mitius
on slim legs whirled about in Pyrrhic dance; to hear thy music, thy
declamation, thy doggerel verses, wretched poet of the suburbs,--is a
thing surpassing my power, and it has roused in me the wish to die. Rome
stuffs its ears when it hears thee; the world reviles thee. I can blush
for thee no longer, and I have no wish to do so. The howls of Cerberus,
though resembling thy music, will be less offensive to me, for I have
never been the friend of Cerberus, and I need not be ashamed of his
howling. Farewell, but make no music; commit murder, but write no
verses; poison people, but dance not; be an incendiary, but play not on
a cithara. This is the wish and the last friendly counsel sent thee by
the--Arbiter Elegantiae."

The guests were terrified, for they knew that the loss of dominion would
have been less cruel to Nero than this blow. They understood, too, that
the man who had written that paper must die; and at the same time pale
fear flew over them because they had heard such a paper.

But Petronius laughed with sincere and gladsome joy, as if it were
a question of the most innocent joke; then he cast his eyes on all
present, and said,--

"Be joyous, and drive away fear. No one need boast that he heard this
letter. I will boast of it only to Charon when I am crossing in the boat
with him."

He beckoned then to the Greek physician, and stretched out his arm. The
skilled Greek in the twinkle of an eye opened the vein at the bend
of the arm. Blood spurted on the cushion, and covered Eunice, who,
supporting the head of Petronius, bent over him and said,--

"Didst thou think that I would leave thee? If the gods gave me
immortality, and Caesar gave me power over the earth, I would follow thee
still."

Petronius smiled, raised himself a little, touched her lips with his,
and said,--

"Come with me."

She stretched her rosy arm to the physician, and after a while her blood
began to mingle and be lost in his blood.

Then he gave a signal to the leader of the music, and again the voices
and cithariae were heard. They sang "Harmodius"; next the song of
Anacreon resounded,--that song in which he complained that on a time
he had found Aphrodite's boy chilled and weeping under trees; that he
brought him in, warmed him, dried his wings, and the ungrateful child
pierced his heart with an arrow,--from that moment peace had deserted
the poet.

Petronius and Eunice, resting against each other, beautiful as two
divi