“Would that Gannon had not written that message!” he said to himself. “Would that we had not seen it! Ay, would also that Psyche had gone directly home from the theatre! Then she would have seen Gannon. Perchance she would now be free.” But such wishes were worse than useless. In one short day the happiness of the family of Alcmaeon had been utterly destroyed. Gannon had been killed; Alcmaeon, Hera, and Psyche were prisoners. “Had Alcmaeon and Hera seen that writing?” he questioned. “What if Psyche should be tempted to an admission? What if Sejanus and the brutes in the camp should torture her and make her confess? Would she, too, be killed? Perhaps Alcmaeon and Hera were already murdered!” He trembled as he groaned aloud, “It cannot be! It cannot be!”
But Gyges, usually buoyant and hopeful, soon subdued these despondent thoughts. He now argued that Sejanus was justified in questioning Gannon’s family. He began to believe that after a few days they would all be free. So occupied had he been in contemplation that he now remembered he had not dined; but notwithstanding his hunger he proceeded on his way to the Esquiline Hill.
When he arrived before the grated entrance to the gardens of Drusus, he called to the gate-keeper, “What ho!”
“What dost thou wish?” asked the gate-keeper, carrying a lantern as he approached the grating.
In the dim light Gyges saw some slaves and litters outlined against the dark foliage of the garden. “I come to inquire of one named Lygdus,” he replied.
“I know of no guest by that name.”
“A guest?” asked Gyges, surprised.
“Ay; there is a dinner in the palace this night,” replied the gate-keeper.
“But Lygdus would not be a guest,” said Gyges.
“A servant arrived this morning to act as cup-bearer. I know not his name,” replied the gate-keeper.