“An unfortunate man,” was Apollinaris’s answer.

“Seleukus, the master of this house?” asked Quintus Flavius, sternly.

“No,” replied Nemesianus.  “It is only a poor, wounded painter.  And yet—­the praetorians will go through fire and water for you, if you deliver up this man to them as their booty.  But if you are what I hold you to be—­”

“The opinion of hot-headed boys is of as little consequence to me as the favor of my subordinates,” interposed the commander.  “Whatever my con science tells me is right, I shall do.  Quick, now!  Who is in there?”

“The brother of the maiden for whose sake Caesar—­” stammered the wounded man.

“The maiden whom you have to thank for that disfigured face?” cried the legate.  “You are true Aurelians, you boys; and, though you may doubt whether I am the man you take me for, I confess with pleasure that you are exactly as I would wish to have you.  The praetorians have slain your friend and servant; I give you that man to make amends for it.”

With deep emotion Nemesianus seized his old friend’s hands, and Apollinaris spoke words of gratitude to him from his couch.  The officer would not listen to their thanks, and walked toward the door; but Johanna stood before him, and entreated him to allow the twins, whose servant had been killed, to take another, from whom they need have no fear of treachery.  He had been captured in the impluvium by the praetorians while trying, in the face of every danger, to enter the house where the painter lay, to whose father he had belonged for many years.  He would be able to tend both Apollinaris and Melissa’s brother, and make it possible to keep Alexander’s hiding-place a secret.  The soldiery would be certain to penetrate as far as this, and other lives would be endangered if they should bear off the faithful servant and force him on the rack to disclose where Melissa’s father and relatives were hidden.

The legate promised to insure the freedom of Argutis.

A few more words of thanks and farewell, and Quintus had fulfilled his mission to the Aurelians.  Shortly afterward the tuba sounded to assemble the plunderers still scattered about Seleukus’s house, and Nemesianus saw the men marching in small companies into the great hall.  They were followed by their armor-bearers, loaded with treasure of every kind; and three chariots, drawn by fine horses, belonging to Seleukus and his murdered wife, conveyed such booty as was too heavy for men to carry.  In the last of these stood the statue of Eros by Praxiteles.  The glorious sunshine lighted up the smiling marble face; with the charm of bewitching beauty he seemed to gaze at the lurid crimson pools on the ground, and at the armed cohorts which marched in front to shed more blood and rouse more hatred.

As Nemesianus withdrew from the window, Argutis came into the room.  The legate had released him; and when Johanna conducted the faithful fellow to Alexander’s bedside, and he saw the youth lying pale and with closed eyes, as though death had claimed him for his prey, the old man dropped on his knees, sobbing loudly.