distress, ran in to see Rachel early in the afternoon.
“What do you think? I have to go to the seaside to-morrow!” she
exclaimed, breathlessly. “Mother and Father are going, and they say I’m
to go with them, and—”
“But how lovely!” interrupted Rachel. “For _you_, I mean. It will be
horrid for _me_,” she added, dejectedly. “Why don’t you want to go?”
Diana stared at her. “Don’t you understand? I shall be away more than
a week, and”—she lowered her voice mysteriously—“the _seventh_ day,
you know, will come round, and I shan’t be here, and I shall miss the
chance of an adventure. Oh, I do envy you, Rachel! I’d rather never
go to the seaside again than miss all the exciting things that might
happen. And you see I can’t explain why I don’t want to go—so it’s all
perfectly horrible.”
“But you know I don’t believe it makes a scrap of difference _where_ we
are,” declared Rachel. “If ‘he’ wanted us to go to the Museum, or to
Egypt, or to Rhodes, or anywhere, we could go just the same, whether
we were in London or by the sea, or at the North Pole. You remember
what everybody says about him.” She glanced over her shoulder to make
quite certain that they were alone, and went on to quote in a whisper,
“‘_Sheshà, greatest of Magicians_.’ Salome said that, when I was in
Babylon, and the other night, you remember, Bucephalus said it when
he changed into a real horse. And, of course, he _is_ the greatest of
magicians. He can do anything he likes. I shouldn’t worry a bit about
going away if I were you. I only wish I had the chance.”
Diana’s face became radiant.
“I never thought of that!” she exclaimed. “How clever you are, Rachel.
Oh, if only you were coming, too, it would be perfectly splendid.”
Rachel sighed. “It will be awfully dull without you. But all the same I
expect I shall meet you _somewhere or other_ in a few days. Seven days,
or perhaps nights, from the evening before last, you know!” she went on
with a little chuckle of anticipation.
She felt nevertheless so depressed at the thought of losing Diana, even
for a short time, that what happened next seemed altogether too good to
be true.
“Would you like to go to the seaside with Diana?” enquired Aunt Hester
at tea-time.
Rachel’s face of joy was such an answer that Aunt Hester laughed.
[Illustration]
“Well, I think you may. I’ve just had a note from the child’s mother to
say you could share a room with Diana at the hotel. They’ll be there
for a week.... It will do her good to get out of London for a few
days,” she went on, turning to Miss Moore. “She’s a country child, you
see, and she’s beginning to look a little pale. A breath of sea air
won’t hurt her.”
Rachel could have screamed for delight, and as though things could not
happen too fortunately, just at that moment, Mr. Sheston was announced.
She hadn’t seen him for nearly a fortnight, so she would anyhow have
been very glad of his arrival, but to-day, his coming seemed specially
fortunate as a kind of sign that she had been right in offering
consolation to Diana. A few minutes later, indeed, she was even more
certain of it.
“It’s no use suggesting a visit to your favourite place of amusement,”
said Aunt Hester, in a quizzical tone when she had welcomed the old
gentleman and given him some tea. “Rachel is going to St. Mary’s Bay
for a week with her little friend, so she’ll be far away from such
entertainments as museums.”
“So shall I,” returned Mr. Sheston, helping himself to cake. “Curiously
enough _I’m_ going to St. Mary’s Bay in a day or two for a little
change of air.”
Rachel really _did_ scream for joy at this news, and when, after some
eager questioning she discovered that Mr. Sheston was actually going to
the very hotel in which Diana’s father and mother had taken rooms, she
was almost sure that whatever else happened, she and Diana would not
miss an “adventure.”
It was altogether delightful at St. Mary’s Bay. The weather was
perfect. Diana’s father and mother were, next to her own, Rachel
thought, the nicest father and mother in the world, and it was
gratifying to find that they very much liked their little daughter’s
new friend, Mr. Sheston. All day long, she and Rachel were out of
doors, scrambling about bare-footed on the rocks, and enjoying
themselves tremendously.
At intervals, of course, they discussed their chances of an adventure,
and, as the magic seventh day approached, their excitement increased.
“It makes it such fun that he never says anything about the magic
between whiles, doesn’t it?” Rachel observed on the morning of the day
when something might be expected to happen. “He’s just like a nice old
gentleman, except at ‘seven’ times. Can’t you imagine how people would
stare at him if they knew he was Sheshà, and Dinocrates, and Cleon, and
ever so many more?”
