addition to my own two, or a machine to make time longer than it is, and
then I will take new patients-otherwise no! Tell the fellow. . . ."

"No, not sick. . . ." interrupted the negro. "Come long way.
Gardener to Greek man Rufinus."

Philippus started: he could guess what this messenger had to say, and his
heart sank with dread as he desired that he might be shown in.

A glance at Gibbus told him what he had rightly feared. The poor fellow
was hardly recognizable. He was coated with dust from head to foot, and
this made him look like a grey-haired old man; his sandals hung to his
feet in strips; the sweat, pouring down his cheeks, had made gutters as
it were in the dust on his face, and his tears, as the physician held out
his hand to him, washed out other channels.

In reply to the leech's anxious, long drawn "Dead?" he nodded silently;
and when Philippus, clasping his hands to his temples, cried out: "Dead!
My poor old Rufinus dead! But how, in Heaven's name, did it happen?
Speak, man, speak!"--Gibbus pointed to the old philosopher and said:
"Come out then, with me, Master. No third person. . . ."

Philippus, however, gave him to understand that Horapollo was his second
self; and the hunch-back went on to tell him what he had seen, and how
his beloved master had met his end. Horapollo sat listening in
astonishment, shaking his head disapprovingly, while the physician
muttered curses. But the bearer of evil tidings was not interrupted,
and it was not till he had ended that Philippus, with bowed head and
tearful eyes, said: