son in this man's presence, for the pastophoros
wore a mourning garment, and two promising sons had been snatched from
him, slain yesterday with the other youths in the stadium.

But the cook soon forgot the old man's ill-humor; he had to clear his
subordinates out of the way as quickly as possible and prepare for his
illustrious visitor. As he bustled around, here, there, and everywhere,
the pastophoros entered the kitchen and begged for a piece of mutton.
This was granted him by a hasty sign toward a freshly slaughtered sheep,
and the old man busied himself for some time behind the steward's
back. At last he had cut off what he wanted, and gazed with singular
tenderness at the piece of red, veinless meat. On returning to his
laboratory, he hastily bolted himself in, and when he came out again a
few minutes later his calm, wrinkled old face had a malignant and
evil look. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking about him
cautiously; then he flew up the steps with the agility of youth, and at
a turn in the stairs he stuck the piece of meat close to the foot of the
balustrade.

He returned as nimbly as he had gone, cast a sorrowful glance through
the open laboratory window at the arena where all that had graced his
life lay dead, and passed his hand over his tearful face. At last he
returned to his task, but he was less able to do it than before. It was
with a trembling hand that he weighed out the juniper berries and cedar
resin, and he listened all the time with bated breath.

Presently there was a stir on the stairs, and the kitchen slaves shouted
that Caesar was coming. So he went out of the laboratory, which was
behind the stairs, to see what was going forward, and a turnspit at once
made way for the old man so as not to hinder his view.

Was that little young man, mounting the steps so gayly, with the
high-priest at his side and his suite at his heels, the dreadful monster
who had murdered his noble sons? He had pictured the dreadful tyrant
quite differently. Now Caesar was laughing, and the tall man next him
made some light and ready reply--the head cook said it was the Roman
priest of Alexander, who was not on good terms with Timotheus. Could
they be laughing at the high-priest? Never, in all the years he had
known him, had he seen Timotheus so pale and dejected.

The high-priest had indeed good cause for anxiety, for he suspected who
it was that Caesar hoped to find in the mystic rooms, and feared that