she had owned to herself that she might be carried away into overstepping
these limits. But what did she care for the opinion of those around her,
or about the inner life of the Bithyman, whose external perfection of
form was all that pleased her. She did not shrink from the possibility
of arousing hopes in him which she never could nor intended to fulfil,
for the idea did not once enter her mind; still she felt dissatisfied
with herself, for there was one person who might disapprove of her
proceedings, one who had indeed in plain words reprehended her fancy for
doing honor to the handsome boy with offerings of flowers, and the
opinion of that one person weighed with her more than that of all the
rest of the men and women she knew, put together.

This one was Pontius the architect; and yet, strangely enough, it was
precisely her remembrance of him that urged her on from one folly to
another. She had often seen the architect in Alexandria, and when they
parted she had allowed him to promise to follow her and the Empress, and
to escort them at any rate for a part of their voyage up the Nile. But
he came not, nor had he sent any report of himself, though he was alive
and well, and every express that overtook them brought documents for
Caesar in his handwriting.

So he, on whose faithful devotion she had built as on a rock, was no less
self-seeking and fickle than other men. She thought of him every day and
every hour; and as soon as a vessel from the north cast anchor within
sight, she watched the voyagers as they disembarked to detect him among
them. She longed for Pontius as a traveller who has lost his way sighs
for a sight of the guide who has deserted him; and yet she was angry with
him, for he had betrayed by a thousand tokens that he esteemed and cared
for her, that she had a certain power over his strong will--and now he
had broken his word and did not come.