“Ha!” said Martin, “Fulgentius; what of him?”
“I grieve to say, my lord, he most ungratefully defames you among his companions, speaking ill of your habits, and especially of your breath, and saying that it is death to him to serve you.”
“If I could but prove this,” muttered the emperor.
“Remark him, my lord, when he next serves you with the cup, and if he turns away his head when he gives you the goblet, be sure that he so accuses, and thus endeavors to make the bystanders believe that his accusation is true.”
“It is well,” replied the emperor; “go, good Malitius, we will remember your advice.”
Then went the steward unto Fulgentius, and spoke kindly to him, and professed, as a friend and a near relative, to warn him how nearly he was about to lose the good wishes of Martin, and perhaps forfeit his succession to the throne.
“Fulgentius, my dear relative,” said he with a fawning smile, “thy breath is sadly displeasing to the emperor, and he talks of removing you from near attendance on his person.”
“Oh! good sir,” replied the youth, “can this be true?”
“Alas! I fear it is so. I have experienced it myself; but be sure it is merely temporary ill health, it will soon pass off.”
“And before then I shall have lost my uncle’s good opinion. What shall I do, Malitius?”