The crowds on the road were now homeward bound, and they were all in
such wild, high spirits that, from what was to be seen and heard, it
could never have been supposed that they had come from so mournful a
scene. They took the road by the sea leading from the Nekropolis to
Eleusis, wandering on in the glowing moonlight.
A great procession of Greeks had been to Eleusis, to celebrate the
mysteries after the manner of the Greek Eleusis, on which that of
Alexandria was modeled. The newly initiated, and the elder adepts, whose
duty it was to superintend their reception, had remained in the temple;
but the other mystics now swelled the train of those who were coming
from the city of the dead.
Here, indeed, Serapis took the place of Pluto, and much that was Greek
had assumed strange and Egyptian forms: even the order of the ceremonies
had been entirely changed; still, on the African, as on the Attic shore,
the Greek cry went up, “To the sea, O mystics!” and the bidding to
Iakchos: “Be with us, O Iakchos!”
It could be heard from afar, but the voices of the shouters were already
weary, and most of the torches had burned low. The wreaths of ivy and
myrtle in their hair were limp; the singers of the hymn no longer
kept their ranks; and even Iambe, whose jests had cheered the mourning
Demeter, and whose lips at Eleusis had overflowed with witticisms, was
exhausted and silent. She still held in her hand the jar from which she
had given the bereaved goddess a reviving draught, but it was empty
and she longed for a drink. She was indeed a he: for it was a youth
in woman’s dress who played the rollicking part of Iambe, and it was
Alexander’s friend and comrade Diodoros who had represented the daughter
of Pan and Echo, who, the legend said, had acted as slave in the house
of Metaneira, the Eleusinian queen, when Demeter took refuge there.
His sturdy legs had good reason to be as weary as his tongue, which had
known no rest for five hours.
But he caught sight of the large vehicle drawn by four horses, in
which the vast corn-measure, the kalathos, which Serapis wore as his
distinguishing head-gear, had been conveyed to Eleusis. It was empty
now, for the contents had been offered to the god, and the four black
horses had an easy task with the great wagon. No one had as yet thought
of using it as a conveyance back to the town; but Diodoros, who was both
ingenious and tired, ran after it and leaped up. Several now wanted to
follow his example, but he pushed them off, even thrusting at them
with a newly lighted torch, for he could not be quiet in spite of his
fatigue. In the midst of the skirmishing he perceived his friend and
Melissa.
His heart had been given to the gentle girl ever since they had been
playmates in his father’s garden, and when he saw her, walking along
downcast, while her brother sported with his neighbor’s daughters, he
beckoned to her, and, as she refused to accompany him in the wagon, he
nimbly sprang off, lifted her up in his arms, made strong by exercise in
the Palaestra, and gently deposited her, in spite of her struggles, on
the flat floor of the car, by the side of the empty kalathos.
“The rape of Persephone!” he cried. “The second performance in one.
night!”
Then the old reckless spirit seized Alexander too.
With as much gay audacity--as though he were free of every care and
grief, and had signed a compact with Fortune, he picked up pretty Ino,
lifted her into the wagon, as Diodoros had done with his sister, and
exclaiming, “The third performance!” seated himself by her side.
His bold example found immediate imitators. “A fourth!” “A fifth!” cried
one and another, shouting and laughing, with loud calls on Iakchos.
The horses found it hard work, for all along the edge of the car, and
round the kalathos of the great Serapis, sat the merry young couples in
close array. Alexander and Melissa soon were wreathed with myrtle and
ivy. In the vehicle and among the crowd there were none but radiant and
frolicsome faces, and no sound but triumphant revelry.
Fatigue was forgotten; it might have been supposed that the sinister
sisters, Care and Sorrow, had been banished from earth.
There was a smile even on Melissa’s sweet, calm face. At first her
old friend’s audacious jest had offended her maidenly coyness; but if
Diodoros had always loved her, so had she always loved him; and as other
well-conducted girls had been content to have the like done to them, and
her companion so confidently and roguishly sued for pardon, she gave him
a smile which filled his heart with rapture, and said more than words.
It was a comfort, too, to sit still and rest.
