weaty bodies floated through the doorway. He saw the guests lying
on the floor among the snoring women. Euphobias had awakened from his
drunken sleep, and, occupying the place of honor, Sonnica's couch, was
forging for himself the illusion of being master of the villa. Wrapped
in his tattered mantle he was compelling two sleepy dancing girls to
dance, contemplating their nude flesh with a disdainful stare like a man
who considers himself above carnal desires.

As Actaeon appeared in the triclinium some slaves fled, fearing lest they
should be punished for their curiosity. Not wishing to be seen by the
philosopher the Greek went out of the house seeking the cool garden.
There he noticed the same flight before his steps. Embracing couples
fled along the avenues; from behind the clumps of foliage arose
exclamations of surprise as he approached, and in the dissipating
shadows of the night the garden seemed animated by a mysterious life
beneath its leafy bowers.

They were slaves who, excited by the feast, continued beneath the open
sky the scenes of the triclinium.

The Greek smiled, reflecting that the feast was destined to augment his
mistress' wealth.

"Let them enjoy themselves in peace. To disturb them would damage
Sonnica's interests."

He passed out of the garden so as not to interfere with the joy of the
miserable flock which, forgetting every trouble, sought each other
there in the dim light of dawn.

He crossed Sonnica's immense dominions, through groves of fig trees and
extensive olive orchards, until suddenly he found himself in the highway
of the Serpent. It was deserted. In the distance he heard the galloping
of a horse and saw in the bluish light of dawn a rider who was
undoubtedly making for the port.

As he drew near Actaeon recognized him in spite of his head being covered
by the hood of a war mantle. It was the Celtiberian shepherd. The Greek
dashed into the centre of the roadway and grasped the horse by the
bridle, while the rider, checked in his race, leaned back, tugging at
the knife which he wore in his belt.

"Be calm!" said Actaeon in a low voice. "If I stop you it is to say that
I have recognized you. You are Hannibal, the son of the great Hamilcar!
Your disguise may serve you among the Saguntines, but your boyhood
friend knows you."

The African bent his head forward with its bushy mass of hair, and his
imperious eyes made out the Greek in the dim light.

"Is it you, Actaeon? When I m