has shot his whole store of arrows into me.  You cannot see them, but I can feel them, for not one of them has he drawn out of the wound.  And the darling little thing herself is not wholly untouched by the winged boy’s darts.  She has confessed so much to me myself.  It is impossible for me to refuse her any thing, and so I was fool enough to swear a horrible oath that I would not try to see her till she was reunited to her tall solemn sister, of whom I am exceedingly afraid.  Yesterday I lurked outside this house just as a hungry wolf in cold weather sneaks about a temple where lambs are being sacrificed, only to see her, or at least to hear a word from her lips, for when she speaks it is like the song of nightingales—­but all in vain.  Early this morning I came back to the city and to this spot; and as hanging about forever was of no use, I bought up the stock of the old oil-seller, who is asleep there in the corner, and settled myself in his stall, for here no one can escape me, who enters or quits Apollodorus’ house—­and, besides, I am only forbidden to visit Irene; she herself allows me to send her greetings, and no one forbids me, not even Apollodorus, to whom I spoke an hour ago.”

“And that basket of birds that your dusky errand-boy carried into the house just now, was such a ’greeting?”

“Of course—­that is the third already.  First I sent her a lovely nosegay of fresh pomegranate-blossoms, and with it a few verses I hammered out in the course of the night; then a basket of peaches which she likes very much, and now the doves.  And there lie her answers—­the dear, sweet creature!  For my nosegay I got this red riband, for the fruit this peach with a piece bitten out.  Now I am anxious to see what I shall get for my doves.  I bought that little brown scamp in the market, and I shall take him with me to Corinth as a remembrance of Memphis, if he brings me back something pretty this time.  There, I hear the door, that is he; come here youngster, what have you brought?” Publius stood with his arms crossed behind his back, hearing and watching the excited speech and gestures of his friend who seemed to him, to-day more than ever, one of those careless darlings of the gods, whose audacious proceedings give us pleasure because they match with their appearance and manner, and we feel they can no more help their vagaries than a tree can help blossoming.  As soon as Lysias spied a small packet in the boy’s hand he did not take it from him but snatched up the child, who was by no means remarkably small, by the leather belt that fastened up his loin-cloth, tossed him up as if he were a plaything, and set him down on the table by his side, exclaiming: 

“I will teach you to fly, my little hippopotamus!  Now, show me what you have got.”

He hastily took the packet from the hand of the youngster, who looked quite disconcerted, weighed it in his hand and said, turning to Publius: 

“There is something tolerably heavy in this—­what can it contain?”