s
compeers were wont to sing his praises, or the flattering speeches with
which he was loaded by the sophists and rhetoricians.

The old woman had taken him for no more than an artist; she could not
know who he was, and yet she had recognized--or had Titianus been
indiscreet? Did she know or suspect whom she was talking to? Hadrian's
deeply suspicious nature was more and more roused; he began to fancy that
the gate-keeper's wife had learnt her speech by heart, and that her
welcome had been preconcerted; he suddenly paused and desired the prefect
to wait for him, and Antinous to remain behind with the clog. He turned
round, retraced his steps to the gatehouse and slipped close up to it in
a very unprincely way. He stood still by the door of the little house
which was still open, and listened to the conversation between Doris and
her husband.

"A fine tall man," said Euphorion, "he is a little like the Emperor."

"Not a bit," replied Doris. "Only think of the full-length statue of
Hadrian in the garden of the Paneum; it has a dissatisfied satirical
expression, and the architect has a grave brow, it is true, but pure
friendly kindness lights up his features. It is only the beard that
reminds you of the one when you look at the other. Hadrian might be very
glad if he were like the prefect's guest."

"Yes, he is handsomer--how shall I say it--more like the gods than that
cold marble figure," Euphorion declared. "A grand noble, he is no doubt,
but still an artist too; I wonder whether he could be induced by Pontius
or Papias or Aristeas or one of the great painters to take the part of
Calchas the soothsayer in our group at the festival? He would perform it
in quite another way than that dry stick Philemon the ivory carver. Hand
me my lute; I have already forgotten again the beginning of the last
verse. Oh! my wretched memory! Thank you."

Euphorion loudly struck the strings and sang in a voice that was still
tolerably sweet and very well trained:

"'Sabina hail! Oh Sabina!--Hail; victorious hail to the conquering
goddess Sabina!' If only Pollux were here he would remind me of the right
words. 'Hail; victorious hail, to the thousand-fold Sabina!'--That is
nonsense. 'Hail, hail! divine hail to thee O all-conquering Sabina.' No
it was not that either. If a crocodile would only swallow this Sabina I
would give him that hot cake in yonder dish with pleasure, for his
pudding. But stay--I have it. 'Hail, a thousand-fold hail t