She spoke but little, but even she forgot what troubled her when she
felt her friend’s hand on hers, and he whispered to her that this was
the most delightful night he had ever known, and that, of all the sweets
the gods had created, she was to him the sweetest?
The blue sea spread before them, the full moon mirrored on its scarcely
heaving surface like a tremulous column of pure and shining silver. The
murmur of the ripples came up from the strand as soothing and inviting
as the song of the Nereids; and if a white crest of foam rose on a wave,
she could fancy it was the arm of Thetis or Galatea. There, where the
blue was deepest, the sea-god Glaukos must dwell, and his heart be
gladdened by the merry doings on shore.
Nature is so great; and as the thought came to her that her heart was
not too small to take its greatness in, even to the farthest horizon, it
filled her with glad surprise.
And Nature was bountiful too. Melissa could see the happy and gracious
face of a divinity in everything she looked upon. The immortals who had
afflicted her, and whom she had often bitterly accused, could be kind
and merciful too. The sea, on whose shining surface the blue vault of
heaven with the moon and stars rocked and twinkled, the soft breeze
which fanned her brow, the new delicious longing which filled her
heart-all she felt and was conscious of, was a divinity or an emanation
of the divine. Mighty Poseidon and majestic Zeus, gentle Selene, and the
sportive children of the god of winds, seemed to be strangely near her
as she rode along. And it was the omnipotent son of Kypris, no doubt,
who stirred her heart to beat higher than it had ever done before.
Her visit to her mother’s grave, too, her prayer and her offerings
there, had perhaps moved the spirit of the beloved dead to hover near
her now as a guardian genius.
Still, now and again the memory of something terrible passed over her
soul like a sweeping shadow; but what it was which threatened her and
those dear to her she did not see, and would not now inquire. What the
morrow might bring should not cloud the enchantment of this hour. For
oh, how fair the world was, and how blessed might mortals be!
“Iakchos! Iakchos!” the voices about her shouted, and it sounded as
gleeful as though the breasts of the revelers were overflowing with
gladness; and as the scented curls of Diodoros bent over her head, as
his hand closed on hers, and his whispered words of love were in her
ear, she murmured: “Alexander is right; the world is a banqueting-hall,
and life is fair.”
“So fair!” echoed the youth, pensively. Then he shouted aloud to his
companions: “The world is a banqueting-hall! Bring roses, bring wine,
that we may sacrifice to Eros, and pour libations to Dionysus. Light
the flaming torches! Iakchos! come, Iakchos, and sanctify our glad
festival!”
“Come, Iakchos, come!” cried one and another, and soon the enthusiastic
youth’s cry was taken up on all sides. But wine-skin and jar were long
since emptied.
Hard by, below the cliff, and close to the sea, was a tavern, at the
sign of the Cock. Here cool drink was to be had; here the horses might
rest-for the drivers had been grumbling bitterly at the heavy load added
to the car over the deep sand--and here there was a level plot, under
the shade of a spreading sycamore, which had often before now served as
a floor for the choric dance.
The vehicle soon drew up in front of the whitewashed inn, surrounded
on three sides by a trellised arbor, overgrown with figs and vine. The
young couples sprang to the ground; and, while the host and his slave
dragged up a huge wine-jar with two ears, full of the red juice of the
grape, fresh torches were lighted and stuck on poles or fastened to the
branches of the sycamore, the youths took their places eager for the
dance, and suddenly the festal song went up from their clear throats
unbidden, and as though inspired by some mysterious power:
Iakchos, come! oh, come, Iakchos!
Hither come, to the scene of our revel,
The gladsome band of the faithful.
Shake the fragrant, berried garland,
Myrtle-twined, that crowns thy love-locks,
Shedding its odors!
Tread the measure, with fearless stamp,
Of this our reckless, rapturous dance,
In holy rejoicing!
Hand in hand, thrice beatified,
Lo we thread the rhythmic, fanciful,
Mystical mazes!
