During the last week before the sailing of the ship, Charmides held one

or two long and serious talks with his father and brother. Theron, with

grave, undemonstrative affection, gave him good counsel and excellent

advice as to his dealings with men, and his behavior in various possible

situations with them. Theron was not a poor man, neither was he an

ungenerous one; and the bag of silver coins given the shepherd to carry

away with him contained enough to transport him to the gates of the

great city itself. Regarding the object of that journey, the father,

after the first morning, said not one word. He felt that Charmides knew

best what he intended to do; and it must be confessed that, despite his

piety and his reverence for the gods of his race, the Selinuntian felt

his credulity much taxed when it came to Istar, the living goddess of

Babylon, of whose existence Kabir was their single witness, and at that

a witness only at second hand, according to the Tyrian's own admission.

Phalaris shared his father's views on this point; but, to his credit be

it said, not the least suggestion of this feeling ever escaped him in

his brother's presence after Charmides' decision to go had been finally

and irrevocably made.

Kabir, in the mean time, found his admiration of the shepherd

increasing. Charmides now held many a talk with him on practical things,

and the Phoenician found his prospective companion by no means lacking in

common-sense. The young Greek very soon read enough of the other's

nature to realize that poetry and imagination held small places in his

category of desirable characteristics; and the young man ceased to lay

before the older one any pretty notions regarding sea-myths in which he

was indulging himself when contemplating the long, eastward voyage. Now

and then they spoke of Istar, and Tyre, and Babylon, which Kabir knew

well by hearsay. But legends of mischievous Tritons and dangerous

Sirens, of fair Nymphs and hideous sea-monsters, and stories of Delos

and Naxos, of Crete and Halicarnassus, the rhapsode kept for himself and

his lyre.

At length came the dawning of the last day of the shepherd's old life.

The galley was launched and ready to sail. Food and water were stowed

away on board; and the libations and sacrifices had taken place on the

beach the evening before. Now, on this last afternoon, Charmides sat

alone, a little way in front of the house, looking off upon the seas to

which, to-morrow, he was to trust himself for safe convoy to such

distant lands. It was a fair afternoon, and very warm. The rhapsode,

basking in the sunlight, felt his emotions dulled under the beauty

around him. His blue eyes wandered slowly over the familiar and yet

ever-changing scene. His mind was almost at rest. Indeed, his eyelids

had begun to droop with suspicious heaviness, when a gentle hand was

laid upon his shoulder, and he turned to find his mother at his side.

"Charmides!" she said, in a strained voice. And then again: "My

Charmides!"

"My mother!" And she was held close in his arms, her tears raining down

upon his face, his head drawn close upon her breast.

"Charmides! My boy, my beloved, my companion! How can I give thee up?"

The shepherd stood still and silent while her hands caressed his shining

hair and her breath came and went in a vain effort to re-establish her

self-control. After two or three minutes, in which his thoughts spun

dizzily, he took both her hands in his own and lifted them to his lips.

"Mother," he said, rather brokenly, "Apollo will forgive, will release

me from the vow. I will not go away. I will not leave thee here--alone."

He kissed the hand again. "Come with me to the temple of the god, and I

will absolve myself from the vow."

Heraia drew the boy still closer, and put her lips to the hair that

clustered about his ear. "The gods bless thee, my dear one. Apollo will

hardly forgive my weakness. Nay, Charmides, I did not come here to

grieve over you, but to talk with you on many things that a mother has

in her heart to say to her children. Let us sit here together and look

off upon the sea--the sea that I must hereafter watch alone."

Thus speaking, she drew him down upon the ground beside her, into one of

the daisy drifts, and they sat in silence for a little, looking off

together over the far expanse of shimmering blue, with the turquoise

horizon-line melting into the still bluer tint of the sky above. And

when Heraia began again to talk, her tone was so low and so even that

the words seemed to her listener to mingle with the afternoon, becoming

at length so entirely a part of their surroundings that in his memory of

the scene, as his mind held it in later years, her voice was forever

accompanied by the shining of bright waters and the faint fragrance of

the carpet of flowers surrounding her.

"Your father, my Charmides, has talked with you of your long and lonely

journey, of men, the ways of men, and your dealings with them. Obey his

wishes in all these things, for his advice is that of one who has lived

long and wisely in the world. But I, dear son, must speak to you in

another way, of things which, were you not as you are, I should not

mention before you. But you are young, and you are very pure; and your

nature, with its hidden joys and hidden woe, I understand through my

own.

