The unwonted tumult that had broken the stillness of the night had not
been unobserved in the Greek Serapeum any more than in the Egyptian
temple adjoining the Apis-tombs; but perfect silence once more reigned
in the Necropolis, when at last the great gate of the sanctuary of
Osiris-Apis was thrown open, and a little troop of priests arranged in a
procession came out from it with a vanguard of temple servants, who had
been armed with sacrificial knives and axes.
Publius and Klea, who were keeping faithful watch by the body of their
dead friend, saw them approaching, and the Roman said:
“It would have been even less right in such a night as this to let you
proceed to one of the temples with out my escort than to have let our
poor friend remain unwatched.”
“Once more I assure you,” said Klea eagerly “that we should have thrown
away every chance of fulfilling Serapion’s last wish as he intended, if
during our absence a jackal or a hyena had mutilated his body, and I
am happy to be able at least to prove to my friend, now he is dead, how
grateful I am for all the kindness he showed us while he lived. We ought
to be grateful even to the departed, for how still and blissful has
this hour been while guarding his body. Storm and strife brought us
together--”
“And here,” interrupted Publius, “we have concluded a happy and
permanent treaty of peace for the rest of our lives.”
“I accept it willingly,” replied Klea, looking down, “for I am the
vanquished party.”
“But you have already confessed,” said Publius, “that you were never so
unhappy as when you thought you had asserted your strength against
mine, and I can tell you that you never seemed to me so great and yet so
lovable as when in the midst of your triumph, you gave up the battle for
lost. Such an hour as that, a man experiences but once in his lifetime.
I have a good memory, but if ever I should forget it, and be angry and
passionate--as is sometimes my way--remind me of this spot, or of this
our dead friend, and my hard mood will melt, and I shall remember that
you once were ready to give your life for mine. I will make it easy for
you, for in honor of this man, who sacrificed his life for yours and who
was actually murdered in my stead, I promise to add his name of Serapion
to my own, and I will confirm this vow in Rome. He has behaved to us as
a father, and it behoves me to reverence his memory as though I had been
his son. An obligation was always unendurable to me, and how I shall
ever make full restitution to you for what you have done for me this
night I do not yet know--and yet I should be ready and willing every
day and every hour to accept from you some new gift of love. ‘A debtor,’
says the proverb, ‘is half a prisoner,’ and so I must entreat you to
deal mercifully with your conquerer.”
He took her hand, stroked back the hair from her forehead, and touched
it lightly with his lips. Then he went on:
“Come with me now that we may commit the dead into the hands of these
priests.”
Klea once more bent over the remains of the anchorite, she hung the
amulet he had given her for her journey round his neck, and then
silently obeyed her lover. When they came up with the little procession
Publius informed the chief priest how he had found Serapion, and
requested him to fetch away the corpse, and to cause it to be prepared
for interment in the costliest manner in the embalming house attached
to their temple. Some of the temple-servants took their places to keep
watch over the body, and after many questions addressed to Publius, and
after examining too the body of the assassin who had been slain, the
priests returned to the temple.
As soon as the two lovers were left alone again Klea seized the Roman’s
hand, and said passionately: “You have spoken many tender words to me,
and I thank you for them; but I am wont always to be honest, and less
than any one could I deceive you. Whatever your love bestows upon me
will always be a free gift, since you owe me nothing at all and I owe
you infinitely much; for I know now that you have snatched my sister
from the clutches of the mightiest in the land while I, when I heard
that Irene had gone away with you, and that murder threatened your life,
believed implicitly that on the contrary you had lured the child away
to become your sweetheart, and then--then I hated you, and then--I must
confess it\--in my horrible distraction I wished you dead!”
“And you think that wish can offend me or hurt me?” said Publius. “No,
my child; it only proves to me that you love me as I could wish to be
loved. Such rage under such circumstances is but the dark shadow cast by
love, and is as inseparable from love as from any tangible body. Where
it is absent there is no such thing as real love present--only an airy
vision, a phantom, a mockery. Such an one as Klea does not love nor hate
by halves; but there are mysterious workings in your soul as in that of
every other woman. How did the wish that you could see me dead turn into
the fearful resolve to let yourself be killed in my stead?”
“I saw the murderers,” answered Klea, “and I was overwhelmed with horror
of them and of their schemes, and of all that had to do with them; I
would not destroy Irene’s happiness, and I loved you even more deeply
than I hated you; and then--but let us not speak of it.”
