heavens, had preferred this erection--even after he had made himself
known to the Alexandrians--to the great observatory of the Serapeum, from
which a still broader horizon was visible.

After Antinous had got out of the smaller and newer tower into the larger
and older one he sat down on one of the lowest steps to collect his
thoughts and to quiet his loudly-beating heart. His vain cogitations
began all over again. Time slipped on-between the present moment and the
deed to be done there were but a certain number of minutes. He told
himself so, and his weary brain stirred more actively, suggesting to him
to feign illness and bring the Emperor to his bedside. But Hadrian was
physician enough to see that he was well, and even if he should allow
himself to be deceived, he, Antinous, was a deceiver. This thought
filled him with horror of himself and with dread for the future, and yet
it was the only plan that gave any hope of success. And even when he
sprang to his feet and walked hastily up and down among the out-houses
he could hit upon no other scheme. And how fast the minutes flew! The
third hour after midnight must be quite close at hand, and he had
scarcely left himself time to rush back into the palace, throw himself on
his couch, and call Mastor. Quite bewildered with agitation and
tottering like a drunken man he hastened back into the old tower where he
had left his torch leaning against the wall and looked up the stone
stairs; it suddenly flashed through his mind that he might go up again
to fling himself down them. What did he care for his miserable life.

His fall, his cry, would bring the Emperor down from his observatory and
he knew that he would not leave his bleeding favorite uncared for and
untended he could count upon that. And if then Hadrian watched by his
bed it would be that, perhaps, of a dying man, but not of a deceiver.
Fully determined on extreme measures, he tightened the girdle which held