The Emperor’s caricature had the same effect on his feelings as though some one had insulted and scorned, before his eyes, something that ought to be regarded as sacred.  And there stood the monarch, a man no longer young, gazing at his performance and never weary of the amusement it afforded him.  It pained Pontius keenly, for like all noble natures, he could not bear to discover anything mean or vulgar in a man to whom he had always looked up as to a strong exceptional character.  As an artist Hadrian ought not to have vilified beauty, as a man he ought not to have insulted unprotected innocence.

In the soul of the architect, who had hitherto been one of the Emperor’s warmest admirers, a slight aversion began to dawn, and he was glad, when, at last, Hadrian decided to withdraw to rest.

The Emperor found in his room every requisite he was accustomed to use, and while his slave undressed him, lighted his night-lamp and adjusted his pillows, he said: 

“This is the best evening I have enjoyed for years.  Is Antinous comfortably in bed?”

“As much so as in Rome.”

“And the big dog?”

“I will lay his rug in the passage at your door.”

“Has he had any food?”

“Bones, bread and water.”

“I hope you have had something to eat this evening.”

“I was not hungry, and there was plenty of bread and wine.”

“To-morrow we shall be better supplied.  Now, good-night.  Weigh your words for fear you should betray me.  A few days here undisturbed would be delightful!”

With these words the Emperor turned over on his couch and was soon asleep.

Mastor, too, lay down to rest after he had spread a rug for the dog in the corridor outside the Emperor’s sleeping-room.  His head rested on a curved shield of stout cowhide under which lay his short sword; the bed was but a hard one, but Mastor had for years been used to rest on nothing better, and still had enjoyed the dreamless slumbers of a child; but to-night sleep avoided him, and from time to time he pressed his hand on his wearily open eyes to wipe away the salt dew which rose to them again and again.  For a long time he had restrained these tears bravely enough, for the Emperor liked to see none but cheerful faces among his servants; nay, he had once said that it was in consequence of his bright eyes that he had entrusted to him the care of his person.  Poor, cheerful Mastor!  He was nothing but a slave, still he had a heart which lay open to joy and suffering, to pleasure and trouble, to hatred and to love.

In his childhood his native village had fallen into the hands of the foes of his race.  He and his brother had been carried away as slaves, first into Asia Minor, and then as they were both particularly pretty fair-haired boys, to Rome.  There they had been bought for the Emperor; Mastor had been chosen to wait on Hadrian’s person, his brother had been put to work in the gardens.  Nothing was lacking to either except his liberty; nothing tormented them but their longing for their native home, and even this altogether faded away after he had married the pretty little daughter of a superintendent of the gardens, a slave like himself.  She was a lively little woman with sparkling eyes, whom no one could pass by without noticing.