All this was done in hot haste, for Caesar was awaiting Alexander, and Euryale expected Melissa.  The ready zeal of the old man, free for the first time to act on his own responsibility in matters which would have been too much for many a free-born man, but to which he felt quite equal, had an encouraging effect even on the oppressed hearts of the other two.  They knew now that, even if death should be their lot, Argutis would be faithful to their father and sick brother, and the slave at once showed his ingenuity and shrewdness; for, while the young people were vainly trying to think of a hiding-place for Heron and Philip, he suggested a spot which would hardly be discovered even by the sharpest spies.

Glaukias, the sculptor, who had already fled, was Heron’s tenant.  His work-room, a barn-like structure, stood in the little vegetable-garden which the gem-cutter had inherited from his father-in-law, and none but Heron and the slave knew that, under the flooring, instead of a cellar, there was a vast reservoir connected with the ancient aqueducts constructed by Vespasian.  Many years since Argutis had helped his master to construct a trap-door to the entrance to these underground passages, of which the existence had remained unknown even to Glaukias during all the years he had inhabited the place.  It was here that Heron kept his gold, not taking his children even into his confidence; and only a few months ago Argutis had been down with him and had found the old reservoir dry, airy, and quite habitable.  The gem-cutter would be quite content to conceal himself where his treasure was, and the garden and work-room were only distant a few hundred paces from his own home.  To get Philip there without being seen was to Argutis a mere trifle.  Alexander, too, old Dido, and, if needful, Diodoros, could all be concealed there.  But for Melissa, neither he nor Alexander thought it sufficiently secure.

As she took leave of him the young girl once more charged the newly freed man to greet her father from her a thousand times, to beseech his forgiveness of her for the bitter grief she must cause him, and to assure him of her affection.

“Tell him,” she added, as the tears streamed down her cheeks, “that I feel as if I were going to my death.  But, come what may, I am always his dutiful child, always ready to sacrifice anything—­excepting only the man to whom, with my father’s consent, I pledged my heart.  Tell him that for love of him I might have been ready even to give my hand to the blood-stained Caesar, but that Fate—­and perhaps the manes of her we loved, and who is dead—­have ordered it otherwise.”

She then went into the room where her mother had closed her eyes.  After a short prayer by that bed, which still stood there, she hastened to Philip’s room.  He lay sleeping heavily; she bent over him and kissed the too high brow, which looked as though even in sleep the brain within were still busy over some difficult and painful question.