When Ptolemaeus—­for so he was called—­had, in reply to the question, “who is that?” learned who she was, he hastily murmured:  “Then she can do nothing but harm here.  A man in a fever wants but one thing, and that is perfect quiet.”

And he beckoned Andreas to the window, and asked him shortly, “Has the girl any sense?”

“Plenty,” replied the freedman, decisively.

“As much, at any rate, as she can have at her age,” the other retorted.  “Then it is to be hoped that she will go without any leave-taking or tears.  That fine lad is in a bad way.  I have known all along what might do him good, but I dare not attempt it alone, and there is no one in Alexandria. . . .  But Galen has come to join Caesar.  If he, old as he is—­But it is not for the likes of us to intrude into Caesar’s quarters—­Still—­”

He paused, laying his hand on his brow, and rubbing it thoughtfully with his short middle finger.  Then he suddenly exclaimed:  “The old man would never come here.  But the Serapeum, where the sick lie awaiting divine or diabolical counsel in dreams—­Galen will go there.  If only we could carry the boy thither.”

“His nurse here would hardly allow that,” said Andreas, doubtfully.

“He is a heathen.” replied the leech, hotly.  “Besides, what has faith to do with the injury to the body?  How many Caesars have employed Egyptian and Jewish physicians?  The lad would get the treatment he needs, and, Christian as I am, I would, if necessary, convey him to the Serapeum, though it is of all heathen temples the most heathen.  I will find out by hook or by crook at what time Galen is to visit the cubicles.  To-morrow, or next day at latest; and to-night, or, better still, to-morrow morning before sunrise, I will have the youth carried there.  If the deaconess refuses—­”

“And she will,” Andreas put in.

“Very well.—­Come here, maiden,” he beckoned to Melissa, and went on loud enough for the deaconess to hear:  “If we can get your betrothed to the Serapeum early to-morrow, he may probably be cured; otherwise I refuse to be responsible.  Tell your friends and his that I will be here before sunrise to-morrow, and that they must provide a covered litter and good bearers.”

He then turned to the deaconess, who had followed him in silence, with her hands clasped like a deserter, laid his broad, square hand on her shoulder, and added: 

“So it must be, Widow Katharine, Love endures and suffers all things, and to save a neighbor’s life, it is well to suffer in silence even things that displease us.  I will explain it all to you afterwards.  Quiet, only perfect quiet—­No melancholy leave-taking, child!  The sooner you are out of the house the better.”

He went back again to the bed, laid his hand for a moment on the sick man’s forehead, and then left the room.

Diodoros lay still and indifferent on the couch.  Melissa kissed him on the brow, and withdrew without his observing it, her eyes full of tears.