him to carry out his calling in the spirit of his friend Rufinus.  He knew his house-mate well and felt that he would only pour vitriol into his wounds, but it was best so.  The old man had already often tried to bring down Paula’s image from its high pedestal in his soul, but always in vain; and even now he should not succeed.  He would mar nothing, scatter nothing to the winds, tread nothing in the dust but the burning passion, the fevered longing for her, which had fired his blood ever since that night when he had vanquished the raving Masdakite.  That old sage by the table, on whose stern, cold features the light fell so brightly, was the very man to accomplish such a work of destruction, and Philippus awaited his first words as a wounded man watches the surgeon heating the iron with which to cauterize the sore.

Poor disappointed wretch, sorely in need of a healing hand!

He lay back on the divan, and saw how his friend leaned over his scroll as if listening, and fidgeted up and down in his arm-chair.

It was clear that Horapollo was uneasy at Philippus’ long silence, and his pointed eyebrows, raised high on his brow, plainly showed that he was drawing his own conclusions from it—­no doubt the right ones.  The peace must soon be broken, and Philippus awaited the attack.  He was prepared for the worst; but how could he bring himself to make his torturer’s task easy for him.  Thus many minutes slipped away; while the leech was waiting for the old man to speak, Horapollo waited for Philippus.  However, the impatience and curiosity of the elder were stronger than the young man’s craving for comfort; he suddenly laid down the roll of manuscript, impatiently snatched up the ivory stick which he had thrown aside, set his heavy seat at an angle with a shove of amazing vigor for his age, turned full on Philippus, and asked him, in a loud voice, pointing his ruler at him as if threatening him with it: 

“So the play is out.  A tragedy, of course!”

“Hardly, since I am still alive,” replied the other.

“But there is inward bleeding, and the wound is painful,” retorted the old man.  Then, after a short pause, he went on:  “Those who will not listen must feel!  The fox was warned of the trap, but the bait was too tempting!  Yesterday there would still have been time to pull his foot out of the spring, if only he had sincerely desired it; he knew the hunter’s guile.  Now the foe is down on the victim; he has not spared his weapons, and there lies the prey dumb with pain and ignominy, cursing his own folly.—­You seem inclined for silence this evening.  Shall I tell you just how it all came about?”

“I know only too well,” said Philippus.

“While I, to be sure, can only imagine it!” growled the old man.  “So long as that patrician hussy needed the poor beast of burthen she could pet it and throw barley and dates to it.  Now she is rolling in gold and living under a sheltering roof, and hey presto, the discarded protector is sent to the right about in no time.  This mistress of the hearts of our weak and bondage-loving sex raises this rich Adonis to fill the place of the hapless, overgrown leech, just as the sky lets the sun rise when the pale moon sinks behind the hills.  If that is not the fact give me the lie!”