"You, Pollux?" asked the girl with surprise.
"The very man. But you—can I help you?"
"My poor father," sobbed Selene. "He does not stir, he is immovable—and his face—oh! merciful gods."
"A man who snores is not dead," said the sculptor. "But the doctor told him—"
"He is not even ill! Pontius only gave him stronger wine to drink than he is used to. Let him be; he is sleeping with the pillow under his neck, as comfortably as a child. When he began just now to trumpet a little too loud I whistled as loud as a plover, for that often silences a snorer; but I could more easily have made those stone Muses dance than have roused him."
"If only we could get him to bed."
"Well, if you have four horses at hand."
"You are as bad as you ever were!"
"A little less so, Selene, only you must become accustomed again to my way of speaking. This time I only mean that we two together are not strong enough to carry him away."
"But what can I do, then? The doctor said—"