t is difficult to
know whether most to admire their stately dimensions or the beauty of
their forms."

"And what is that long, huge dyke, which connects the island with the
mainland? Only look! There is a huge trireme passing under one of the
wide arches, on which it is supported--and there comes another."

"That is the great viaduct, called by the Alexandrians the Heptastadion,
because it is said to be seven stadia in length; and in the upper portion
it carries a stone water-course--as an elder tree has in it a vein of
pith-which supplies water to the island of Pharos."

"What a pity it is," said Antinous, "that we cannot overlook from here
the whole of the structure with the men and the vehicles that swarm upon
it like busy ants. That little island and the narrow tongue of land that
runs out into the harbor with the tall slender building at the end of it,
half hide it."

"But they serve to vary the picture," replied the Emperor. "Cleopatra
often dwelt in the little castle on the island with its harbor, and in
that tall tower on the northern side of the peninsula, round which, just
now, the blue waves are playing, while the gulls and pigeons fly happily
over it--there Antony retreated after the fight of Actium."

"To forget his disgrace!" exclaimed Antinous.

"He named it his Timonareum, because he hoped there to remain unmolested
by other human beings, like the wise misanthrope of Athens. How would it
be if I called Lochias my Timonareum?"

"No man need try to hide fame and greatness."

"Who told you that it was shame that led Antony to hide himself in that
place?" asked the imperial sophist; "he proved often enough, at the head
of his cavalry, that he was a brave soldier; and though at Actium, when
all was still going well, he let his ship be turned, it was out of no
fear of swords and spears, but because Fate compelled him to subjugate
his strong will to the wishes of a woman with whose destiny his was
linked."

"Then do you excuse his conduct?"

"I only seek to account for it, and never, for a moment, could allow
myself to believe that shame ever prompted a single act in Antony. I--do
you suppose I could ever blush? Nay, we cease to feel shame when we have
lived to feel such profound contempt for the world."

"But why then should Marc Antony have shut himself up, in yonder
sea-washed prison?"

"Because, to every true man, who has dissipated whole years of his life
with women, jesters and flatterers,