sword at his side, held in his clenched and brawny hand.

And now behold at dusk of day the grim and silent Appolidorus,
carrying upon his giant shoulders a large and curious rug, rolled up
and tied ’round at each end with ropes.

He approaches the palace of the King, and at the guarded gate hands a
note to the officer in charge. This note gives information to the
effect that a certain patrician citizen of Alexandria, being glad that
the gracious Cæsar had deigned to visit Egypt, sends him the richest
rug that can be woven—done, in fact, by his wife and daughters and
held against this day, awaiting Rome’s greatest son.

The officer reads the note, and orders a soldier to accept the gift
and carry it within—presents were constantly arriving. A sign from the
dumb giant makes the soldier stand back—the present is for Cæsar and
can be delivered only in person. “Lead and I will follow,” were the
words done in stern pantomime. The officer laughs, sends in the note,
and the messenger soon returning, signifies that the present is
acceptable and the slave bearing it shall be shown in. Appolidorus
shifts his burden to the other shoulder, and follows the soldier
through the gate, up the marble steps, along the splendid hallway,
lighted by flaring torches and lined with reclining Roman soldiers.

At a door they pause an instant, there is a whispered word—they enter.

The room is furnished as becomes the room that is the private library
of the King of Egypt. In one corner, seated at the table, pen in hand,
sits a man of middle age, pale, clean-shaven, with hair close-cropped.
His dress is not that of a soldier—it is the flowing white robe of a