e found him, for Pollux was not kept in durance
in Alexandria itself. The prisons of the city had overflowed after the
night of the holiday and he had been transferred to Canopus and there
detained and brought up for trial.

Pollux had unhesitatingly owned to having taken the silver quiver and to
having been very angry at his master's accusation. Thus he produced from
the first an unfavorable impression on the judge, who esteemed Papias
as a wealthy man, universally respected. The accused had hardly been
allowed to speak at all and judgment was immediately pronounced against
him, on the strength of his master's accusation and his own admissions.
It would have been sheer waste of time to listen to the romances with
which this audacious rascal--who forgot all the respect he owed to
his teacher and benefactor--wanted to cram the judges. Two years of
reflection, the protectors of the law deemed, might suffice to teach
this dangerous fellow to respect the property of others and to keep him
from outbreaks against those to whom he owed gratitude and reverence.

Pollux, safe in the prison at Canopus, cursed his destiny and indulged
in vain hopes of the assistance of his friends. These were at last weary
of the vain search and only asked about him occasionally. He at first
was so insubordinate under restraint that he was put under close ward
from which he was not released until, instead of raging with fury he
dreamed away his days in sullen brooding. The gaoler knew men well, and
he thought he could safely predict that at the end of his two years'
imprisonment this young thief would quit his cell a harmless imbecile.

Titianus, Pontius, Balbilla and even Antinous had all attempted to speak
of him to the Emperor, but each was sharply repulsed and taught that
Hadrian was little inclined to pardon a wound to his artist's vanity.
But the sovereign also proved that he had a good memory for benefits
he had received, for once, when a dish was set before him consisting of
cabbage and small sausages he smiled, and taking out his purse filled
with gold pieces, he ordered a chamberlain to take it in his name to
Doris, the wife of the evicted gate-keeper. The old couple now resided
in a little house of their own in the neighborhood of their widowed
daughter Diotima. Hunger and external misery came not nigh them, still
they had experienced a great change. Poor Doris' eyes were now red and
bloodshot, for they were accustomed to many tears, w