“Nay-tell me all.”
“Then there was a moment--”
“Well, Klea?”
“Then--in these last hours, while we have been sitting hand in hand by
the body of poor Serapion, and hardly speaking, I have felt it all over
again--then the midnight hymn of the priests fell upon my heart, and as
I lifted up my soul in prayer at their pious chant I felt as if all my
inmost heart had been frozen and hardened, and was reviving again to new
life and tenderness and warmth. I could not help thinking of all that
is good and right, and I made up my mind to sacrifice myself for you and
for Irene’s happiness far more quickly and easily than I could give it
up afterwards. My father was one of the followers of Zeno--”
“And you,” interrupted Publius, “thought you were acting in accordance
with the doctrine of the Stoa. I also am familiar with it, but I do not
know the man who is so virtuous and wise that he can live and act, as
that teaching prescribes, in the heat of the struggle of life, or who
is the living representative in flesh and blood of the whole code of
ethics, not sinning against one of its laws and embodying it in himself.
Did you ever hear of the peace of mind, the lofty indifference and
equanimity of the Stoic sages? You look as if the question offended you,
but you did not by any means know how to attain that magnanimity, for
I have seen you fail in it; indeed it is contrary to the very nature of
woman, and--the gods be thanked--you are not a Stoic in woman’s dress,
but a woman--a true woman, as you should be. You have learned nothing
from Zeno and Chrysippus but what any peasant girl might learn from an
honest father, to be true I mean and to love virtue. Be content with
that; I am more than satisfied.”
“Oh, Publius,” exclaimed the girl, grasping her friend’s hand. “I
understand you, and I know that you are right. A woman must be miserable
so long as she fancies herself strong, and imagines and feels that she
needs no other support than her own firm will and determination, no
other counsel than some wise doctrines which she accepts and adheres to.
Before I could call you mine, and went on my own way, proud of my own
virtue, I was--I cannot bear to think of it--but half a soul, and took
it for a whole; but now--if now fate were to snatch you from me, I
should still know where to seek the support on which I might lean in
need and despair. Not in the Stoa, not in herself can a woman find such
a stay, but in pious dependence on the help of the gods.”
“I am a man,” interrupted Publius, “and yet I sacrifice to them and
yield ready obedience to their decrees.”
“But,” cried Klea, “I saw yesterday in the temple of Serapis the meanest
things done by his ministers, and it pained me and disgusted me, and I
lost my hold on the divinity; but the extremest anguish and deepest love
have led me to find it again. I can no longer conceive of the power
that upholds the universe as without love nor of the love that makes men
happy as other than divine. Any one who has once prayed for a being they
love as I prayed for you in the desert can never again forget how to
pray. Such prayers indeed are not in vain. Even if no god can hear them
there is a strengthening virtue in such prayer itself.
“Now I will go contentedly back to our temple till you fetch me, for I
know that the discreetest, wisest, and kindest Beings will watch over
our love.”
“You will not accompany me to Apollodorus and Irene?” asked Publius in
surprise.
“No,” answered Klea firmly. “Rather take me back to the Serapeum. I have
not yet been released from the duties I undertook there, and it will be
more worthy of us both that Asclepiodorus should give you the daughter
of Philotas as your wife than that you should be married to a runaway
serving-maid of Serapis.”
Publius considered for a moment, and then he said eagerly:
“Still I would rather you should come with me. You must be dreadfully
tired, but I could take you on my mule to Apollodorus. I care little for
what men say of me when I am sure I am doing right, and I shall know how
to protect you against Euergetes whether you wish to be readmitted to
the temple or accompany me to the sculptor. But do come--it will be hard
on me to part from you again. The victor does not lay aside the crown
when he has just won it in hard fight.”
“Still I entreat you to take me back to the Serapeum,” said Klea, laying
her hand in that of Publius.
“Is the way to Memphis too long, are you utterly tired out?”
“I am much wearied by agitation and terror, by anxiety and happiness,
still I could very well bear the ride; but I beg of you to take me back
to the temple.”
“What--although you feel strong enough to remain with me, and in spite
of my desire to conduct you at once to Apollodorus and Irene?” asked
Publius astonished, and he withdrew his hand. “The mule is waiting out
there. Lean on my arm. Come and do as I request you.”