"Your face and form, my Charmides, are beautiful--more beautiful and

more strange than those of any man I have ever seen." She paused for a

moment to look wistfully into that face, with its golden frame of hair,

while the boy, astonished and displeased, muttered, resentfully:

"My face is that of a woman!"

His mother smiled at his disgust. "Nay, child, thy face has the man in

it most plainly written. There is in it what women love--and it is of

this that I would speak.

"Excepting myself, Charmides, you have known no woman well; and the

feeling of a man for his mother is never his feeling for any other

of her sex. Woman's nature is as yet, I think, closed to your

understanding. In this long journey upon which you are faring forth, I

do not doubt that you will encounter women, more than one, who will seek

you for the beauty of your face. For women love beauty in men, as men

desire it in them.

"In your connection with women, whether the acquaintance be of their

seeking or of yours, remember this one thing, that I most firmly

believe: All women, all in the world, of any land, I think, have in them

two natures--one that is evil, and one that is good. It will rest with

you alone which one you choose to look upon. For there is no woman so

degraded, so lost to virtue, that she cannot remember a time of purity

which you can reawaken in her. And there is no woman so good that, for

the man she truly loves with her heart and with her soul, she will not

fall; for so men have taught them, through the ages, to love. Therefore,

my son, may the greatest of all humiliations come upon you if, knowing

what I say to be true, you treat any woman with other than reverence and

honor. For a woman who clings in dishonor to the man she loves is not to

be blamed by the gods so much as the man she has trusted. For a man is

strong and should have control over all his senses; but to a woman love

is life; and it is decreed that life is all in all to us.

"Yours, Charmides, is a white soul, a soul as beautiful as the body that

holds it. As yet it is unspotted by a single act of wrong-doing. That

you keep that soul pure throughout your life is my one prayer for you. I

give you up to the wide world--to poverty, to wretchedness, to suffering

perhaps--but in this I trust you to keep faith with me. Remember that I

hold your honor as my own. Though Apollo may not vouchsafe that I see

you again after to-morrow--ever; though the memory of me shall grow dim

in your after-life; yet remember--strive to remember always--my last

words, spoken out of my great, my aching love for you. For in these

words my motherhood reaches its end. Your manhood has begun."

She kept her voice steady, her tears from falling, till the end. Not so

the boy. When the last word had left her lips and she had bowed her head

under her weight of sorrow, Charmides could not speak for the straining

of his throat; and his eyes, brimming with salt tears, looked blindly

upon the flushing clouds. For many minutes they were silent, sitting

together for the last time, while the sunset hour drew on and the golden

shadows fell athwart the daisies, and Heraia's words sank deeper into

the shepherd's heart. Finally they rose, and moved, hand in hand, in the

deepening twilight, back through the field to Theron's house. There

Charmides passed once more through the door-way of his youth.

The evening was long and very sad. After the forlorn supper the little

group sat close together, saying little, yet loath to make a proposal of

bed, for it had come home poignantly to all of them how very empty life

would seem with Charmides taken away. After a time Kabir thoughtfully

left them and went out to walk alone in the starlight. Then the two

slaves, Doris and Sardeis, crept in and seated themselves in a distant

corner of the living-room. Doris' wide eyes were tinged with red, and

her mien was as dejected as Heraia's; for Charmides had been her comrade

always. He had helped her in her tasks, had sung his shepherd songs to

her from the fields, had not seldom procured pardon for her for some

neglect of duty. And Sardeis, the skilful but rather churlish slave, who

hated Phalaris and all his ways, and treated Theron with respect only

because it meant a whipping if he failed to do so, had never once

objected in his own heart to taking Charmides' flock from him as often

as the youth desired lazy freedom, or to performing numberless little

kindnesses for him that no beating could have drawn forth for the

athlete. He, too, on this eve of the boy's departure, was beyond speech.

