The amphitheatre was soon emptied, amid the flare of lightning and the
crash and roll of thunder. Caracalla, thinking only of the happy omen
of Tarautas’s wonderful escape, called out to Melissa, with affectionate
anxiety, to fly to shelter as quickly as possible; a chariot was in
waiting to convey her to the Serapeum. On this she humbly represented
that she would rather be permitted to return under her brother’s escort
to her father’s house, and Caracalla cheerfully acceded. He had business
on hand this night, which made it seem desirable to him that she should
not be too near him. He should expect her brother presently at the
Serapeum.
With his own hand he wrapped her in the caracalla and hood which old
Adventus was about to put on his master’s shoulders, remarking, as he
did so, that he had weathered worse storms in the field.
Melissa thanked him with a blush, and, going close up to her, he
whispered: “To-morrow, if Fate grants us gracious answers to the
questions I shall put to her presently after this storm--tomorrow the
horn of happiness will be filled to overflowing for you and me. The
thrifty goddess promises to be lavish to me through you.”
Slaves were standing round with lighted lanterns; for the torches in the
theatre were all extinguished, and the darkened auditorium lay like
an extinct crater, in which a crowd of indistinguishable figures were
moving to and fro. It reminded him of Hades and a troop of descending
spirits; but he would not allow anything but what was pleasant to occupy
his mind or eye. By a sudden impulse he took a lantern from one of
the attendants, held it up above Melissa’s head, and gazed long and
earnestly into her brightly illuminated face. Then he dropped his hand
with a sigh and said, as though speaking in a dream: “Yes, this is life!
Now I begin to live.”
He lifted the dripping laurel crown from his head, tossed it into
the arena, and added to Melissa: “Now, get under shelter at once,
sweetheart. I have been able to see you this whole evening, even when
the lamps were out; for lightning gives light. Thus even the storm has
brought me joy. Sleep well. I shall expect you early, as soon as I have
bathed.”
Melissa wished him sound slumbers, and he replied, lightly:
“If only all life were a dream, and if to-morrow I might but wake up,
no longer the son of Severus, but Alexander; and you, not Melissa, but
Roxana, whom you so strongly resemble! To be sure I might find myself
the gladiator Tarautas. But, then, who would you be? And your stalwart
father, who stands there defying the rain, certainly does not look like
a vision, and this storm is not favorable to philosophizing.”
He kissed his hand to her, had a dry caracalla thrown over his
shoulders, ordered Theocritus to take care of Tarautas and carry him a
purse of gold--which he handed to the favorite--and then, pulling the
hood over his head, led the way, followed by his impatient courtiers;
but not till he had answered Heron, who had come forward to ask him what
he thought of the mechanical arts of the Alexandrians, desiring him to
postpone that matter till the morrow.
The storm had silenced the music. Only a few stanch trumpeters had
remained in their places; and when they saw by the lanterns that Caesar
had left the Circus, they sounded a fanfare after him, which followed
the ruler of the world with a dull, hoarse echo.
Outside, the streets were still crowded with people pouring out of
the amphitheatre. Those of the commoner sort sought shelter under the
archways of the building, or else hurried boldly home through the
rain. Heron stood waiting at the entrance for his daughter, though the
purple-hemmed toga was wet, through and through. But she had, in fact,
hurried out while he was pushing forward to speak to Caesar, and in
his excitement overlooked everything else. The behavior of his
fellow-citizens had annoyed him, and he had an obscure impression that
it would be a blunder to claim Caesar’s approval of anything they had
done; still, he had not self-control enough to suppress the question
which had fluttered on his lips all through the performance. At last, in
high dudgeon at the inconsiderateness of young people and at the rebuff
he had met with--with the prospect, too, of a cold for his pains--he
made his way homeward on foot.
To Caracalla the bad weather was for once really an advantage, for it
put a stop to the unpleasant demonstrations which the “Green” party had
prepared for him on his way home.