“No, Publius, no. You are my lord and master, and I will always obey you
unresistingly. In one thing only let me have my own way, now and in the
future. As to what becomes a woman I know better than you, it is a thing
that none but a woman can decide.”
Publius made no reply to these words, but he kissed her, and threw his
arm round her; and so, clasped in each other’s embrace, they reached the
gate of the Serapeum, there to part for a few hours.
Klea was let into the temple, and as soon as she had learned that little
Philo was much better, she threw herself on her humble bed.
How lonely her room seemed, how intolerably empty without Irene. In
obedience to a hasty impulse she quitted her own bed, lay herself down
on her sister’s, as if that brought her nearer to the absent girl, and
closed her eyes; but she was too much excited and too much exhausted to
sleep soundly. Swiftly-changing visions broke in again and again on her
sincerely devotional thoughts and her restless half-sleep, painting to
her fancy now wondrously bright images, and now most horrible ones--now
pictures of exquisite happiness, and again others of dismal melancholy.
And all the time she imagined she heard distant music and was being
rocked up and down by unseen hands.
Still the image of the Roman overpowered all the rest.
At last a refreshing sleep sealed her eyes more closely, and in her
dream she saw her lover’s house in Rolne, his stately father, his noble
mother--who seemed to her to bear a likeness to her own mother--and the
figures of a number of tall and dignified senators. She felt herself
much embarrassed among all these strangers, who looked enquiringly at
her, and then kindly held out their hands to her. Even the dignified
matron came to meet her with effusion, and clasped her to her breast;
but just as Publius had opened his to her and she flew to his heart,
and she fancied she could feel his lips pressed to hers, the woman, who
called her every morning, knocked at her door and awoke her.
This time she had been happy in her dream and would willingly have slept
again; but she forced herself to rise from her bed, and before the sun
was quite risen she was standing by the Well of the Sun and, not to
neglect her duty, she filled both the jars for the altar of the god.
Tired and half-overcome by sleep, she set the golden vessels in their
place, and sat down to rest at the foot of a pillar, while a priest
poured out the water she had brought, as a drink-offering on the ground.
It was now broad daylight as she looked out into the forecourt through
the many-pillared hall of the temple; the early sunlight played round
the columns, and its slanting rays, at this hour, fell through the tall
doorway far into the great hall which usually lay in twilight gloom.
The sacred spot looked very solemn in her eyes, sublime, and as it were
reconsecrated, and obeying an irresistible impulse she leaned against a
column, and lifting up her arms, and raising her eyes, she uttered her
thankfulness to the god for his loving kindness, and found but one thing
to pray for, namely that he would preserve Publius and Irene, and all
mankind, from sorrow and anxiety and deception.
She felt as if her heart had till now been benighted and dark, and had
just disclosed some latent light--as if it had been withered and dry,
and was now blossoming in fresh verdure and brightly-colored flowers.
To act virtuously is granted even to those who, relying on themselves.
earnestly strive to lead moral, just and honest lives; but the happy
union of virtue and pure inner happiness is solemnized only in the heart
which is able to seek and find a God--be it Serapis or Jehovah.
At the door of the forecourt Klea was met by Asclepiodorus, who desired
her to follow him. The high-priest had learned that she had secretly
quitted the temple: when she was alone with him in a quiet room he
asked her gravely and severely, why she had broken the laws and left
the sanctuary without his permission. Klea told him, that terror for
her sister had driven her to Memphis, and that she there had heard that
Publics Cornelius Scipio, the Roman who had taken up her father’s cause,
had saved Irene from king Euergetes, and placed her in safety, and that
then she had set out on her way home in the middle of the night.
The high-priest seemed pleased at her news, and when she proceeded to
inform him that Serapion had forsaken his cell out of anxiety for her,
and had met his death in the desert, he said:
“I knew all that, my child. May the gods forgive the recluse, and may
Serapis show him mercy in the other world in spite of his broken oath!
His destiny had to be fulfilled. You, child, were born under happier
stars than he, and it is within my power to let you go unpunished. This
I do willingly; and Klea, if my daughter Andromeda grows up, I can only
wish that she may resemble you; this is the highest praise that a father
can bestow on another man’s daughter. As head of this temple I command
you to fill your jars to-day, as usual, till one who is worthy of you
comes to me, and asks you for his wife. I suspect he will not be long to
wait for.”
