Against the walls stood closed presses of
wood, with bronze panelling, on which were seen in relief the
portraits of poets and historians; from the key of each hung a strip
of parchment, with a catalogue of the works within. Between the
presses, on pedestals of dark green serpentine, ranged busts of the
Greek philosophers: Zeno with his brows knitted, Epicurus bland,
Aratus gazing upward, Heraclitus in tears, Democritus laughing.
These were attributed to ancient artists, and by all who still cared
for such things were much admired. In the middle stood a dancing
faun in blood red marble, also esteemed a precious work of art.
Light entered by an arched window, once glazed, now only barred with
ornamental iron, too high in the wall to allow of any view; below
this, serving as table, was an old marble sarcophagus carved with
the Calydonian hunt.
Here, one day of spring, Decius sat over his studies. Long ago he
had transferred hither all the books from the great house across the
Tiber, and had made his home on the Caelian. As he read or wrote a
hard cough frequently interrupted him.
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