Pontus, The Roman Viceroy, Sat In the Atrium Of His Palatial Villa By
The Thames, And He Looked with Perplexity At The Scroll Of Papyrus Which
He Had Just Unrolled. Before Him Stood The Messenger Who Had Brought It,
A Swarthy Little Italian, Whose Black Eyes Were Glazed with Want Of
Sleep, And His Olive Features Darker Still From Dust And Sweat. The
Viceroy Was Looking fixedly At Him, Yet He Saw Him Not, So Full Was His
Mind Of This Sudden And Most Unexpected order. To Him It Seemed as If
The Solid Earth Had Given Way Beneath His Feet. His Life And The Work Of
His Life Had Come To Irremediable Ruin.
"Very Good," He Said At Last In a Hard Dry Voice, "You Can Go."