But Melissa, who was no stranger here since her mother’s last sickness, went on without pausing, following the litter down the long hall full of beds, a room with a stone roof resting on two rows of tall columns.  Familiar to her too was the aromatic scent of kyphi,—­[incense]—­which filled the hall, although fresh air was constantly pouring in from outside through the high windows.  Red and green curtains hung in front of them, and the subdued light which came through fell in tinted twilight on the colored pictures in relief of the history of the gods, which covered the walls.  Speech was forbidden here, and their steps fell noiseless on the thick, heavy mats.

Most of the beds were already empty; only those between the long wall and the nearest row of columns were still for the most part occupied by the sick who sought the help of the god.  On one of these Diodoros was laid, Melissa helping in silence, and with such skill as delighted even the physicians.  Still, this did not wake him, though on the next bed lay a man who never ceased speaking, because in his dream he had been bidden to repeat the name of Serapis as many times as there were drops in a cup of water filled from the Agathodaemon Canal.

“A long stay in this strong perfume will be bad for him,” whispered Ptolemaeus to the freedman.  “Galenus sent word that he would visit the sick early to-day; but he is not here yet.  He is an old man, and in Rome, they say, it is the custom to sleep late.”

He was interrupted by a stir in the long hall, which broke in on the silence, no one knew from whence; and immediately after, officious hands threw open the great double doors with a loud noise.

“He is coming,” whispered their priestly guide; and the instant after an old man crossed the threshold, followed by a troop of pastophori, as obsequious as the courtiers at the heels of a prince.

“Gently, brothers,” murmured the greatest physician of his age in a low voice, as, leaning on a staff, he went toward the row of couches.  It was easy to see the traces of his eighty years, but his fine eyes still gleamed with youthful light.

Melissa blushed to think that she could have mistaken Serenus Samonicus for this noble old man.  He must once have been a tall man; his back was bent and his large head was bowed as though he were forever seeking something.  His face was pale and colorless, with a well-formed nose and mouth, but not of classic mold.  Blue veins showed through the clear white skin, and the long, silky, silvery hair still flowed in unthinned waves round his massive head, bald only on the crown.  A snowy beard fell over his breast.  His aged form was wrapped in a long and ample robe of costly white woolen stuff, and his whole appearance would have been striking for its peculiar refinement, even if the eyes had not sparkled with such vivid and piercing keenness from under the thick brows, and if the high, smooth, slightly prominent forehead had not borne witness to the power and profundity of his mind.  Melissa knew of no one with whom to compare him; he reminded Andreas of the picture of John as an old man, which a wealthy fellow-Christian had presented to the church of Saint Mark.