After nearly an hour of cheerless silence, Phalaris, with a desperate

effort to relieve the general strain, brought out his brother's lyre and

put it into Charmides' hands. There was a little repressed sob from

Heraia, but the rhapsode's face brightened. For a few seconds he

lovingly fingered the instrument. Then, lifting up his voice, he sang a

song to the sea, a quaintly rhymed little melody, in his invariable

minor. Finishing it, he began again, improvising as he went, with an

ease and carelessness that produced wonderfully happy combinations. Now,

as always, he found consolation for every grief in his incomparable

talent. And when, after a last merry little tune that rose continually

from its first tones till it ran out of his range at the end, he finally

put the instrument away, Heraia and the slave alike had ceased to weep,

Phalaris was smiling, and Theron rose cheerfully:

"Now, Charmides, you must rise at dawn; therefore I bid you go to rest.

Be up with the earliest light, and I will go with you to the temple,

where, before Archemides, you will renew your vow and offer sacrifice of

the youngest lamb in our fold. Kabir will join us there after the

service is ended, and with him you will go down to the ship. Good-night.

The gods grant you sleep."

Before Charmides had left the room Kabir came in again, and presently

went off to his couch with the brothers.

Charmides' rest was broken, filled with dreams of far countries and with

uncertain visions of her whom he was to seek. Disconnected sounds of

music, bells, and phrases of charmed melody rang through his

unconsciousness. Only in the last hour before dawn did he sink into

untroubled slumber, from which, with the first glimmer of day, he rose.

His mind was at rest, his heart filled with peace in the inward

knowledge that what he was going forth alone to seek was no chimera, but

a marvellous reality. It was, then, with a great, confident joy written

upon his face that, at the rising of the sun, he stood before the altar

of Apollo, and, in the presence of Archemides, the high-priest,

surrounded by his father, brother, and the elders of Selinous, renewed

his solemn vow and offered prayer and sacrifice to the Olympian of the

Silver Bow.

The hour following the ceremony was painful enough. As the boy looked

back upon it afterwards, it was only a haze of tears, filled with his

mother's incoherent words, his father's irrelevant advice, Phalaris'

poor attempts at laughing at the rest: all of these things finally

ending in a choked prayer and kiss from Heraia. Her last embrace, given

as they stood upon the shore beside the little boat that was to row him

out to the galley, sent a sharp pang through his heart. He knew that his

father gently loosened her arms from his neck. He had a decided memory

of the last mighty grip of Phalaris' fingers. Then he and the Phoenician,

each with his bundle of clothes and money, stepped into the boat and

were pulled over the smooth waters to the side of the _Fish of Tyre_,

resplendent in her new rigging and furnishing.

They were the last to go on board. Eshmun awaited them anxiously,

wishing to get away at once, into the fresh easterly breeze that was

bellying out the ready-hoisted sail. Thus the pain of lingering in sight

of the city, his home, was not protracted for the rhapsode. Ten minutes

after he had stepped upon the deck of the ship her anchor was weighed,

the tiller was pushed hard down, the sails sprang full, and the shore

and rocky heights of the Greek city began slowly to recede from view.

Now came, for Charmides, twelve days of pure delight. He was alive and

he was living upon the sea, that moving plain, every aspect of which was

one of new beauty. From dawn to dusk, and back again in dreams to dawn,

he fed his mind upon the all-abiding peace, the stillness made more

still by the music of the ripples. Perfect freedom was his. He was as in

the very centre of the world, the sea around him unbroken, as far as eye

could reach, or perhaps some low-hanging, faintly olive-green cloud that

others called an island, just touching the distant horizon-line, west or

south. It was here and now, only, that the image of Istar, as he

conceived her, took absolute possession of his soul. By day he walked

with her, by night she watched over his light sleep. He talked to her,

believing that she answered him. He sang to her and dreamed of her and

prayed to her as something especially his own. Yet, near as was this

image of his mind, Charmides never looked straight upon her face

unveiled. Dimly, many times, he conjured up her features. Her eyes shone

upon him out of the spangled night, but their color he did not know. Her

cheek, smooth, warm, semi-transparent, tinted as the petal of the

asphodel, was near his lips, but never desecrated by them. And while she

thus moved near him, drawing him onward with intenser desire towards her

far abiding-place, she was forever the goddess, in that she kept him

always from all desire of a more human approach than this mystic,

half-mental companionship.