Alexander soon found the closed carruca intended for Melissa, and placed
her in it as soon as he had helped Euryale into her harmamaxa. He was
astonished to find a man inside it, waiting for his sister. This
was Diodoros, who, while Alexander was giving his directions to the
charioteer, had, under cover of the darkness, sprung into the vehicle
from the opposite side. An exclamation of surprise was followed by
explanations and excuses, and the three young people, each with a
heart full almost to bursting, drove off toward Heron’s house. Their
conveyance was already rolling over the pavement, while most of the
magnates of the town were still waiting for their slaves to find their
chariots or litters.
For the lovers this was a very different scene from the terrible one
they had just witnessed in the Circus, for, in spite of the narrow
space and total darkness in which they sat, and the rain rattling and
splashing on the dripping black leather hood which sheltered them, in
their hearts they did not lack for sunshine. Caracalla’s saying that the
lightning, too, was light, proved true more than once in the course
of their drive, for the vivid flashes which still followed in quick
succession enabled the reunited lovers to exchange many confidences with
their eyes, for which it would have been hard to find words. When both
parties to a quarrel are conscious of blame, it is more quickly made up
than when one only needs forgiveness; and the pair in the carruca were
so fully prepared to think the best of each other that there was no need
for Alexander’s good offices to make them ready and willing to renew
their broken pledges. Besides, each had cause to fear for the other; for
Diodoros was afraid that the lady Euryale’s power was not far-reaching
enough to conceal Melissa from Caesar’s spies, and Melissa trembled at
the thought that the physician might too soon betray to Caesar that she
had been betrothed before he had ever seen her, and to whom; for, in
that case, Diodoros would be the object of relentless pursuit. So she
urged on her lover to embark, if possible, this very night.
Hitherto Alexander had taken no part in the conversation. He could not
forget the reception he had met with outside the amphitheatre. Euryale’s
presence had saved his sister from evil imputations, but had not
helped him; and even his gay spirits could make no head against the
consciousness of being regarded by his fellow-citizens as a hired
traitor. He had withdrawn to one of the back seats to see the
performance; for as soon as the theatre was suddenly lighted up, he had
become the object of dark looks and threatening gestures. For the first
time in his life he had felt compassion for the criminals torn by wild
beasts, and for the wounded gladiators, whose companion in misfortune
he vaguely felt himself to be. But, what was worst of all, he could not
regard himself as altogether free from the reproach of having accepted a
reward for the service he had so thoughtlessly rendered.
Nor did he see the remotest possibility of ever making those whose
opinion he cared for understand how it had come to pass that he should
have acceded to the desire of the villain in the purple, now that his
father, by showing himself to the people in the ‘toga pretexta’, had
set the seal to their basest suspicions. The thought that henceforth he
could never hope to feel the grasp of an honest man’s hand gnawed at his
heart.
The esteem of Diodoros was dear to him, and, when his young comrade
spoke to him, he felt at first as though he were doing him an unexpected
honor; but then he fell back into the suspicion that this was only for
his sister’s sake.
The deep sigh that broke from him induced Melissa to speak a few words
of comfort, and now the unhappy man’s bursting heart overflowed. In
eloquent words he described to Diodoros and Melissa all he had felt, and
the terrible consequences of his heedless folly, and as he spoke acute
regret filled his eyes with tears.
He had pronounced judgment on himself, and expected nothing of his
friend but a little pity. But in the darkness Diodoros sought and found
his hand, and grasped it fervently; and if Alexander could but have
seen his old playfellow’s face, he would have perceived that his eyes
glistened as he said what he could to encourage him to hope for better
days.