And the dance begins. Youths and maidens advance to meet each other with
graceful movements. Every step must be a thing of beauty, every bend and
rising, while the double flutes play faster and faster, and the measured
rhythm becomes a wild whirl. They all know the dance, and the music is a
guide to the feeling to be expressed; the dancing must be suited to
it. Every gesture is a stroke of color which may beautify or mar the
picture. Body and spirit are in perfect harmony, combining to represent
the feelings that stir the soul. It is a work of art, the art of the
arms and feet. Even when passion is at the highest the guiding law is
observed. Nay, when the dancers fly wildly apart, they, not merely come
together again with unerring certainty, but form in new combination
another delightful and perfectly harmonious picture.
“Seek and find” this dance might be called, for the first idea is to
represent the wandering of Demeter in search of her daughter Persephone,
whom Pluto has carried off to the nether world, till she finds her and
clasps her in her motherly arms once more. Thus does the earth bewail
the reaped fruit of the field, which is buried in the ground in the
winter sowing, to rise again in the spring; thus does a faithful heart
pine during absence till it is reunited to the beloved one; thus do we
mourn our dead till our soul is assured of their resurrection: and this
belief is the end and clew to the mystery.
All this grief and search, this longing and crying for the absent, this
final restoration and the bliss of new possession, is set forth by the
youths and damsels-now in slow and now in vehement action, but always
with infinite grace.
Melissa threw her whole soul into the dance while Demeter was seeking
the lost Persephone, her thoughts were with her brothers; and she
laughed as heartily as any one at the jests with which Iambe cheered the
stricken mother. And when the joy of meeting was to find expression, she
need not think of anything but the fact that the youth who held out his
hand to her loved her and cared for her. In this, for the moment, lay
the end of all her longing and seeking, the fulfillment of every wish;
and as the chorus shouted, “Iakchos!” again and again, her soul seemed
to have taken wings.
The reserve of her calm and maidenly nature broke down; in her ecstasy
she snatched from her shoulder the wreath of ivy with which Diodoros had
decked her, and waved it aloft. Her long hair had fallen loose in the
dance and flowed wildly about her, and her shout of “Iakchos!” rang
clear in the night air.
The youth she loved gazed at her with ravished eyes, as at some miracle;
she, heedless of the others, threw her arms round his neck, and, as he
kissed her, she said once more, but loud enough now to be heard from
afar, “The world is a banqueting-hall!” and again she joined in the
shout of “Iakchos!” her eyes bright with excitement. Cups filled
high with wine now circulated among the mad-cap mystics; even Melissa
refreshed herself, handing the beaker to her lover, and Diodoros raised
to his mouth that place on the rim which her lips had touched.
“O life! fount of joys!” cried Diodoros, kissing her and pressing her
closer to him. “Come, Iakchos! Behold with envy how thankfully two
mortals can bless the gift of life. But where is Alexander? To none but
to our Andreas have I ever confided the secret I have borne in my heart
since that day when we went to the circus. But now! Oh, it is so much
happiness for two hearts! My friend, too, must have part in it!”
At this Melissa clasped her hand to her brow, as though waking from a
dream. How hot she was from dancing, and the unusual strength of the
wine and water she had drunk!
The danger impending over both her brothers came back to her mind. She
had always been accustomed to think of others rather than herself, and
her festal mood dropped from her suddenly, like a mantle of which the
brooch breaks. She vehemently shook herself free of her lover’s embrace,
and her eyes glanced from one to another in rapid search.
There stood pretty Ino, who had danced the mazy measure with Alexander.
Panting for breath, she stood leaning her weary head and tangled hair
against the trunk of the tree, a wine-cup upside down in her right hand.
It must be empty; but where was he who had emptied it?
Her neighbor’s daughter would surely know. Had the reckless youth
quarreled with the girl? No, no!
One of the tavern-keeper’s slaves, Ino told her, had whispered something
to Alexander, whereupon he had instantly followed the man into the
house. Melissa knew that it could be no trivial matter which detained
him there, and hurried after him into the tavern.
The host, a Greek, and his buxom wife, affected not to know for whom she
was inquiring; but, perceiving the anxiety which spoke in every line
of the girl’s face, when she explained that she was Alexander’s sister,
they at first looked at each other doubtingly, and then the woman, who
had children of her own, who fondly loved each other, felt her heart
swell within her, and she whispered, with her finger on her lips: “Do
not be uneasy, pretty maid; my husband will see him well through.”
And then Melissa heard that the Egyptian, who had alarmed her in the
Nekropolis, was the spy Zminis, who, as her old slave Dido had once told
her, had been a rejected suitor of her mother’s before she had married
Heron, and who was therefore always glad to bring trouble on all
who belonged to her father’s house. How often had she heard of the
annoyances in which this man had involved her father and Alexander, who
were apt to be very short with the man!
This tale-bearer, who held the highest position as guardian of the peace
under the captain of the night-watch, was of all men in the city the
most hated and feared; and he had heard her brother speaking of Caesar
in a tone of mockery which was enough to bring him to prison, to the
quarries, nay, to death. Glaukias, the sculptor, had previously seen the
Egyptian on the bridge, where he had detained those who were returning
home from the city of the dead. He and his followers had already stopped
the poet Argeios on his way, but the thyrsus staves of the Dionysiac
revelers had somewhat spoiled the game for him and his satellites. He
was probably still standing on the bridge. Glaukias had immediately run
back, at any risk, to warn Alexander. He and the painter were now in
hiding, and would remain in safety, come what might, in the cellar at
the Cock, till the coast was clear again. The tavern-keeper strongly
advised no one to go meddling with his wine-skins and jars.
“Much less that Egyptian dog!” cried his wife, doubling her fist as
though the hated mischief-maker stood before her already.
“Poor, helpless lamb!” she murmured to herself, as she looked
compassionately at the fragile, town-bred girl, who stood gazing at the
ground as if she had been struck by lightning. She remembered, too,
how hard life had seemed to her in her own young days, and glanced with
pride at her brawny arms, which were able indeed to work and manage.
But what now?
The drooping flower suddenly raised her head, as if moved by a spring,
exclaiming: “Thank you heartily, thank you! But that will never do. If
Zminis searches your premises he will certainly go into the cellar; for
what can he not do in Caesar’s name? I will not part from my brother.”
“Then you, too, are a welcome guest at the Cock,” interrupted the woman,
and her husband bowed low, assuring her that the Cock was as much her
house as it was his.
But the helpless town-bred damsel declined this friendly invitation; for
her shrewd little head had devised another plan for saving her brother,
though the tavern-keepers, to whom she confided it in a whisper, laughed
and shook their heads over it. Diodoros was waiting outside in anxious
impatience; he loved her, and he was her brother’s best friend. All
that he could do to save Alexander he would gladly do, she knew. On the
estate which would some day be his, there was room and to spare to hide
the fugitives, for one of the largest gardens in the town was owned
by his father. His extensive grounds had been familiar to her from her
childhood, for her own mother and her lover’s had been friends;
and Andreas, the freedman, the overseer of Polybius’s gardens and
plantations, was dearer to her and her brothers than any one else in
Alexandria.
Nor had she deceived herself, for Diodoros made Alexander’s cause his
own, in his eager, vehement way; and the plan for his deliverance seemed
doubly admirable as proceeding from Melissa. In a few minutes Alexander
and the sculptor were released from their hiding-place, and all further
care for them was left to Diodoros.
They were both very, craftily disguised. No one would have recognized
the artists in two sailors, whose Phrygian caps completely hid their
hair, while a heavy fisherman’s apron was girt about their loins;
still less would any one have suspected from their laughing faces that
imprisonment, if nothing worse, hung over them. Their change of garb
had given rise to so much fun; and now, on hearing how they were to be
smuggled into the town, their merriment grew higher, and proved catching
to those who were taken into the secret. Only Melissa was oppressed with
anxious care, in spite of her lover’s eager consolation.
Glaukias, a man of scarcely middle height, was sure of not being
recognized, and he and his comrades looked forward to whatever might
happen as merely an amusing jest. At the same time they had to balk the
hated chief of the city guards and his menials of their immediate prey;
but they had played them a trick or two ere now. It might turn out
really badly for Alexander; still, it was only needful to keep him
concealed till Caesar should arrive; then he would be safe, for the
Emperor would certainly absorb all the thoughts and time of the captain
of the night-watch and his chief officers. In Alexandria, anything once
past was so soon forgotten! When once Caracalla was gone--and it was to
be hoped that he would not stay long--no one would ever think again of
any biting speech made before his arrival.
The morning must bring what it might, so long as the present moment was
gay!
So, refreshed and cheered by rest and wine, the party of mystics
prepared to set out again; and, as the procession started, no one who
did not know it had observed that the two artists, disguised as sailors,
were, by Melissa’s advice, hidden inside the kalathos of Serapis, which
would easily have held six, and was breast-high even for Alexander, who
was a tall man. They squatted on the floor of the huge vessel, with a
jar of wine between them, and peeped over now and then with a laugh at
the girls, who had again seated themselves on the edge of the car.
When they were fairly on their way once more, Alexander and his
companions were so daring that, whenever they could do it unobserved,
they pelted the damsels with the remains of the corn, or sprinkled them
with wine-drops. Glaukias had the art of imitating the pattering of rain
and the humming of a fly to perfection with his lips; and when the girls
complained of the tiresome insect buzzing in their faces, or declared,
when a drop fell on them, that in spite of the blue and cloudless sky it
was certainly beginning to rain, the two men had to cover their mouths
with their hands, that their laughter might not betray them.
Melissa, who had comforted Ino with the assurance that Alexander had
been called away quite unexpectedly, was now sitting by her side, and
perceived, of course, what tricks the men in the kalathos were playing;
but, instead of amusing her, they only made her anxious.
Every one about her was laughing and joking, but for her all mirth was
at an end. Fear, indeed, weighed on her like an incubus, when the car
reached the bridge and rattled across it. It was lined with soldiers and
lictors, who looked closely at each one, even at Melissa herself. But no
one spoke to her, and when the water lay behind them she breathed more
freely. But only for a moment; for she suddenly remembered that they
would presently have to pass through the gate leading past Hadrian’s
western wall into the town. If Zminis were waiting there instead of on
the bridge, and were to search the vehicle, then all would be lost, for
he had looked her, too, in the face with those strange, fixed eyes of
his; and that where he saw the sister he would also seek the brother,
seemed to her quite certain. Thus her presence was a source of peril to
Alexander, and she must at any cost avert that.
She immediately put out her hand to Diodoros, who was walking at her
side, and with his help slipped down from her seat. Then she whispered
her fears to him, and begged him to quit the party and conduct her home.
This was a surprising and delightful task for her lover. With a jesting
word he leaped on to the car, and even succeeded in murmuring to
Alexander, unobserved, that Melissa had placed herself under his
protection. When they got home, they could tell Heron and Andreas
that the youths were safe in hiding. Melissa could explain, to-morrow
morning, how everything had happened. Then he drew Melissa’s arm
through his, loudly shouted, “Iakchos!” and with a swift dance-step soon
outstripped the wagon.
Not fifty paces beyond, large pine torches sent bright flames up
skyward, and by their light the girl could see the dreaded gateway, with
the statues of Hadrian and Sabina, and in front of them, in the middle
of the road, a horseman, who, as they approached, came trotting forward
to meet them on his tall steed. His head towered above every one else in
the road; and as she looked up at him her heart almost ceased beating,
for her eyes met those of the dreaded Egyptian; their white balls showed
plainly in his brown, lean face, and their cruel, evil sparkle had
stamped them clearly on her memory.
On her right a street turned off from the road, and saying in a low
tone, “This way,” she led Diodoros, to his surprise, into the shadow.
His heart beat high. Did she, whose coy and maidenly austerity before
and after the intoxication of the dance had vouchsafed him hardly a kind
look or a clasp of the hand-did she even yearn for some tender embrace
alone and in darkness? Did the quiet, modest girl, who, since she had
ceased to be a child, had but rarely given him a few poor words, long
to tell him that which hitherto only her bright eyes and the kiss of her
pure young lips had betrayed?
He drew her more closely to him in blissful expectation; but she shyly
shrank from his touch, and before he could murmur a single word of
love she exclaimed in terror, as though the hand of the persecutor were
already laid on her: “Fly, fly! That house will give us shelter.”
And she dragged him after her into the open doorway of a large building.
Scarcely had they entered the dark vestibule when the sound of hoofs was
heard, and the glare of torches dispelled the darkness outside.
“Zminis! It is he--he is following us!” she whispered, scarcely able to
speak; and her alarm was well founded, for the Egyptian had recognized
her, and supposed her companion to be Alexander. He had ridden down the
street with his torchbearers, but where she had hidden herself his keen
eyes could not detect, for the departing sound of hoofs betrayed to the
breathless listeners that the pursuer had left their hiding-place far
behind him. Presently the pavement in front of the house which sheltered
them rang again with the tramp of the horse, till it died away at last
in the direction of Hadrian’s gate. Not till then did Melissa lift her
hand from her painfully throbbing heart.
But the Egyptian would, no doubt, have left his spies in the street, and
Diodoros went out to see if the road was clear. Melissa remained alone
in the dark entrance, and began to be anxious as to how she could
explain her presence there if the inhabitants should happen to discover
it; for in this vast building, in spite of the lateness of the hour,
there still was some one astir. She had for some minutes heard a
murmuring sound which reached her from an inner chamber; but it was only
by degrees that she collected herself so far as to listen more closely,
to ascertain whence it came and what it could mean.
A large number of persons must be assembled there, for she could
distinguish several male voices, and now and then a woman’s. A door was
opened. She shrank closer to the wall, but the seconds became minutes,
and no one appeared.
At last she fancied she heard the moving of benches or seats, and many
voices together shouting she knew not what. Then again a door creaked on
its hinges, and after that all was so still that she could have heard
a needle drop on the floor; and this alarming silence continued till
presently a deep, resonant man’s voice was audible.
The singular manner in which this voice gave every word its full and
equal value suggested to her fancy that something was being read aloud.
She could distinctly hear the sentence with which the speech or reading
began. After a short pause it was repeated somewhat more quickly, as
though the speaker had this time uttered it from his own heart.
It consisted of these six simple words, “The fullness of the time was
come”; and Melissa listened no more to the discourse which followed,
spoken as it was in a low voice, for this sentence rang in her ears as
if it were repeated by an echo.
She did not, to be sure, understand its meaning, but she felt as though
it must have some deep significance. It came back to her again and
again, like a melody which haunts the inward ear against our will; and
her meditative fancy was trying to solve its meaning, when Diodoros
returned to tell her that the street was quite empty. He knew now where
they were, and, if she liked, he could lead her by a way which would not
take them through the gate. Only Christians, Egyptians, and other common
folks dwelt in this quarter; however, since his duty as her protector
had this day begun, he would fulfill it to the best of his ability.
She went with him out into the street, and when they had gone a little
way he clasped her to him and kissed her hair.
His heart was full. He knew now that she, whom he had loved when she
walked in his father’s garden in her little child’s tunic, holding her
mother’s hand, returned his passion. Now the time was come for asking
whether she would permit him to beg her father’s leave to woo her.
He stopped in the shadow of a house near, and, while he poured out to
her all that stirred his breast, carried away by tender passion, and
describing in his vehement way how great and deep his love was, in spite
of the utter fatigue which weighed on her body and soul after so many
agitations, she felt with deep thankfulness the immense happiness of
being more precious than aught else on earth to a dear, good man. Love,
which had so long lain dormant in her as a bud, and then opened so
quickly only to close again under her alarms, unfolded once more and
blossomed for him again--not as it had done just now in passionate
ecstasy, but, as beseemed her calm, transparent nature, with moderated
joy, which, however, did not lack due warmth and winning tenderness.
Happiness beyond words possessed them both. She suffered him to seal his
vows with kisses, herself offering him her lips, as her heart swelled
with fervent thanksgiving for so much joy and such a full measure of
love.
She was indeed a precious jewel, and the passion of his stormy heart was
tempered by such genuine reverence that he gladly kept within the bounds
which her maidenly modesty prescribed. And how much they had to say to
each other in this first opening of their hearts, how many hopes for the
future found utterance in words! The minutes flew on and became hours,
till at last Melissa begged him to quit the marble seat on which they
had so long been resting, if indeed her feet could still carry her home.
