”

“You will chain him up,” replied Keraunus, with an angry, glare, “or someone will be found who will make him harmless forever.”

“That will be an evil attempt for the cowardly murderer!” cried Hadrian.  “Eh!  Argus, what do you think?”

At these words the dog drew himself up, and would have sprung at the steward’s throat if his master and Antinous had not held him back.

Keraunus felt that the dog had threatened him, but at this instant he would have let himself be torn by him without wincing, so completely was he overmastered by the fury born of his injured pride.