Diodoros knew his friend well. He was incapable of falsehood; and his
deed, which under a false light so easily assumed an aspect of villainy,
had, in fact, been no more than an act of thoughtlessness such as he had
himself often lent a hand in. Alexander, however, seemed determined not
to hear the comfort offered him by his sister and his friend. A flash of
lightning revealed him to them, sitting with a bent head and his hands
over his brow; and this gloomy vision of one who so lately had been the
gayest of the gay troubled their revived happiness even more than the
thought of the danger which, as each knew, threatened the others.
As they passed the Temple of Artemis, which was brightly illuminated,
reminding them that they were reaching their destination, Alexander
at last looked up and begged the lovers to consider their immediate
affairs. His mind had remained clear, and what he said showed that he
had not lost sight of his sister’s future.
As soon as Melissa should have effected her escape, Caesar would
undoubtedly seize, not only her lover, but his father as well. Diodoros
must forthwith cross the lake and rouse Polybius and Praxilla, to warn
them of the imminent danger, while Alexander undertook to hire a ship
for the party. Argutis would await the fugitives in a tavern by
the harbor, and conduct them on board the vessel which would be in
readiness. Diodoros, who was not yet able to walk far, promised to avail
himself of one of the litters waiting outside the Temple of Artemis.
Just before the vehicle stopped, the lovers took leave. They arranged
where and how they might have news of each other, and all they said, in
brief words and a fervent parting kiss, in this moment, when death or
imprisonment might await them, had the solemn purport of a vow.
The swift horses stopped. Alexander hastily leaned over to his friend,
kissed him on both cheeks, and whispered:
“Take good care of her; think of me kindly if we should never meet
again, and tell the others that wild Alexander has played another fool’s
trick, at any rate, not a wicked one, however badly it may turn out for
him.”
For the sake of the charioteer, who, after Melissa’s flight, would be
certainly cross-examined, Diodoros could make no reply. The carruca
rattled off by the way by which it had come; Diodoros vanished in the
darkness, and Melissa clasped her hands over her face. She felt as
though this were her last parting from her lover, and the sun would
never shine on earth again.
It was now near midnight. The slaves had heard the approach of the
chariot, and received them as heartily as ever, but in obedience to
Heron’s orders they added the most respectful bows to their usual
well-meant welcome. Since their master had shown himself to Dido, in the
afternoon, with braggart dignity, as a Roman magnate, she had felt
as though the age of miracles had come, and nothing was impossible.
Splendid visions of future grandeur awaiting the whole family, including
herself and Argutis, had not ceased to haunt her; but as to the empress,
something seemed to have gone wrong, for why had the girl wet eyes and
so sad a face? What was all this long whispering with Argutis? But it
was no concern of hers, after all, and she would know all in good time,
no doubt. “What the masters plot to-day the slaves hear next week,” was
a favorite saying of the Gauls, and she had often proved its truth.
But the cool way in which Melissa received the felicitations which
the old woman poured out in honor of the future empress, and her
tear-reddened eyes, seemed at any rate quite comprehensible. The child
was thinking, no doubt, of her handsome Diodoros. Among the splendors
of the palace she would soon forget. And how truly magnificent were the
dress and jewels in which the damsel had appeared in the amphitheatre!
“How they must have hailed her!” thought the old woman when she had
helped Melissa to exchange her dress for a simpler robe, and the girl
sat down to write. “If only the mistress had lived to see this day! And
all the other women must have been bursting with envy. Eternal gods!
But, after all, who knows whether the good luck we envy others is great
or small? Why, even in this house, which the gods have filled to the
roof with gifts and favors, misfortune has crept in through the key
hole. Poor Philip!
“Still, if all goes well with the girl. Things have befallen her such
as rarely come to any one, and yet no more than her due. The fairest and
best will be the greatest and wealthiest in the empire.”
And she clutched the amulets and the cross which hung round her arm and
throat, and muttered a hasty prayer for her darling.