“And that he can make Alexander’s beautiful horse come back again to
the world, and fly with us to Halicarnassus!” put in Diana with a laugh
of triumph. “They only think he’s a dear, clever old gentleman who
knows all about things in the British Museum. It’s jolly to be us and
to know ever so much more about him than just _that_!”
“Don’t forget he’s promised to take us up the lighthouse this
afternoon,” remarked Rachel, as they went into the hotel for lunch.
They reminded him of this promise almost before he had taken his place
opposite to them at the table, and an arrangement was made to meet on
the terrace outside, at three o’clock. “After I’ve had my nap,” said
Mr. Sheston, in his character as an old gentleman who took care of
himself and could not do without his midday sleep.
[Illustration]
Punctually at three o’clock, however, he made his appearance on the
terrace, and they all set out to walk to the lighthouse.
It was built at the end of a long spur of rock which jutted out from
the bay for quite half a mile, and when at last they reached the strong
stone tower, both children thought how lonely was the spot on which it
stood.
It was great fun to climb the twisting stone staircase within the
lighthouse and to come at last into the “lantern”—a round room at the
top, from which there was a wonderful view of the great expanse of sea
now calm and blue as any mountain lake.
“Oh, I should like to live up here!” exclaimed Diana, enthusiastically,
when the lighthouse-keeper had explained all about the working of the
great shining lamp.
“Ah, it’s all very well now, missie,” returned the old sailor-man,
shaking his head. “But you wouldn’t like it so much on some of the
nights we gets up here in the winter. To look at that there sea now,
you’d never think, p’raps, what it’s like in the winter when there’s
a great storm, and the waves come on mountains high, a-dashing all
around, with the wind howlin’ and shrieking like a lot ’er wild
animals, and the spray tossin’ right up to them there winders, and
beatin’ against ’em like mad. And the birds—them sea-gulls flying
round the light as they do—gettin’ all ’mazed-like and confused,
dashin’ theirselves against the glass, poor things, an’ cryin’ most
uncanny.... It’s wild enough up ’ere then, I can tell you. Not
altogether comfortable-like either,” he added, with a broad smile.
“And it’s even worse for the poor sailors in the ships, isn’t it?” said
Rachel, nodding seawards. “How glad they must be to see your light
that keeps them from getting on to the rocks. I should think they
feel awfully glad then that lighthouses are invented. How _were_ they
invented?” she asked, suddenly turning to Mr. Sheston. “I mean who
first thought of making a lighthouse?”
Scarcely had she asked the question, when the glass-encircled room,
with its huge lantern, was blotted out in darkness. Another second
and Rachel felt a fresh wind blowing in her face, and, before she had
time to cry out to Diana, Diana herself gave a scream of amazement and
delight.
“Rachel! Look—look! What is it? Where are we?” she cried.
For a moment Rachel paid no heed to the second question. She had no
idea where she stood. She only knew that she was gazing upon something
very strange and wonderful. It was night and quite dark, and she heard
the sound of water lapping close to her feet. But her eyes were fixed
upon something that looked like a gigantic lily rising out of the sea,
and made visible by _flames_, which at its summit leapt and danced and
streamed upwards towards the night sky.
“We’re on a _ship_,” whispered Diana, excitedly.
And then, for the first time, Rachel realised that she was standing on
the deck of a vessel, and that all around her, sailors were moving,
busy with ropes and sails as they shouted to one another in a language
she did not understand.
The flames darting from the top of the wonderful column lighted up a
great track of water between the ship and the coast, which was plainly
visible in the red glare of the fire. So also was the ship that sailed
over the illuminated sea, and the figures of the sailors on board. They
were like no sailors she had ever seen, for they were clothed in a
strange fashion, and wore curiously shaped caps.
“There is the first lighthouse,” said a well-known voice, and turning
together, the children saw standing behind them—Mr. Sheston. Rachel,
at any rate, knew it was Mr. Sheston, even though he looked quite
different, and wore a tunic with a cloak thrown over his shoulders, for
she was accustomed by this time to seeing him in various guises.
“Oh, _do_ tell us where we are,” she begged. “We’re on the sea, of
course—but what sea is it? And how far are we back into the Past? And
what is your name _this_ time?”
The tall dark man laughed.
