The blood seethed hotly in his veins; to live on these terms seemed to him impossible.

As soon as it was day it must surely be seen that he was very seriously ill.  The spirit of Tarautas would again appear to him—­and not merely as a vaporous illusion—­and put an end to his utter misery.

But he felt his own pulse; it beat no more quickly than usual.  He had no fever, and yet he must be ill, very ill.  And again he flushed so hotly that he felt as if he should choke.  Breathing hard, he sat up to call his physician.  Then he observed a light through the half-closed door of the adjoining room.  He heard voices—­those of Adventus and the Indian.

Arjuna was generally so silent that Philostratus had vainly endeavored to discover from him any particulars as to the doctrine of the Brahmans, among whom Apollonius of Tyana declared that he had found the highest wisdom, or concerning the manners of his people.  And yet the Indian was a man of learning, and could even read the manuscripts of his country.  The Parthian ambassador had expressly dwelt on this when he delivered Arjuna to Caesar as a gift from his king.  But Arjuna had never favored any of these strangers with his confidence.  Only with old Adventus did he ever hold conversation, for the chamberlain took care that he should be supplied with the vegetables and fruit on which he was accustomed to live—­for meat never passed his lips; and now he was talking with the old man, and Caracalla sat up and laid his hand to his ear.

The Indian was absorbed in the study of a bookroll in his own tongue, which he carried about him.  “What are you reading?” asked Adventus.

“A book,” replied Arjuna, “from which a man may learn what will become of you and me, and all these slaughtered victims, after death.”

“Who can know that?” said the old man with a sigh; and Arjuna replied very positively: 

“It is written here, and there is no doubt about it.  Will you hear it?”

“Certainly,” said Adventus eagerly, and the Indian began translating out of his book: 

“When a man dies his various parts go whither they belong.  His voice goes to the fire, his breath to the winds, his eyes to the sun, his spirit to the moon, his hearing becomes one with space, his body goes to the earth, his soul is absorbed into ether, his hairs become plants, the hair of his head goes to crown the trees, his blood returns to water.  Thus, every portion of a man is restored to that portion of the universe to which it belongs; and of himself, his own essence, nothing remains but one part what that is called is a great secret.”

Caracalla was listening intently.  This discourse attracted him.

He, like the other Caesars, must after his death be deified by the senate; but he felt convinced, for his part, that the Olympians would never count him as one of themselves.  At the same time he was philosopher enough to understand that no existing thing could ever cease to exist.  The restoration of each part of his body to that portion of the universe to which it was akin, pleased his fancy.  There was no place in the Indian’s creed for the responsibility of the soul at the judgment of the dead.  Caesar was already on the point of asking the slave to reveal his secret, when Adventus prevented him by exclaiming: