At about five miles from Antioch, up the course of the river Orontes,
stood the celebrated wood of Daphne, consecrated to Apollo. Therein a
temple had been built, where every year the praises of the Sun-god
were celebrated.
Julian, without saying anything of his intention quitted Antioch at
the break of day. He wished to ascertain for himself whether the
inhabitants remembered the ancient sacred feast. All along the road he
mused of the solemnity, hoping to see lads and virgins going up the
steps of the temple, clad in white as a symbol of purity and youth,
the crowd of the faithful, the choirs, and the smoke of incense.
The road was difficult; from the rocky Berean hills a gusty burning
wind came down. The atmosphere was laden with the bitter smell of
burnt wood, and thick with a bluish fog which spread itself over the
deep gorge of Mount Kazia. Harassing dust filled eyes and throat, and
crackled between the teeth of the traveller. The very sun through the
smoky vapour seemed red and sickly. But hardly had the Emperor
penetrated into the wood of Daphne than fragrant coolness surrounded
him. It was difficult to believe that such a corner of Paradise could
be found at a few paces from the scorching road. The wood was
twenty-four stadia in circumference, and perpetual twilight reigned in
its almost impenetrable alleys of gigantic laurels, planted centuries
before. The Emperor was surprised at the solitariness of the wood--no
worshippers, no victims, no incense, nor any preparation for the
solemn feast-day. Thinking that the people must be assembled near the
temple, he pushed on farther. At every step the wood became more
lonely. It was as untroubled by any sound as an abandoned cemetery.
Birds were few, the shadow of the laurel-grove being too thick, and no
song of theirs was heard. A grasshopper began his shrill cry in the
grass, and quickly ceased, as if startled at his own voice. Insects
alone were humming faintly in a slender ray of sunlight, but ventured
not to quit its beam for the neighbouring gloom. Sometimes Julian
pushed his path along wider alleys, bordered with titanic walls of
weird cypress, casting shade dark as a moonless night. Here and there
subterranean waters made the moss spongy. Streams ran everywhere,
chill as melted snow, but silently, with no tinkling ripples, as if
muted by the melancholy of that enchanted wood. In one nook, a rift in
the rock, clear drops were falling slowly, glittering, one by one. But
moss stifled the sound of their fall, and they sank away like the
tears of an unspoken love.
There were broad glens of wild narcissus, many lilies, and even
butterflies. But these were dark-winged and not gay-coloured, for the
sun-rays filtered through the thick laurel became almost lunar-pale,
and pensive as if fallen through the smoke of a funeral torch. It was
as though Phoebus had grown faint and inconsolable after the final
loss of Daphne. And she, remaining, overcast and shadowy under the
most burning kisses of the god, here kept impenetrable coolness and
bloom under her branches for ever.
Everywhere in that wood reigned the abandonment, the tender
melancholy of the god who loved in vain.
Already in sight, and dazzling through the cypresses, shone the
columns and pediments of the temple raised in the time of Seleucus
Nicator. But not a worshipper yet had Julian encountered. At last he
saw a child of twelve years old, on a path overgrown with wild
hyacinth. His dark eyes shone strangely brilliant in his finely cut
pale face. Golden hair fell in curls on his slender neck, and his
blue-veined temples were transparent as the petals of a flower grown
in the shade.
"Do you know, child, where are the sacrificers and the people?" Julian
asked.
The child made no answer, as if he had not understood the question.
"Listen, little one, can you not lead me to the priest of Apollo?"
He shook his head, smiling.
"Why will you not answer me?"
Then the boy put a finger to his lips and then to both his ears, and
shook his head gravely this time.