It needed but a few minutes to conclude this compact; but then the Magian proceeded to insist that Alexander’s father and brother should be made away with.

“Impossible,” replied Zminis.  “I should be only too glad to wring the necks of the whole brood; but, as it is, I am represented to Caesar as too stern and ruthless.  And a pretty little slut, old Heron’s daughter, has entangled him in her toils.”

“No,” said Serapion, positively.  “I have seen the girl, and she is as innocent as a child.  But I know the force of contrast:  when depravity meets purity—­”

“Come, no philosophizing!” interrupted the other.  “We have better things to attend to, and one or the other may turn to your advantage.”

And he told him that Caesar, whose whim it was to spare Alexander’s life, regarded Melissa as an incarnation of Roxana.

“That is worth considering,” said the Magian, stroking his beard meditatively; then he suddenly exclaimed: 

“By the law, as you know, all the relatives of a state criminal are sent to the quarries or the mines.  Dispatch Heron and his philosopher son forthwith.  Whither?—­that is your concern; only, for the next few days they must be out of reach.”

“Good!” said the Egyptian, and an odious smile overspread his thin brown face.  “They may go as galley-slaves and row themselves to the Sardinian mines.  A good idea!”

“I have even better ideas than that to serve a friend,” replied Serapion.  “Only get the philosopher out of the way.  If Caesar lends an ear to his ready tongue, I shall never see you guardian of the peace.  The painter is less dangerous.”

“He shall share their fate,” cried the spy, and he licked his thick lips as if tasting some dainty morsel.  He waved an adieu to the Magian, and hastened back to the great hall.  There he strictly instructed one of his subordinates to take care that the gem-cutter and his son Philip found places on board a galley bound for Sardinia.

At the great door he again met Serapion, with the Syrian at his heels, and the Magian said: 

“My friend here has just seen a clay figure, molded by some practiced hand.  It represents Caesar as a defiant warrior, but in the shape of a deformed dwarf.  It is hideously like him; you can see it at the Elephant tavern.”

The Egyptian pressed his hand, with an eager “That will serve,” and hastily went out.

Two hours slipped by, and Zminis was still waiting in Caesar’s anteroom.  The Greek, Aristides, shared his fate, the captain hitherto of the armed guard; while Zminis had been the head of the spies, intrusted with communicating written reports to the chief of the night-watch.  The Greek’s noble, soldierly figure looked strikingly fine by the slovenly, lank frame of the tall Egyptian.  They both knew that within an hour or so one would be supreme over the other; but of this they thought it best to say nothing.  Zminis, as was his custom when he wished to assume an appearance of respect which he did not feel, was alternately abject and pressingly confidential; while Aristides calmly accepted his hypocritical servility, and answered it with dignified condescension.  Nor had they any lack of subjects, for their interests were the same, and they both had the satisfaction of reflecting what injury must ensue to public safety through their long and useless detention here.