“Let me take the questions singly. This is the Mediterranean Sea. We
are about two thousand five hundred years back into the Past. The land
there is the coast of Egypt. And my name you already know, for I am
Dinocrates.”
“Oh, then it was you who built the Temple of Diana?” asked Rachel.
“And you were the little boy with the leopard skin? And
afterwards—hundreds of years afterwards—you built the _first_
temple—and the second and third ones too,” cried Diana. “Mr. Sheston
told us all about you, and——”
But here Diana paused, for she suddenly realised that Dinocrates and
Mr. Sheston were one and the same.
Rachel had evidently come to a like conclusion, for all at once she
said in a whisper, “I thought so.”
There was silence for a moment while both children, rather confused,
were considering the strangeness of this. Then Rachel, who was never
very long quiet, began again:
“There’s a great town behind the tower, isn’t there? When the flames
blow backwards I can see the houses.”
“You behold the city of Alexandria.”
“Alexandria?” repeated Diana quickly. “That reminds me of—_last_ time.
Bucephalus, you know, and Alexander the Great.... Has the town anything
to do with him?”
“Everything,” answered Dinocrates. “He founded it, and gave to it his
own name, the name by which men who live in your world of to-day,
still call it. But it was I who built it,” he added. “That is, you
understand, it was I who made the plans for the building of the city.”
“And did you build the lighthouse too?” asked Diana.
Dinocrates shook his head.
“Nay, not to me, but to another, do the sailors owe that tower of
warning—the tower that has saved many lives.”
“Do tell us about it,” urged Rachel. “Who first thought of it? I
suppose the sort of lights we have now with reflectors and all that,
weren’t invented when _this_ lighthouse was made? But what a good idea
to make flames come out at the top instead.”
“You shall hear the story of the lighthouse,” said Dinocrates, “but let
us sit at our ease while I relate it.”
He pointed to a coil of ropes, and the children, settling themselves
close together upon it, found that it made a most comfortable seat.
Dinocrates meanwhile wrapping his cloak about him lay full length
upon the deck near them, and turned his face in the direction of the
lily-white tower with its crown of leaping flames. For a moment he did
not speak, and the children were so impressed by the wild beauty of the
scene that they too were silent.
The vessel, as strange to their eyes as were the sailors who formed
its crew, glided slowly and softly over the dark water on which lay
a pathway of crimson light. To and fro moved the sailors, sometimes
singing, sometimes laughing, sometimes shouting to one another as they
went about their work, but paying no heed to their visitors.
The flames from the lighthouse rising and falling revealed a coastline
with a fringe of white houses, and on the sea other ships moving in
various directions, their sails sometimes lighted up brightly in the
red glow of the fire.
Rachel, who had sunk into a sort of happy dream, started when at last
their companion spoke.
“Do you remember,” he began, “what Bucephalus, that famous horse, has
already told you concerning his master, Alexander the Great? How that
he set out to conquer the world? Bucephalus has, I know, related to you
how his master took the city of Halicarnassus in Asia Minor and visited
the tomb of Mausolus, built by the sorrowing Queen Artemisia. That,
however, was only the beginning of his victories.
“A little later, when all Asia Minor owned his sway, he turned his
thoughts to Egypt and conquered _that_ country also. Sailing in his
barge up the great river Nile which waters the land, he came at last
to where it flows out into the sea—this very sea upon which you are
now sailing. But he found no city there, such as by the light of that
beacon fire you now behold. Only a few poor huts stood then at the
mouth of the great river. ‘Here,’ thought Alexander, ‘is the place for
a mighty port, and here a mighty town shall arise. But whom shall I
employ to build such a city for me? Who is the greatest architect now
living?’ Instantly my name was upon his lips. For, only a year before,
he had seen the great new temple I had completed at Ephesus, in honour
of Diana.
“At once he sent for me, and straight from the building of that temple
in Ephesus I came hither. Let me now show you, little maids, what I
found where now that lighthouse and that city stand. Rise, and bow with
closed eyes seven times in the direction of the shore.”
Rachel and Diana needed no second invitation. They leapt to their feet
and obeyed.
[Illustration: THE PHAROS LIGHTHOUSE]
“Open now your eyes and behold,” said Dinocrates.
