Euphorbus, stern and pale, came into his office.
“Now for your plan,” said he to Beltrezzor. “It is now or never.”
My uncle drew from the ample folds of his robe a package, which he laid on a table.
“Now,” said he, “attention! Mary and I are to change places. She is to come out with you, disguised as her uncle. I am to remain in the dungeon, disguised as Mary.”
Euphorbus staggered back with protruded eyes.
“And to be thrown to the lion yourself?”
“It is the only way,” said the old man, slowly and meekly.
Euphorbus fell upon his neck and kissed his cheek:
“I have heard that heroes were sometimes elevated into gods; but you are the only man of whom I could believe it.”
“You see,” continued Beltrezzor, “here is a mask of the finest parchment, painted in imitation of Mary’s face, with long beautiful golden hair attached to the headpiece.”