“How do you know, father,--” asked Klea, coloring.
“I can read it in your eyes,” said Asclepiodorus, and he gazed kindly
after her as, at a sign from him, she quitted the room.
As soon as he was alone he sent for his secretary and said:
“King Philometor has commanded that his brother Euergetes’ birthday
shall be kept to-day in Memphis. Let all the standards be hoisted, and
the garlands of flowers which will presently arrive from Arsinoe be
fastened up on the pylons; have the animals brought in for sacrifice,
and arrange a procession for the afternoon. All the dwellers in the
temple must be carefully attired. But there is another thing; Komanus
has been here, and has promised us great things in Euergetes’ name, and
declares that he intends to punish his brother Philometor for having
abducted a girl--Irene--attached to our temple. At the same time he
requests me to send Klea the water-bearer, the sister of the girl who
was carried off, to Memphis to be examined--but this may be deferred.
For to-day we will close the temple gates, solemnize the festival among
ourselves, and allow no one to enter our precincts for sacrifice and
prayer till the fate of the sisters is made certain. If the kings
themselves make their appearance, and want to bring their troops in, we
will receive them respectfully as becomes us, but we will not give up
Klea, but consign her to the holy of holies, which even Euergetes
dare not enter without me; for in giving up the girl we sacrifice our
dignity, and with that ourselves.”
The secretary bowed, and then announced that two of the prophets of
Osiris-Apis desired to speak with Asclepiodorus.
Klea had met these men in the antechamber as she quitted the
high-priest, and had seen in the hand of one of them the key with which
she had opened the door of the rock-tomb. She had started, and her
conscience urged her to go at once to the priest-smith, and tell him how
ill she had fulfilled her errand.
When she entered his room Krates was sitting at his work with his feet
wrapped up, and he was rejoiced to see her, for his anxiety for her and
for Irene had disturbed his night’s rest, and towards morning his alarm
had been much increased by a frightful dream.
Klea, encouraged by the friendly welcome of the old man, who was usually
so surly, confessed that she had neglected to deliver the key to the
smith in the city, that she had used it to open the Apis-tombs, and had
then forgotten to take it out of the new lock. At this confession the
old man broke out violently, he flung his file, and the iron bolt at
which he was working, on to his work-table, exclaiming:
“And this is the way you executed your commission. It is the first time
I ever trusted a woman, and this is my reward! All this will bring evil
on you and on me, and when it is found out that the sanctuary of Apis
has been desecrated through my fault and yours, they will inflict all
sorts of penance on me, and with very good reason--as for you, they will
punish you with imprisonment and starvation.”
“And yet, father,” Klea calmly replied, “I feel perfectly guiltless,
and perhaps in the same fearful situation you might not have acted
differently.”
“You think so--you dare to believe such a thing?” stormed the old man.
“And if the key and perhaps even the lock have been stolen, and if I
have done all that beautiful and elaborate work in vain?”
“What thief would venture into the sacred tombs?” asked Klea doubtfully.
“What! are they so unapproachable?” interrupted Krates. “Why, a
miserable creature like you even dared to open them. But only wait--only
wait; if only my feet were not so painful--”
“Listen to me,” said the girl, going closer up to the indignant smith.
“You are discreet, as you proved to me only yesterday; and if I were to
tell you all I went through and endured last night you would certainly
forgive me, that I know.”
“If you are not altogether mistaken!” shouted the smith. “Those must be
strange things indeed which could induce me to let such neglect of duty
and such a misdemeanor pass unpunished.”
And strange things they were indeed which the old man now had to hear,
for when Klea had ended her narrative of all that had occurred during
the past night, not her eyes only but those of the old smith too were
wet with tears.
“These accursed legs!” he muttered, as his eyes met the enquiring glance
of the young girl, and he wiped the salt dew from his cheeks with the
sleeve of his coat. “Aye-a swelled foot like mine is painful, child, and
a cripple such as I am is not always strong-minded. Old women grow like
men, and old men grow like women. Ah! old age--it is bad to have such
feet as mine, but what is worse is that memory fades as years advance.
I believe now that I left the key myself in the door of the Apis-tombs
last evening, and I will send at once to Asclepiodorus, so that he may
beg the Egyptians up there to forgive me--they are indebted to me for
many small jobs.”