Again the children did as they were told, and found, scarcely to their
surprise now, so accustomed to marvels had they grown, that the night
had vanished. It was broad daylight, and the sun streamed down upon a
bare rocky island separated by a narrow belt of sea from the mainland.
There was no city, no lighthouse, only a few rough huts upon the rocky
island round which the sea-gulls circled, uttering sad cries. A mighty
river, flowing through miles of flat land, poured its waters into the
sea close to the island.
“This,” said Dinocrates, when the children had gazed a moment at the
scene, “was what I found, when, at the command of Alexander, I came
hither to build the city. That bare island in front of the mainland was
then, and is still called, the Isle of Pharos.”
He waited a moment.
“Close once again your eyes, and wait till I pronounce the magic
number,” he presently directed.
At the word _seven_, the children looked again, and together uttered a
long _Oh!_ of astonishment at the change which had taken place. There
was the island indeed, but no longer bare and uninhabited. A gleaming
bridge joined it on the land side to a city whose temples, open-air
theatres, statues and monuments shone white and splendid in the
sunshine. The whole, including three sides of the island, was enclosed
by a mighty wall with turrets at intervals upon it, and the water space
between the island and the city was now a harbour in which ships rode
at anchor.
“There stands Alexandria as I built it over two thousand years ago,”
said Dinocrates, quietly. “And there, bearing the same name, the name
of Alexander the Great, it stands to-day. English sailors anchor their
ships in its port, many English people live there, and it has heard the
guns of the Great War that is just over.”
“Not like Babylon, or Ephesus—all in ruins,” murmured Rachel.
“Alexandria has _lasted_.”
“It has lasted—but it no longer looks as you see it here. Time and
change! Time and change!” murmured Dinocrates, softly. “It is a modern
city now, and most of what _I_ built is ruins beneath its present
squares and houses.”
“But there’s no lighthouse—even as we see the place now,” exclaimed
Diana.
“There was no lighthouse even in my time, little child. It was not till
I had been dead twenty years and more that the beacon tower was built.”
[Illustration]
Rachel glanced at him. “After you had—gone on? Gone into another life,
you mean?” she said.
Dinocrates smiled kindly at her.
“That is a better way of saying the same thing, little maid,” he agreed.
“But you promised you would tell us about the lighthouse,” began Diana,
after a moment. “_Do_ tell us, please,” she urged.
Again Dinocrates smiled.
“I am coming to it, impatient one,” he began, when Rachel interrupted.
“I want to know all sorts of other things first,” she declared. “Did
Alexander live here after the town was built?”
“Nay, and he never saw more of the city than its beginning. He was
marching always from country to country, conquering the world, and had
no time to return to the place which bears his name. Though, after all,
I am wrong. He _did_ come back. But when he came, Death, not he, was
the conqueror. He died in Babylon, but they brought him hither, to the
city built at his command, and here he was buried.”
“Was his lovely horse dead by that time?” asked Diana. “I hope so.
Because he would have missed his master.”
“Why, yes,” put in Rachel. “Don’t you remember that Alexander buried
him and named a town after him?”
“Of course! How silly of me....” Diana turned expectantly to Dinocrates.
“And about the lighthouse?” she persisted.
“Our ship is about to enter the harbour,” said their companion. “We
will land, and go to the spot where the lighthouse finally arose. There
I may best tell you its story.”
In a few moments the little vessel on the deck of which they stood, had
been safely steered into the harbour between the island of Pharos and
the city. At a quay running alongside of the island, they stepped off
the ship, and “Dinocrates” led the way to a rock jutting out into the
sea. It was a position from which there was a view of the busy harbour,
and of the long bridge joining the island to the city, over which
passed continually a gaily coloured crowd. Mules with gaudy trappings
were driven by shouting boys. Ladies in silken litters were borne along
by dark-skinned slaves. Men dressed in tunics like the one worn by
“Dinocrates” sauntered by, and from the city itself came a confused hum
of voices.
By turning their backs to the bridge the children found the blue sea
almost at their feet, stretching away to the distant horizon.
Dinocrates began to speak again, and the water lapping against the
rocks close at hand murmured between the pauses of his story.
“There lies the city I began to build while Alexander was yet alive,”
he said, pointing backwards over his shoulder. “I was a famous
architect in those days, and rich men sent me their sons to learn
from me. But among all my pupils the best, the most brilliant, was
Sostratus. He came to me when he was but a lad, and I early foretold
for him a great career. I loved him dearly, and he was to me like a
son. His native land was Greece, and, though he spent some years with
me during the building of Alexandria, he returned more than once to his
home, and on one of these visits fell deeply in love with a beautiful
Grecian maiden.
