“Till our next meeting,” cried Hadrian, and he and his companions went out into the court.

There the difficulty was to find a footing on the disjointed pavement.  Titianus went on in front of the Emperor and Antinous, and so but few words of friendly pleasure could be exchanged by the monarch and his vicegerent on the occasion of their meeting again.  Hadrian stepped cautiously forward, his face wearing meanwhile a satisfied smile.  The verdict passed by the simple shrewd woman of the people had given him far greater pleasure than the turgid verse in which Mesomedes and his compeers were wont to sing his praises, or the flattering speeches with which he was loaded by the sophists and rhetoricians.

The old woman had taken him for no more than an artist; she could not know who he was, and yet she had recognized—­or had Titianus been indiscreet?  Did she know or suspect whom she was talking to?  Hadrian’s deeply suspicious nature was more and more roused; he began to fancy that the gate-keeper’s wife had learnt her speech by heart, and that her welcome had been preconcerted; he suddenly paused and desired the prefect to wait for him, and Antinous to remain behind with the clog.  He turned round, retraced his steps to the gatehouse and slipped close up to it in a very unprincely way.  He stood still by the door of the little house which was still open, and listened to the conversation between Doris and her husband.

“A fine tall man,” said Euphorion, “he is a little like the Emperor.”

“Not a bit,” replied Doris.  “Only think of the full-length statue of Hadrian in the garden of the Paneum; it has a dissatisfied satirical expression, and the architect has a grave brow, it is true, but pure friendly kindness lights up his features.  It is only the beard that reminds you of the one when you look at the other.  Hadrian might be very glad if he were like the prefect’s guest.”

“Yes, he is handsomer—­how shall I say it—­more like the gods than that cold marble figure,” Euphorion declared.  “A grand noble, he is no doubt, but still an artist too; I wonder whether he could be induced by Pontius or Papias or Aristeas or one of the great painters to take the part of Calchas the soothsayer in our group at the festival?  He would perform it in quite another way than that dry stick Philemon the ivory carver.  Hand me my lute; I have already forgotten again the beginning of the last verse.  Oh! my wretched memory!  Thank you.”

Euphorion loudly struck the strings and sang in a voice that was still tolerably sweet and very well trained: 

“’Sabina hail!  Oh Sabina!—­Hail; victorious hail to the conquering goddess Sabina!’ If only Pollux were here he would remind me of the right words.  ’Hail; victorious hail, to the thousand-fold Sabina!’—­That is nonsense.  ‘Hail, hail! divine hail to thee O all-conquering Sabina.’  No it was not that either.  If a crocodile would only swallow this Sabina I would give him that hot cake in yonder dish with pleasure, for his pudding.  But stay—­I have it.  ’Hail, a thousand-fold hail to the conquering goddess Sabina!’”