"So it seemed to me too; but still this people--"

"Canst thou expect mongrels to appreciate poetry?"

"But thou too hast noticed that they have not thanked me as I deserve."

"Because thou hast chosen a bad moment."

"How?"

"When men's brains are filled with the odor of blood, they cannot listen
attentively."

"Ah, those Christians!" replied Nero, clenching his fists. "They burned
Rome, and injure me now in addition. What new punishment shall I invent
for them?"

Petronius saw that he had taken the wrong road, that his words had
produced an effect the very opposite of what he intended; so, to turn
Caesar's mind in another direction, he bent toward him and whispered,--

"Thy song is marvellous, but I will make one remark: in the fourth line
of the third strophe the metre leaves something to be desired."

Nero, blushing with shame, as if caught in a disgraceful deed, had fear
in his look, and answered in a whisper also,--

"Thou seest everything. I know. I will re-write that. But no one else
noticed it, I think. And do thou, for the love of the gods, mention it
to no one,--if life is dear to thee."

To this Petronius answered, as if in an outburst of vexation and anger,

"Condemn me to death, O divinity, if I deceive thee; but thou wilt not
terrify me, for the gods know best of all if I fear death."

And while speaking he looked straight into Caesar's eyes, who answered
after a while,--

"Be not angry; thou knowest that I love thee."

"A bad sign!" thought Petronius.

"I wanted to invite thee to-day to a feast," continued Nero, "but
I prefer to shut myself in and polish that cursed line in the third
strophe. Besides thee Seneca may have noticed it, and perhaps Secundus
Carinas did; but I will rid myself of them quickly."

Then he summoned Seneca, and declared that with Acratus and Secundus
Carinas, he sent him to the Italian and all other provinces for
money, which he commanded him to obtain from cities, villages, famous
temples,--in a word, from every place where it was possible to find
money, or from which they could force it. But Seneca, who saw that Caesar
was confiding to him a work of plunder, sacrilege, and robbery, refused
straightway.

"I must go to the country, lord," said he, "and await death, for I am
old and my nerves are sick."

Seneca's Iberian nerves were stronger than Chilos; they were not sick,
perhaps, but in general his health was bad, for he seemed like a shadow,
and recen