the great observatory of the
Serapeum, from which a still broader horizon was visible.

After Antinous had got out of the smaller and newer tower into the
larger and older one he sat down on one of the lowest steps to collect
his thoughts and to quiet his loudly-beating heart. His vain cogitations
began all over again. Time slipped on-between the present moment and
the deed to be done there were but a certain number of minutes. He told
himself so, and his weary brain stirred more actively, suggesting to him
to feign illness and bring the Emperor to his bedside. But Hadrian was
physician enough to see that he was well, and even if he should allow
himself to be deceived, he, Antinous, was a deceiver. This thought
filled him with horror of himself and with dread for the future, and
yet it was the only plan that gave any hope of success. And even when he
sprang to his feet and walked hastily up and down among the out-houses
he could hit upon no other scheme. And how fast the minutes flew!
The third hour after midnight must be quite close at hand, and he had
scarcely left himself time to rush back into the palace, throw himself
on his couch, and call Mastor. Quite bewildered with agitation and
tottering like a drunken man he hastened back into the old tower where
he had left his torch leaning against the wall and looked up the stone
stairs; it suddenly flashed through his mind that he might go up again
to fling himself down them. What did he care for his miserable life.

His fall, his cry, would bring the Emperor down from his observatory and
he knew that he would not leave his bleeding favorite uncared for and
untended he could count upon that. And if then Hadrian watched by his
bed it would be that, perhaps, of a dying man, but not of a deceiver.
Fully determined on extreme measures, he tightened the girdle which held
his chiton above his hips and once more went out into the night to judge
by the stars what hour it was. He saw the slender sickle of the waning
moon-the same moon which at the full had been mirrored in the sea when
he had gone into the water to save Selene. The image of the pale girl
rose before him, tangibly distinct. He felt as if he held her once more
in his arms--saw her once more lying on her bed-could once more press
his lips to her cold brow. Then the vision vanished; instead he was
possessed by a wild desire to see her, and he said to himself that he
could not die without having seen her once more.