“Certainly, certainly,” said Lysias.  “But say, does it not strike you as most extraordinary that artists, the very men, that is to say, who beyond all others devote themselves to ideal aims and efforts, are particularly ready to yield to the basest impulses; envy, detraction, and—­”

“Man!” exclaimed Publius, angrily interrupting the Greek, “can you never for ten seconds keep on the same subject, and never keep anything to yourself that comes into your head?  We have just now, as it seems to me, more important matters to discuss than the jealousy of each other shown by artists—­and in my opinion, by learned men too.  The sculptor Apollodorus, who is thus beholden to me, has been living here for the last six months with his wife and daughters, for he has been executing for Philometor the busts of the philosophers, and the animal groups to decorate the open space in front of the tomb of Apis.  His sons are managers of his large factory in Alexandria, and when he next goes there, down the Nile in his boat, as often happens, he can take Irene with him, and put her on board a ship.

“As to where we can have her taken to keep her safe from Euergetes, we will talk that over afterwards with Apollodorus.”

“Good, very good,” agreed the Corinthian.  “By Heracles!  I am not suspicious—­still it does not altogether please me that you should yourself conduct Irene to Apollodorus, for if you are seen in her company our whole project may be shipwrecked.  Send the sculptor’s wife, who is little known in Memphis, to the temple of Isis, and request her to bring a veil and cloak to conceal the girl.  Greet the gay Milesian from me too, and tell her—­no, tell her nothing—­I shall see her myself afterwards at the temple of Isis.”

During the last words of this conversation, slaves had been enveloping the two young men in their mantles.  They now quitted the tent together, wished each other success, and set out at a brisk pace; the Roman to have his horses harnessed, and Lysias to accompany the chief of the Diadoches in one of the king’s chariots, and then to act on the plan he had agreed upon with Publius.

CHAPTER XIII.

Chariot after chariot hurried out of the great gate of the king’s palace and into the city, now sunk in slumber.  All was still in the great banqueting-hall, and dark-hued slaves began with brooms and sponges to clean the mosaic pavement, which was strewed with rose leaves and with those that had fallen from the faded garlands of ivy and poplar; while here and there the spilt wine shone with a dark gleam in the dim light of the few lamps that had not been extinguished.

A young flute-player, overcome with sleep and wine, still sat in one corner.  The poplar wreath that had crowned his curls had slipped over his pretty face, but even in sleep he still held his flute clasped fast in his fingers.  The servants let him sleep on, and bustled about without noticing him; only an overseer pointed to him, and said laughing: