“Tell me where I can find tools.”
Epaphroditus gave the required information and Lamia despatched a servant to bring hammer and chisel. They were speedily produced; but some time was taken up in cutting through the links.
This, however, was finally effected, and the secretary gathered up a handful of the broken chain and clenched it in his fist.
“Now I will lead the way,” said he, stretching himself.
The wretched, fallen emperor had in the meanwhile scrambled through hedges and waded through a marsh, and had at last found a temporary shelter in a garden tool-house of the villa. Phaon feared to introduce him into his house.
Wearied out, he cast himself on a sort of bier on which the gardeners carried citron trees to and from the conservatory. The cloak had fallen from him and lay on the soil.
His feet were muddy and bleeding. He had tried to eat some oat-cake that had been offered him, but was unable to swallow.
He continued to be teased with, and to pick or bite at his spring nails.
“I hear steps!” he cried. “They will kill me!”
“Sire, play the man.”