The Works of Apuleius (Golden Ass, God of Socrates, Florida, On the Doctrines of Plato)

Hardly had they passed over the threshold when the door resumed its former state; the hinges resettled on the panels, the posts returned to the bars, and the bolts flew back once more to their sockets. But I, left in such a plight—prostrate on the ground, scared, naked, cold, and drenched in urine—felt just like some babe that had recently emerged from the womb of its mother; indeed, I may say, half-dead, yet still surviving myself and pursuing, as it were, a posthumous train of reflections, or, to say the least, like a candidate for the cross to which I was surely destined. "What," said I, "will become of me when this man is found in the morning with his throat cut? Though I tell the truth, who will think my story probable? 'You ought at least,' they will say, 'to have called for assistance if you, such a stout man as you are, could not resist a woman. Is a man’s throat to be cut before your eyes and are you to be silent? How was it you were not likewise assassinated? Why did the barbarous wretch spare you, a witness of the murder, and not kill you, if only to put an end to all evidence of the crime?' Inasmuch, then, as you have escaped death, now return to it."

These remarks I repeated to myself, over and over again, while the night was fast verging toward day.

It appeared to me, therefore, most advisable to escape by stealth before daylight and to pursue my journey, though with trembling steps. I took up my bundle and, putting the key in the door, drew back the bolts. But this good and faithful door, which during the night had opened of its own accord, was now to be opened only with the greatest difficulty, after putting in the key a multitude of times.

"Hallo! Porter," said I, "where are you? Open the gates of the inn; I want to be off before break of day."

The porter, who was lying on the ground behind the door of the inn, still half-asleep, replied, "Who are you, who would begin your journey at this time of night? Don’t you know that the roads are infested by robbers? Ay, ay, though you may have a mind to meet your death, stung by your conscience for some crime you have committed, still, I haven’t a head like a pumpkin, that I should die for your sake."

"It isn’t very far from daybreak," said I; "and besides, what can robbers take from a traveler in the greatest poverty? Are you ignorant, you simpleton, that he who is naked cannot be stripped by ten athletes?"