Little as it pleased him, he did her bidding. But as they went on he
felt that she hung heavy on his arm and could only lift her little feet
with the greatest difficulty. The street was too dark for him to see how
pale she was; and yet he never took his eyes off her dear but scarcely
distinguishable features. Suddenly he heard a faint whisper as in a
dream, “I can go no farther,” and at once led her back to the marble
seat.
He first carefully spread his mantle over the stone and then wrapped
her in it as tenderly as a mother might cover her shivering child, for
a cooler breeze gave warning of the coming dawn. He himself crept close
under the wall by her side, so as not to be seen, for a long train of
people, with servants carrying lanterns before them, now came out of
the house they had just left and down the street. Who these could be who
walked at so late an hour in such solemn silence neither of them knew.
They certainly sent up no joyful shout of “Iakchos!” no wild lament; no
cheerful laughter nor sounds of mourning were to be heard from the long
procession which passed along the street, two and two, at a slow pace.
As soon as they had passed the last houses, men and women alike began to
sing; no leader started them, nor lyre accompanied them, and yet their
song went up as though with one voice.
Diodoros and Melissa knew every note sung by the Greeks or Egyptians of
Alexandria, at this or any other festival, but this melody was strange
to them; and when the young man whispered to the girl, “What is it that
they are singing?” she replied, as though startled from sleep, “They are
no mere mortals!”
Diodoros shuddered; he fancied that the procession was floating above
the earth; that, if they had been indeed men of flesh and blood, their
steps would have been more distinctly audible on the pavement. Some of
them appeared to him to be taller than common mortals, and their chant
was certainly that of another world than this where he dwelt. Perhaps
these were daimons, the souls of departed Egyptians, who, after a
midnight visit to those they had left behind them, were returning to the
rock tombs, of which there were many in the stony hills to which this
street led. They were walking toward these tombs, and not toward the
gate; and Diodoros whispered his suspicion to his companion, clasping
his hand on an amulet in the semblance of an eye, which his Egyptian
nurse had fastened round his neck long ago with an Anubic thread, to
protect him against the evil-eye and magic spells.
But Melissa was listening with such devout attention to the chant that
she did not hear him. The fatigue which had reached such a painful
climax had, during this peaceful rest, given way to a blissful
unconsciousness of self. It was a kind of happiness to feel no longer
the burden of exhaustion, and the song of the wanderers was like a
cradle-song, lulling her to sweet dreams. It filled her with gladness,
and yet it was not glad, not even cheerful. It went to her heart, and
yet it was not mournful-not in the least like the passionate lament of
Isis for Osiris, or that of Demeter bewailing her daughter. The emotion
it aroused in her was a sweetly sorrowful compassion, which included
herself, her brothers, her father, her lover, all who were doomed to
suffering and death, even the utter stranger, for whom she had hitherto
felt no sympathy.
And the compassion bore within it a sense of comfort which she could not
explain, or perhaps would not inquire into. It struck her, too, now and
then, that the strain had a ring as of thanksgiving. It was, no doubt,
addressed to the gods, and for that reason it appealed to her, and
she would gladly have joined in it, for she, too, was grateful to the
immortals, and above all to Eros, for the love which had been born
in her heart and had found such an ardent return. She sighed as she
listened to every note of the chant, and it worked upon her like a
healing draught.
The struggle of her will against bodily fatigue, and finally against the
mental exhaustion of so much bliss, the conviction that her heavy,
weary feet would perhaps fail to carry her home, and that she must seek
shelter somewhere for the night, had disturbed her greatly. Now she
was quite calm, and as much at ease as she was at home sitting with her
father, her stitching in her hand, while she dreamed of her mother and
her childhood in the past. The singing had fallen on her agitated soul
like the oil poured by the mariner on the sea to still the foaming
breakers. She felt it so.
She could not help thinking of the time when she could fall asleep on
her mother’s bosom in the certainty that tender love was watching over
her. The happiness of childhood, when she loved everything she knew-her
family, the slaves, her father’s birds, the flowers in the little
garden, the altar of the goddess to whom she made offering, the very
stars in the sky-seemed to come over her, and there she sat in dreamy
lassitude, her head on her lover’s shoulder, till the last stragglers of
the procession, who, were women, many of them carrying little lamps in
their hands, had almost all gone past.
