His hurried pace did not relax until he was lost again amid a
wilderness of ruins, where browsing goats and darting lizards were
the only life.
Later in the day, when he sat alone in the peristyle, a visitor was
introduced, whom he rose to welcome cordially and respectfully. This
was a man of some threescore years, vigorous in frame, with dry,
wrinkled visage and a thin, grey beard that fell to his girdle. As
he approached, Decius saw that he was bleeding from a wound on the
head and that his cloak was torn.
'What means this, dear master?' he exclaimed. 'What has befallen
you?'
'Nothing worth your notice, gentle Decius,' the philosopher replied,
calmly and gravely. 'Let us rather examine this rare treatise of
Plotinus, which by good fortune I yesterday discovered among rubbish
thrown aside.'
'Nay,' insisted Decius, 'but your wound must be washed and dressed;
it may else prove dangerous. I fear this was no accident?'
'If you must know,' answered the other with good-natured
peevishness, 'I am accused of magic. The honest folk who are my
neighbours, prompted, I think it likely, by a certain senator who
takes it ill that his son is my disciple, have shown me of late more
attention than I care for, and to-day as I came forth, they pursued
me with cries of "Sorcerer!" and the like, whereupon followed sticks
and stones, and other such popular arguments.
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