"Poor, faithful old man; to think that he should die thus--he who leaves
behind him all that is best in life, while I--I. . . ." And he
groaned aloud. The old man glanced at him with reproachful displeasure.

While the leech broke the seals of the tablets, which the abbess had
carefully closed, and began to read the contents, Horapollo asked the
gardener: "And the nuns? Did they all escape?"

"Yes, Master! on the morning after we reached Doomiat, a trireme took
them all out to sea."

And the old man grumbled to himself: "The working bees killed and the
Drones saved!"

Gibbus, however, contradicted him, praising the laborious and useful life
of the sisters, in whose care he himself had once been.

Meanwhile Philippus had read his friend's last letter. Greatly disturbed
by it he turned hither and thither, paced the room with long steps, and
finally paused in front of the gardener, exclaiming: "And what next? Who
is to tell them the news?"

"You," replied Gibbus, raising his hands in entreaty.

"I-oh, of course, I!" growled the physician. "Whatever is difficult,
painful, intolerable, falls on my shoulders as a matter of course! But I
cannot--ought not--I will not do it. Had I any part or lot in devising
this mad expedition? You observe, Father?--What he, the simpleton,
brewed, I--I again am to drink. Fate has settled that!"