hilemon did not make his
appearance, some of the more active members of the audience were sent
to fetch him. They found him lying in his bed--dead. He had just
breathed his last, and lay there upon the couch stiff and stark in the
attitude of one plunged in meditation. His fingers still were twined
about his book, his mouth still pressed against the page he had been
reading. But the life had left him; he had forgotten his book, and
little recked he now of his audience. Those who had entered the room
stood motionless for a space, struck dumb by the strange suddenness of
the blow and the wondrous beauty of his death. Then they returned and
reported to the people that the poet Philemon, for whom they were
waiting that there in the theatre he might finish the drama of his
imagination, had finished the one true play, the drama of life, in his
own home. To this world he had said 'farewell' and 'applaud', but to
his friends 'weep and make your moan'. 'The shower of yesterday,' they
continued, 'was an omen of our tears; the comedy has ended in the
torch of funeral or ever it could come to the torch of marriage. Nay,
since so great a poet has laid aside the mask of this life, let us go
straight from the theatre to perform his burial. 'Tis his bones we now
must gather to our hearts; his verse must for awhile take second
place.'

[Footnote 49: _loqui_ (Van der Vliet).]

It was long ago that I first learned the story I have just told you,
but the peril I have undergone during the last few days[50] has
brought it afresh to my mind. For when my recitation was--as I am sure
you remember--interrupted by the rain, at your desire I put it off
till the morrow, and in good truth it was nearly with me as it was
with Philemon. For on that same day I twisted my ankle so violently at
the wrestling school that I almost tore the joint from my leg.
However, it returned to its socket, though my leg is still weak with
the sprain. But there is more to tell you. My efforts to reduce the
dislocation were so great that my body broke out into a profuse sweat
and I caught a severe chill. This was followed by agonizing pain in my
bowels, which only subsided when its violence was on the point of
killing me. A moment more and like Philemon I should have gone to the
grave, not to my recital, should have finished not my speech but my
destiny, should have brought not my tale but my life to a close. Well
then, as soon as the gentle temperature and still more