“Never shall I forget the happiness of Sostratus, when he told me
that the maiden, with her parents, was coming to Alexandria, where
the marriage was to be celebrated. All was prepared for the bride,
and on the appointed day, she set sail to cross the stretch of sea
between Greece and Alexandria. But, alas, the weather, till then calm
and peaceful, suddenly changed. A great storm arose, and the ship,
when it came into sight, though it held bravely on, was tossed like a
cockle-shell upon the waters.
“Now this bay of Alexandria is difficult of navigation, and in the
darkness, full of danger. Night came on; there was no friendly beacon
fire to show the way, and presently we, who were gathered here on
this very spot, heard the shouts and cries of drowning men. Powerless
to help, we waited in despair for daybreak, only to see the waters
strewn with wreckage. Close to land, the good ship, with all on board,
had gone down for lack of a light to show the captain where lay the
treacherous rocks.
“Sostratus was wild with grief, from which, as time went on, I strove
in vain to rouse him. Nothing I could say or do would comfort him, till
at last, when I was ill and near to death, I called him to my bedside
and urged him not to waste his life in useless idle despair.
“‘Build something,’ said I, ‘which shall be at once a monument to the
memory of your bride, and of use to the living. So shall you not have
passed through this your present life in vain.’
“‘What if I should build a light-tower?’ he asked presently.
‘Something that shall serve as a beacon and a warning to sailors?
Already has the thought of such a tower begun to take shape in my mind,
and now, O master, I swear to thee that I will not rest till such a
building arises, for by such means, grief such as I have endured may be
spared to others.’
[Illustration]
“With that he began to discuss with me how such a tower, the first of
its kind, could be constructed so that a light should stream constantly
from its summit during the darkness of the night. And I, seeing him
roused from his grief and ready for a new interest, passed some
days later, happily from that life. All that follows, I learnt long
afterwards when once more I returned to this earth.
“Even before my own death, Alexander the Great had passed away, and the
world he had conquered was being divided amongst the generals who had
fought under his command. This land of Egypt, with Alexandria as its
port, fell to one of them—a man whose name was Ptolemy. (He it was who
helped the Rhodians against Demetrius in the famous siege),” he added,
turning with a smile to Rachel.
“And you were _Cleon_ then—not Dinocrates,” she exclaimed quickly.
“You remember I told you about that siege, Diana?”
Diana nodded. “But do go on about Sostratus,” she begged, turning to
Dinocrates. “Ptolemy let him build the lighthouse, I suppose?”
“After my death,” continued their friend, “my pupil went to King
Ptolemy with his plans, and he was ordered not only to set about the
building of the tower, but to spare no expense and to make it the most
beautiful monument he could possibly accomplish. So Sostratus worked
and thought and invented, and in time, on the very spot where now we
are seated, there rose the tower you beheld a short while ago. Four
hundred feet high it towered above this rock, built of white marble,
slender as a lily, yet strong as steel. And in the cup-like hollow
at the top, was sunk a brazier, that is, a huge basket of iron in
which a fire was kept always burning. The men who from the gallery
around this hollow tended the fire and fed the flames, were the first
lighthouse-keepers, and the tower itself, being the first lighthouse,
was the model for others all over the world. The lighthouse on the spur
of land at St. Mary’s Bay, little maids, owes its existence to the
marble tower of Sostratus, as in like fashion do all the other famous
lighthouses of modern days, such as Eddystone, the North Foreland, and
the rest. No longer, it is true, do naked flames stream upwards into
the darkness from these modern towers—for, in two thousand years other
light has been invented, as well as shielding panes of glass. Nowadays,
strong electric globes shoot forth their gleams over the sea at night.
But the tower of Sostratus was not only the first of these friendly
beacons but also the most beautiful as a monument. So beautiful,
indeed, and in those early days so strange to the sight, that it was
named amongst the Seven Wonders of the World.”
“Was it called the Tower of Sostratus?” asked Rachel.
Dinocrates smiled and shook his head.
“Nay,” he returned, “though that was the wish of Sostratus himself. It
was called the _Pharos_ Tower—after the name of this island upon which
it stood.”