Where could Bishop Plotinus be?  He had returned to Memphis the day before, and yet he had not been to see her mother, to whom he usually paid a daily visit.  This absence seemed to her ominous.  Everything depended on her reminding the old man of his promise as soon as possible; for if at the trial next morning—­which of course, he must attend—­he should happen to mention her name, the guards, the interpreter, and the scribe would invade her home too and then-horror!  She had given evidence once already, and could never again go through all that had ensued.

But how was she to get at the bishop in the course of the night or early to-morrow at latest?

The chariot had not yet returned, and if—­it still wanted two hours of midnight; yes—­it must be done.

She began talking to her mother of the prelate’s absence; Susannah, too, was uneasy about it, particularly since she had heard that the old man had come home ill and that his servant had been out and about in search of a physician.  Katharina promptly proposed to go and see him:  the horses were still in harness, her nurse could accompany her.  She really must go and learn how her venerable friend was going on.

Susannah thought this very sweet; still, she said it was very late for such a visit; however, her spoilt child had said that she “must” and the answer was a foregone conclusion.  Dame Susannah gave way; the nurse was sent for, and as soon as the chariot came round Katharina flung her arms round her mother’s neck, promising her not to stay long, and in a few minutes the chariot stopped at the door of the bishop’s palace.  She bid the nurse wait for her and went alone into the vast, rambling house.

The spacious hall, lighted feebly by a single lamp, was silent and deserted, even the door-keeper had left his post; however, she was familiar with every step and turning, and went on through the impluvium into the library where, at this hour, the bishop was wont to be found.  But it was dark, and her gentle call met with no reply.  In the next room, to which she timidly felt her way, a slave lay snoring; beside him were a wine jar and a hand-lamp.  The sight somewhat reassured her.  Beyond was the bishop’s bedroom, which she had never been into.  A dim light gleamed through the open door and she heard a low moaning and gasping.  She called the house-keeper by name once, twice; no answer.  The sleeping slave did not stir; but a familiar voice addressed her from the bedroom, groaning rather than saying: 

“Who is there?  Is he come?  Have you found him at last?”

The whole household had fled in fear of the pestilence; even the acolyte, who had indeed a wife and children.  The housekeeper had been forced to leave the master to seek the physician, who had already been there once, and the last remaining slave, a faithful, goodhearted, heedless sot, had been left in charge; but he had brought a jar of wine up from the unguarded cellar, had soon emptied it, and then, overcome by drink and the heat of the night, he had fallen asleep.