“Right, very right,” said Horapollo.  “The Nile must some day rise again.  Stay with us; I have long had a fancy to eat vegetables of my own growing.”

But Gibbus firmly declined the offer, saying he wished to return to his old mistress.  When the physician again pointed out to him how great a danger he was running into, and the old man desired to know his reasons, the hunch-back exclaimed: 

“I promised my master to stay with the women; and now, while in all the household I am the only free man, shall I leave them unprotected to secure my own miserable life?  Sooner would I see a scimitar at my throat.  When my head is off the rascals are welcome to all that is left.”

The words came hollow and broken from his parched tongue, and as he spoke the faithful fellow’s face changed.  Even under the dust he turned pale, and Philippus had to support him, for his feet refused their office.  His long tramp through the torrid heat had exhausted his strength; but a draught of wine soon brought him to himself again and Horapollo ordered the slave to lead him to the kitchen and desire the cook to take the best care of him.

As soon as the friends were alone, the elder observed: 

“That worthy, foolhardy, old child who is now dead, seems to have left you some strange request.  I could see that as you were reading.”

“There—­take it!” replied Philippus; and again he walked up and down the room, while Horapollo took the letter.  Both faces of the tablets were covered with irregular, up-and-down lines of writing to the following effect: 

   “Rufinus, in view of death, to his beloved Philippus: 

“One shivering fit after another comes over me; I shall certainly die to-day.  I must make haste.  Writing is difficult.  If only I can say what is most pressing.—­First:  Joanna and the poor child.  Be everything you can be to them.  Protect them as their guardian, Kyrios, and friend.  They have enough to live on and something still to spare for others.  My brother Leonax manages the property, and he is honest.  Joanna knows all about it.—­Tell her and the poor child that I send them ten thousand blessings—­and to Joanna endless thanks for all her goodness.—­And to you, my friend:  heed the old man’s words.  Rid your heart of Paula.  She is not for you:  you know, young Orion.  But as to yourself:  Those who were born in high places rarely suit us, who have dragged ourselves up from below to a better position.  Be her friend; that she deserves—­but let that be all.  Do not live alone, a wife brings all that is best into a man’s life; it is she who weaves sweet dreams into his dull sleep.  You know nothing of all this as yet; and your worthy old friend—­to whom my greetings—­has held aloof from it all his life. . . .

“For your private eye:  it is a dying man who speaks thus.  You must know that my poor child, our Pul, regards you as the most perfect of men and esteems you above all others.