and who had done him many a good turn, that if he wished to see the
emperor he had only to open the door leading to the staircase. He was
about to visit the mystic chambers with his much-talked-of lion. No one
need be afraid of the beast; it was quite tame, and Caesar loved it as a
son.

At this the old drug-pounder muttered some reply, which sounded more like
a curse than the expected thanks, and the steward regretted having
compared the lion to a son in this man's presence, for the pastophoros
wore a mourning garment, and two promising sons had been snatched from
him, slain yesterday with the other youths in the stadium.

But the cook soon forgot the old man's ill-humor; he had to clear his
subordinates out of the way as quickly as possible and prepare for his
illustrious visitor. As he bustled around, here, there, and everywhere,
the pastophoros entered the kitchen and begged for a piece of mutton.
This was granted him by a hasty sign toward a freshly slaughtered sheep,
and the old man busied himself for some time behind the steward's back.
At last he had cut off what he wanted, and gazed with singular tenderness
at the piece of red, veinless meat. On returning to his laboratory, he
hastily bolted himself in, and when he came out again a few minutes later
his calm, wrinkled old face had a malignant and evil look. He stood at
the bottom of the stairs, looking about him cautiously; then he flew up
the steps with the agility of youth, and at a turn in the stairs he stuck
the piece of meat close to the foot of the balustrade.

He returned as nimbly as he had gone, cast a sorrowful glance through the
open laboratory window at the arena where all that had graced his life
lay dead, and passed his hand over his tearful face. At last he returned
to his task, but he was less able to do it than before. It was with a