“Better than I, I perceive,” said the architect in a tone of conviction.  “A statesman is used to deal with men as we do with lifeless materials.  Did you see the fat fellow turn pale when you said that it would be but a few days before the Emperor would make his entry here?  Things must look well in the old house there.  Every hour is precious, and we have lingered here too long.”

The prefect nodded agreement and followed the architect into the inner court of the palace.  How grand and well-proportioned was the plan of this immense building through which the steward Keraunus, who returned with his fine curls complete all round, now led the Romans.  It stood on an artificial hill in the midst of the peninsula of Lochias, and from many a window and many a balcony there were lovely prospects of the streets and open squares, the houses, palaces and public buildings of the metropolis, and of the harbor, swarming with ships.  The outlook from Lochias was rich, gay and varied to the south and west, but east and north from the platform of the palace of the Ptolemies, the gaze fell on the never-wearying prospect of the eternal sea, limited only by the vault of heaven.  When Hadrian had sent a special messenger from Mount Kasius to desire his prefect Titianus to have this particular building prepared for his reception, he knew full well what advantages its position offered; it was the part of his officials to restore order in the interior of the palace, which had remained uninhabited from the time of Cleopatra’s downfall.  He gave them for the purpose eight, or perhaps nine, days—­little more than a week.  And in what a condition did Titianus and Pontius find this now dilapidated and plundered scene of former magnificence—­the sweat pouring from their foreheads with their exertions as they inspected and sketched, questioned and made notes of it all.

The pillars and steps in the interior were tolerably well preserved, but the rain had poured in through the open roofs of the banqueting and reception-lulls, the fine mosaic pavements had started here and there, and in other places a perfect little meadow had grown in the midst of a hall, or an arcade; for Octavianus Augustus, Tiberius, Vespasian, Titus and a whole series of prefects, had already carefully removed the finest of the mosaics from the famous palace of the Ptolemies, and carried them to Rome or to the provinces, to decorate their town houses or country villas.  In the same way the best of the statues were gone, with which a few centuries previously the art-loving Lagides had decorated this residence—­besides which they had another, still larger, on the Bruchiom.

In the midst of a vast marbled hall stood an elegantly-wrought fountain, connected with the fine aqueduct of the city.  A draught of air rushed through this hall, and in stormy weather switched the water all over the floor, now robbed of its mosaics, and covered, wherever the foot could tread, with a thin, dark green, damp and slippery coating of mossy plants and slime.  It was here that Keraunus leaned breathless against the wall, and, wiping his brow, panted rather than said:  “At last, this is the end!”