Argutis, for his part, did not know what to think of it all. He, if any
one, rejoiced in the good fortune of his master and Melissa; but Heron’s
promotion to the rank of praetor had been too sudden, and Heron demeaned
himself too strangely in his purple-bordered toga. It was to be hoped
that this new and unexpected honor had not turned his brain! And the
state in which his master’s eldest son remained caused him the greatest
anxiety. Instead of rejoicing in the honors of his family, he had at his
first interview with his father flown into a violent rage; and though
he, Argutis, had not understood what they were saying, he perceived that
they were in vehement altercation, and that Heron had turned away in
great wrath. And then--he remembered it with horror, and could hardly
tell what he had seen to Alexander and Melissa in a reasonable and
respectful manner--Philip had sprung out of bed, had dressed himself
without help, even to his shoes, and scarcely had his father set out in
his litter before Philip had come into the kitchen. He looked like one
risen from the grave, and his voice was hollow as he told the slaves
that he meant to go to the Circus to see for himself that justice was
done. But Argutis felt his heart sink within him when the philosopher
desired him to fetch the pipe his father used to teach the birds to
whistle, and at the same time took up the sharp kitchen knife with which
Argutis slaughtered the sheep.
The young man then turned to go, but even on the threshold he had
stumbled over the straps of his sandals which dragged unfastened, and
Argutis had had to lead him, almost to carry him in from the garden, for
a violent fit of coughing had left him quite exhausted. The effort of
pulling at the heavy oars on board the galley had been too much for his
weak chest. Argutis and Dido had carried him to bed, and he had soon
fallen into a deep sleep, from which he had not waked since.
And now what were these two plotting? They were writing; and not on wax
tablets, but with reed pens on papyrus, as though it were a matter of
importance.
All this gave the slave much to think about, and the faithful soul did
not know whether to weep for joy or grief when Alexander told him, with
a gravity which frightened him in this light-hearted youth, that,
partly as the reward of his faithful service and partly to put him in a
position to aid them all in a crisis of peculiar difficulty, he gave him
his freedom. His father had long since intended to do this, and the deed
was already drawn out. Here was the document; and he knew that, even as
a freedman, Argutis would continue to serve them as faithfully as ever.
With this he gave the slave his manumission, which he was in any case to
have received within a month, at the end of thirty years’ service, and
Argutis took it with tears of joy, not unmixed with grief and anxiety,
while only a few hours since it would have been enough to make him the
happiest of mortals.
While he kissed their hands and stammered out words of gratitude, his
uncultured but upright spirit told him that he had been blind ever to
have rejoiced for a moment at the news that Melissa had been chosen to
be empress. All that he had seen during the last half-hour had convinced
him, as surely as if he had been told it in words, that his beloved
young mistress scorned her imperial suitor, and firmly intended to evade
him--how, Argutis could not guess. And, recognizing this, a spirit of
adventure and daring stirred him also. This was a struggle of the weak
against the strong; and to him, who had spent his life as one of the
oppressed, nothing could be more tempting than to help on the side of
the weak.
Argutis now undertook with ardent zeal to get Diodoros and his parents
safely on board the ship he was to engage, and to explain to Heron, as
soon as he should have read the letter which Alexander was now writing,
that, unless he could escape at once with Philip, he was lost. Finally,
he promised that the epistle to Caesar, which Melissa was composing,
should reach his hands on the morrow.
He could now receive his letter of freedom with gladness, and consented
to dress up in Heron’s garments; for, as a slave, he would have been
forbidden to conclude a bargain with a ship’s captain or any one else.
All this was done in hot haste, for Caesar was awaiting Alexander, and
Euryale expected Melissa. The ready zeal of the old man, free for the
first time to act on his own responsibility in matters which would
have been too much for many a free-born man, but to which he felt quite
equal, had an encouraging effect even on the oppressed hearts of the
other two. They knew now that, even if death should be their lot,
Argutis would be faithful to their father and sick brother, and the
slave at once showed his ingenuity and shrewdness; for, while the young
people were vainly trying to think of a hiding-place for Heron and
Philip, he suggested a spot which would hardly be discovered even by the
sharpest spies.
Glaukias, the sculptor, who had already fled, was Heron’s tenant. His
work-room, a barn-like structure, stood in the little vegetable-garden
which the gem-cutter had inherited from his father-in-law, and none but
Heron and the slave knew that, under the flooring, instead of a
cellar, there was a vast reservoir connected with the ancient aqueducts
constructed by Vespasian. Many years since Argutis had helped his master
to construct a trap-door to the entrance to these underground passages,
of which the existence had remained unknown even to Glaukias during all
the years he had inhabited the place. It was here that Heron kept his
gold, not taking his children even into his confidence; and only a
few months ago Argutis had been down with him and had found the old
reservoir dry, airy, and quite habitable. The gem-cutter would be quite
content to conceal himself where his treasure was, and the garden and
work-room were only distant a few hundred paces from his own home.
To get Philip there without being seen was to Argutis a mere trifle.
Alexander, too, old Dido, and, if needful, Diodoros, could all be
concealed there. But for Melissa, neither he nor Alexander thought it
sufficiently secure.
As she took leave of him the young girl once more charged the newly
freed man to greet her father from her a thousand times, to beseech
his forgiveness of her for the bitter grief she must cause him, and to
assure him of her affection.
“Tell him,” she added, as the tears streamed down her cheeks, “that I
feel as if I were going to my death. But, come what may, I am always his
dutiful child, always ready to sacrifice anything--excepting only the
man to whom, with my father’s consent, I pledged my heart. Tell him
that for love of him I might have been ready even to give my hand to
the blood-stained Caesar, but that Fate--and perhaps the manes of her we
loved, and who is dead--have ordered it otherwise.”
She then went into the room where her mother had closed her eyes. After
a short prayer by that bed, which still stood there, she hastened to
Philip’s room. He lay sleeping heavily; she bent over him and kissed
the too high brow, which looked as though even in sleep the brain within
were still busy over some difficult and painful question.
Her way led her once more through her father’s work-room, and she had
already crossed it when she hastily turned back to look once more--for
the last time-at the little table where she had sat for so many years,
busy with her needle, in modest contentment by the artist’s side,
dreaming with waking eyes, and considering what she, with her small
resources and great love, could do that would be of use to those she
loved, or relieve them if they were in trouble. Then, as though she knew
that she was bidding a last farewell to all the pleasant companionship
of her youth, she looked at the birds, long since gone to roost in their
cages. In spite of his recent curule honors Heron had not forgotten
them, and, before quitting the house to display himself to the populace
in the ‘toga pretexa’, he had as usual carefully covered them up. And
now, as Melissa lifted the cloth from the starling’s cage, and the bird
muttered more gently than usual, and perhaps in its sleep, the cry,
“Olympias!” a shudder ran through her; and, as she stepped out into the
road by Alexander’s side, she said, dejectedly:
“Everything is coming to an end! Well, and so it may; for what has come
over us all in these few days? Before Caesar came, what were you--what
was Philip? In my own heart what peace reigned!
“And my father? There is one comfort, at any rate; even as praetor he
has not forgotten his birds, and he will find feathered friends go where
he may.
“But I--And it is for my sake that he must hide like a criminal!”
But here Alexander vehemently broke in: “It was not you, it was I who
brought all this misery on us!” And he went on to accuse himself so
bitterly that Melissa regretted having alluded to the misfortunes of
their family, and did her best to inspire him with courage.
As soon as Caesar should have left the city and she had evaded his
pursuit, the citizens would be easily persuaded of his innocence. They
would see then how little she had cared for the splendor and wealth of
empire; why, he himself knew how quickly everything was forgotten in
Alexandria. His art, too, would be a comfort to him, and if he only had
the chance of making his way in his career he would have no difficulty
in winning Agatha. He would have her on his side, and Diodoros, and the
lady Euryale.
But to all these kind speeches the young man only sadly shook his head.
How could he, despised and contemned, dare to aspire to the daughter of
such a man as Zeno? He ended with a deep sigh; and Melissa, whose heart
grew heavier as they approached the Serapeum through the side streets,
still forced herself to express her confidence as though the lady
Euryale’s protection had relieved her of every anxiety. It was so
difficult to appear calm and cheerful that more than once she had to
wipe her eyes; still, their eager talk shortened the way, and she stood
still, surprised to find herself so near her destination, when Alexander
showed her the chain which was stretched across the end of the street of
Hermes to close in the great square in front of the Serapeum.
The storm had passed away and the rain had ceased; the sky was clear and
cloudless, and the moon poured its silvery light in lavish splendor, as
though revived, on the temple and on the statues round the square. Here
they must part, for they saw that it was impossible that they should
cross the open space together.
It was almost deserted, for the populace were not allowed to go there.
Of the hundreds of tents which till lately had covered it, only those of
the seventh cohort of the praetorian guard remained; for these, having
to protect the person of the emperor, had not been quartered in the
town. If Alexander and Melissa had crossed this vast square, where
it was now as light as clay, they would certainly have been seen, and
Melissa would have brought not herself only but her protectress also
into the greatest danger.
She still had so much on her mind that she wanted to say to her brother,
especially with regard to her father’s welfare; and then--what a
leavetaking was this when, as her gloomy forebodings told her, they
were parting never to meet again But Euryale must have been long and
anxiously waiting for her, and Alexander, too, was very late for his
appointment.
It was impossible to let the girl cross the square alone, for it was
guarded by soldiers. If she could but reach the side of the sanctuary
where she was expected, and where the road was in the shadow of the
riding-school opposite, all would be well, and it seemed as though there
was no alternative but for Alexander to lead his sister through by-ways
to her destination. They had just made up their minds to this inevitable
waste of time, when a young woman was seen coming toward them from one
of the tents with a swift, light step, winged with gladness. Alexander
suddenly released his sister’s hand, and saying:
“She will escort you,” he advanced to meet her. This was the wife
of Martialis, who had charge of the villa at Kanopus, and whose
acquaintance the artist had made when he was studying the Galatea in the
merchant’s country-house for the portrait of Korinna. Alexander had made
friends with the soldier’s wife in his winning, lively way, and she
was delighted to meet him again, and quite willing to escort his sister
across the square, and hold her tongue about it. So, after a short grasp
of the hand, and a fervent last appeal to her brother, “Never for a
moment let us forget one another, and always remember our mother!”
Melissa followed her companion.
This evening the woman had sought her husband to tell him that she and
her mother had got safely out of the Circus, and to thank him for
the entertainment, of which the splendor, in spite of the various
disturbances and interruption, had filled their hearts and minds.
The first words she spoke to the girl led to the question as to whether
she, too, had been at the Circus; and when Melissa said yes, but that
she had been too frightened and horrified to see much, the chattering
little woman began to describe it all.
Quite the best view, she declared, had been obtained from the third tier
of places. Caesar’s bride, too, had been pointed out to her. Poor
thing! She would pay dearly for the splendor of the purple. No one
could dispute Caracalla’s taste, however, for the girl was lovely beyond
description; and as she spoke she paused to look at Melissa, for she
fancied she resembled Caesar’s sweetheart. But she went on again quicker
than before, remarking that Melissa was not so tall, and that the other
was more brilliant looking, as beseemed an emperor’s bride.
At this Melissa drew her kerchief more closely over her face; but it was
a comfort to her when the soldier’s wife, after describing to her what
she herself had worn, added that Caracalla’s choice had fallen on
a modest and well-conducted maiden, for, if she had not been, the
high-priest’s wife would never have been so kind to her. And the lady
Euryale was sister-in-law to the master she herself served, and she had
known her all her life.
Then, when Melissa, to change the subject, asked why the public were
forbidden to approach the Serapeum, her companion told her that
since his return from the Circus Caesar had been devoting himself to
astrology, soothsaying, and other abstruse matters, and that the noise
of the city disturbed him. He was very learned in such things, and if
she only had time she could have told Melissa wonderful things. Thus
conversing, they crossed the square, and when it lay behind them and
they were under the shadow of the stadium, Melissa thanked her lively
companion for her escort, while she, on her part, declared that it had
been a pleasure to do the friendly painter a service.
The western side of the immense temple stood quite detached from the
town. There were on that side but few bronze doors, and these, which
were opened only to the inhabitants of the building, had long since
been locked for the night and needed no guard. As the inhabitants were
forbidden to cross the space dividing the stadium from the Serapeum,
all was perfectly still. Dark shadows lay on the road, and the high
structures which shut it in like cliffs seemed to tower to the sky. The
lonely girl’s heart beat fast with fears as she stole along, close under
the wall, from which a warm vapor breathed on her after the recent
rain. The black circles which seemed to stare at her like dark, hollow
eye-sockets from the wall of the stadium, were the windows of the
stables.
If a runaway slave, an escaped wild beast, or a robber were to rush out
upon her! The owls swept across over her head on silent wings, and bats
flitted to and fro, from one building to the other, almost touching the
frightened girl. Her terrors increased at every step, and the wall which
she must follow to the end was so long--so endlessly long!
Supposing, too, that the lady Euryale had been tired of waiting and had
given her up! There would then be nothing for it but to make her way
back to the town past the guards, or to enter the temple through the
great gates--where that dreadful man was--and where she would at once be
recognized! Then there could be no escape, none--and she must, yes, she
must evade her dreadful suitor. Every thought of Diodoros cried, “You
must!”--even at the cost of her young life, of which, indeed, she saw
the imminent end nearer and nearer with every step. She knew not whither
her flight might take her, but a voice within declared that it would be
to an early grave.
Only a narrow strip of sky was visible between the tall buildings, but,
as she looked up to the heavens, she perceived that it was two hours
past midnight. She hurried on, but presently checked her pace again.
From the square, three trumpet-calls, one after another, rang through
the silence of the night. What could these signals mean at so unwonted
an hour?
There could be but one explanation--Caesar had again condemned some
hapless wretch to death, and he was being led to execution. When Vindex
and his nephew were beheaded, three trumpet-calls had sounded; her
brother had told her so.
And now, before her inward eye, rose the crowd of victims to Caracalla’s
thirst for blood. She fancied that Plautilla, whom her imperial consort
had murdered, was beckoning her to follow her to an early grave. The
terrors of the night were too much for her; and, as when a child, at
play with her brothers, she flew on as fast as her feet would carry her.
She fled as though she were pursued, her long dress hampering her steps,
along by the temple wall, till her gaze, fixed on her left, fell on the
spot which had been designated to her.
Here she stopped, out of breath; and, while she was identifying the
landmarks which she had impressed on her memory to guide her to the
right doorway, the temple wall seemed to open before her as if by a
charm, and a kind voice called her name, and then exclaimed, “At last!”
and in a moment she had grasped Euryale’s hand and was drawn into the
building.
Here, as if at the touch of a magician’s wand, all fear and horror
vanished; and, although she still panted for breath, she would at once
have explained to her beloved protectress what it was that had prompted
her to run so fast, but that Euryale interrupted her, exclaiming: “Only
make haste! No one must see that block of porphyry turn on its pin.
It is invisible from the outside, and closes the passage by which the
mystics and adepts find their way to the mysteries after dedication. All
who know of it are sworn to secrecy.”
With this she led the way into a dark vestibule adjoining the temple,
and in a few moments the great block of stone which had admitted them
had turned into its place again. Those who passed by, even in broad
sunshine, could not distinguish it from all the other blocks of which
the ground-floor of the edifice was built.