Madame de Saumaise stands by as Juno, arbiter of the contest, Salmasius himself, lying in the next room ill with the gout, when he heard the battle begun, almost dies with laughing.

But alas! and O fie! our unwarlike Alexander, no match for his Amazon, falls down vanquished.

She, getting her man underneath, then first, from her position of vantage, goes at his forehead, his eye-brows, his nose; with wonderful arabesques, and in a Phrygian style of execution, she runs her finger-points over the whole countenace of her prostrate subject: never were you less pleased, Morus, with Pontia's lines of beauty.

At last, with difficulty, either margin of his cheeks fully written on, but the chin not yet finished, up he rises, a man, by your leave, absolutely nail-perfect, no mere Professor now but a Pontifical Doctor,--for you might have inscribed upon him, as on a painting, _Pontia fecit_.

[We see now the reason for keeping to the form 'Pontia.'] Doctor?
Nay rather a codex in which his vengeful critic had scraped her adverse comments with a new stilus.