Then she suddenly felt an eager jerk in the shoulder on which her head
was resting.
“Look--look there!” he whispered; and as her eyes followed the direction
of his finger, she too started, and exclaimed, “Korinna!--Did you know
her?”
“She had often come to my father’s garden,” he replied, “and I saw her
portrait in Alexander’s room. These are souls from Hades that we have
seen. We must offer sacrifice, for those to whom they show themselves
they draw after them.” At this Melissa, too, shuddered, and exclaimed
in horror: “O Diodoros, not to death! We will ask the priests to-morrow
morning what sacrifice may redeem us. Anything rather than the grave
and the darkness of Hades!--Come, I am strong again now. Let us get away
from hence and go home.”
“But we must go through the gate now,” replied the youth. “It is not
well to follow in the footsteps of the dead.”
Melissa, however, insisted on going on through the street. Terrified as
she was of the nether world and the disembodied souls, she would on no
account risk falling into the hands of the horrible Egyptian, who might
compel her to betray her brother’s hiding-place; and Diodoros, who was
ashamed to show her the fears which still possessed him, did as she
desired.
But it was a comfort to him in this horror of death, which had come over
him now for the first time in his life, to kiss the maid once more, and
hold her warm hand in his as they walked on; while the strange chant of
the nocturnal procession still rang in her ears, and now and then the
words recurred to her mind which she had heard in the house where the
departed souls had gathered together:
“The fullness of the time was come.”
Did this refer to the hour when the dead came to the end of their life
on earth; or was there some great event impending on the city and its
inhabitants, for which the time had now come? Had the words anything to
do with Caesar’s visit? Had the dead come back to life to witness
the scenes which they saw approaching with eyes clearer than those of
mortals?
And then she remembered Korinna, whose fair, pale face had been
strangely lighted up by the lamp she carried; and, again, the Magian’s
assurance that the souls of the departed were endowed with every faculty
possessed by the living, and that “those who knew” could see them and
converse with them.
Then Serapion had been right in saying this; and her hand trembled
in her lover’s as she thought to herself that the danger which now
threatened Philip was estrangement from the living through intercourse
with the dead. Her own dead mother, perhaps, had floated past among
these wandering souls, and she grieved to think that she had neglected
to look for her and give her a loving greeting. Even Diodoros, who
was not generally given to silent meditation, had his own thoughts to
pursue; and so they walked on in silence till suddenly they heard a dull
murmur of voices. This startled them, and looking up they saw before
them the rocky cliffs in which the Egyptians long since, and now in
later times the Christians, had hewn caves and tombs. From the door of
one of these, only a few paces beyond where they stood, light streamed
out; and as they were about to pass it a large dog barked. Immediately
on this a man came out, and in a rough, deep voice asked them the
pass-word. Diodoros, seized with sudden terror of the dark figure, which
he believed to be a risen ghost, took to his heels, dragging Melissa
with him. The dog flew after them, barking loudly; and when the youth
stooped to pick up a stone to scare him off, the angry brute sprang on
him and dragged him down.
Melissa screamed for help, but the gruff voice angrily bade her be
silent. Far from obeying him, the girl shouted louder than ever; and
now, out of the entrance to the cave, close behind the scene of the
disaster, came a number of men with lamps and tapers. They were the
same daimons whose song she had heard in the street; she could not
be mistaken. On her knees, by the side of her lover as he lay on the
ground, she stared up at the apparitions. A stone flew at the dog to
scare him off, and a second, larger than the first, whisked past her and
hit Diodoros on the head; she heard the dull blow. At this a cold
hand seemed to clutch her heart; everything about her melted into one
whirling, colorless cloud. Pale as death, she threw up her arms to
protect herself, and then, overcome with terror and fatigue, with a
faint cry of anguish she lost consciousness.
When she opened her eyes again her head was resting in the lap of
a kind, motherly woman, while some men were just bearing away the
senseless form of Diodoros on a bier.