“You will be a fool,” replied Arsinoe, quietly, “if you do.  Valeria would instantly dismiss you from her service.”

“I will go at once to Drusus,” asserted Pisander.

“Drusus may or may not be convinced that what you say is true,” answered the girl; “but he, I gather from what you repeat, has just gone back to Praeneste.  Before you could reach Praeneste, you are a dead man.”

“How so?” demanded the excited philosopher, brandishing his fists.  “I am as strong as Pratinas.”

“How little wisdom,” commented Arsinoe, “you do gather from your books!  Can’t you see Pratinas is a reckless scoundrel—­with every gladiator in Dumnorix’s school at his call if needs be—­who would stop at nothing to silence promptly the mouth of a dangerous witness?  This isn’t worse than many another case.  Don’t share the ruin of a man who is an utter stranger!  We have troubles enough of our own.”

And with this consolation Arsinoe left him, again consumed with impotent rage.

“Villain,” fumed Pisander to himself, “if I could only place my fingers round your neck!  But what can I do?  What can I do?  I am helpless, friendless, penniless!  And I can only tear out my heart, and pretend to play the philosopher.  I, a philosopher!  If I were a true one, I would have had the courage to kill myself before this.”

And in this mental state he continued, till he learned that Pratinas had taken his farewell, and that Calatinus wished him—­since all the slaves seemed busy, and the poor house philosopher was often sent on menial errands—­to go to the Forum Boarium,[70] and bring back some ribs of beef for a dinner that evening.  Pisander went as bidden, tugging a large basket, and trying to muster up courage to continue his walk to the Fabrician Bridge, and plunge into the Tiber.  In classic days suicide was a commendable act under a great many circumstances, and Pisander was perfectly serious and sincere in his belief that he and the world had been companions too long for the good of either.  But the jar and din of the streets certainly served to make connected philosophical meditation upon the futility and unimportance of human existence decidedly unfruitful.  By the time he reached the cattle-market the noise of this strange place drove all suicidal intentions from him.  Butchers were slaughtering kine; drovers were driving oxen off of barges that had come down the Tiber; sheep and goats were bleating—­everywhere around the stalls, booths, shops, and pens was the bustle of an enormous traffic.  Pisander picked his way through the crowd, searching for the butcher to whom he had been especially sent.  He had gone as far as the ancient shrine of Mater Matuta, which found place in these seemingly unhallowed precincts, when, as he gazed into the throng before him, his hair stood as it were on end, his voice choked in his throat, and cold sweat broke out over him.  The next moment his hand was seized by another, young and hearty, and he was gasping forth the name of Agias.