e had created during his absence. But,
after perceiving that his kind act had not been in vain, and consuming
with a vigorous appetite the food and wine which Bias set before him, he
obliged Myrtilus--for another day was coming--to go to rest, that the
storm might not still prove hurtful to him.

Yet he held his friend's hand in a firm clasp for a long time, and, when
the latter at last prepared to go, he pressed it so closely that it
actually hurt Myrtilus. But he understood his meaning, and, with a loving
glance that sank deep into Hermon's heart, called a last good night.

After two sleepless nights and the fatiguing ride which he had just
taken, the sculptor felt weary enough; but when he laid his hand on the
Gaul's brow and breast, and felt their burning heat, he refused Bias's
voluntary offer to watch the sufferer in his place.

If to amuse or forget himself he had caroused far more nights in
succession in Alexandria, why should he not keep awake when the object in
question was to wrest a young life from the grasp of death? This man and
his life were now his highest goal, and he had never yet repented his
foolish eccentricity of imposing discomforts upon himself to help the
suffering.

Bias, on his part, was very willing to go to rest. He had plenty of cause
for weariness; Myrtilus's unscrupulous body-servant had stolen off with
the other slaves the night before, and did not return, with staggering
gait, until the next morning, but, in order to keep his promise to his
master, he had scarcely closed his eyes, that he might be at hand if
Myrtilus should need assistance.

So Bias fell asleep quickly enough in his little room in the lower story,
while his master, by the exertion of all his strength of will, watched
beside the couch of the Gaul.

Yet, after the first quarter of an hour, his head, no matter how he
struggled to prevent it, drooped again and again upon his breast. But
just as slumber was completely overpowering him his patient made him
start up, for he had left his bed, and when Hermon, fully roused, looked
for him, was standing in the middle of the room, gazing about him.

The artist thought that fever had driven the wounded warrior from his
couch, as it formerly did his fellow-pupil Lycon, whom, in the delirium
of typhus, he could keep in bed only by force. So he led the Gaul
carefully back to the couch he had deserted, and, after moistening the
bandage with healing balm from Myrtilus's medicine