During the voyage the sailors regarded Charmides with a curiosity tinged

with dislike. Eshmun himself was at a loss to comprehend the unsociable

and idle existence of the youth, who lay all day long on the high stern,

under the awning, singing to his lyre and watching the sea. And Kabir

passed a good deal of time studying this intense phase of the shepherd's

malady, and seeking to think out its cure. Considering the trader's

eminent practicality, he conceived, with remarkable penetration, the

workings of a poetically unbalanced mind. Only he, out of all the ship's

company, cared to listen to the rhapsode's music. Only he lay awake by

night to listen to and piece together the strange words that Charmides

spoke in his sleep. But even he, it must be confessed, did not respect

the effeminate romance that could lead a grown man into such ecstasies

over a divine ideal.

The _Fish of Tyre_ took her course down the high coast of southern

Sicily, halting once at Akragas and again at the easternmost point,

Syracuse, where more water was taken on, and purchase made of a number

of jars of a rosier, sweeter liquid. Then away to sea they sailed again,

southward, round the heel of Italy, and north once more to the shores of

Mother Greece herself, stopping finally at many-storied Crete, where the

long sand-stretches on the coast yielded every year to the Phoenicians a

store of their wonderful little dye-mollusks. Leaving the city of tyrant

kings, the galley entered upon the waters that formed a setting for

those jewels of the Mediterranean, the Grecian Isles, that rose like so

many emeralds upon their amethystine waters, shot with gold by day,

lying dim and murmurous by night under the dome of lapis-lazuli pricked

with diamond stars. The galley, homeward bound, carrying her burden of

homesick men, made no halt between Crete and Cyprus, which last was, to

Tyrians, a second home. Charmides witnessed, with a little tug at his

heart-strings, the great joy of his comrades, even Kabir and Eshmun, at

once more beholding the familiar shores. A night was spent in the

Karchenian harbor, for it was but one day's journey now to Tyre herself.

During that last night, while they were at anchor, Charmides, in his

accustomed place on the deck, lay wide awake. The moon, half-grown, set

about midnight over the land. The night was still and sweet, and the air

warm with approaching summer. The planets shone like little moons, more

radiant than Charmides had ever known them before. Now and then, from

the town on shore, came the baying of a dog. The Greek's heart swelled

with a painful longing that he could not define. It was the first twinge

of homesickness, the first realization of the greatness of the world

around him, and his own insignificance within it. Istar, the goddess,

might indeed be near him; but the shepherd longed less for divinity than

for the clasp of a warm human hand upon his own.

It was better when the dawn, red-robed, came up out of the east. There

was a bustle of sailors on deck, a creaking of ropes, and a flapping of

sail-cloth. Then came the hoarse shouts of Sydyk, rousing the slaves

from their chained slumber, bidding them bend cheerily to their oars,

for the end of their eight months of agony and toil was near its end.

The little ship sped out of the friendly harbor, gallantly distancing

the waves, sending forth two hissing curls of foam off her prow, her

rudder cutting a deep, pale line in the smooth wake. As the morning star

died on the crimson of the east, the breeze freshened. The whole long

horizon was shot with rosy clouds and topped by a line of gold that

paled into delicate green as it melted towards the fair blue of the

upper sky, in which the white stars had now long since hidden themselves

away.

Charmides let his lyre rest as he stood by one of the bulwarks watching

a bird float away from the ship, back towards the receding Cyprenian

shore. Presently Kabir came to join him, and the two sat down together,

cross-legged, on the deck. In one hand the Phoenician had brought a

platter of cooked fish and some bread, while in the other he had a small

jar of sweet wine.

"Food, my poet; food for the morning. Pray Apollo to make it sweet."

"You should be returning thanks to Melkart and Baal for the approaching

end of the voyage," returned the Greek, speaking Phoenician in rather a

subdued voice.

Kabir smiled to himself, but made no answer other than to hold out food

to Charmides, who helped himself not too bountifully. The rhapsode,

indeed, was in danger of falling into a melancholy reverie at this the

very beginning of the day. But, after ten minutes' silence, his

self-appointed friend fortunately broke in upon him.

"Aphrodite's rites you practise, Charmides. Istar of the Babylonians you

have come to seek. But our Nature goddess, our divinity of fertility and

beauty, you know nothing of. In Tyre, before you move farther to the

east, you must let me show you how we are accustomed to worship

Ashtoreth. Across the bay, on the mainland opposite the great Sidonian

harbor, she has a vast sanctuary. We shall go there together, you and I,

and you shall learn--" Kabir stopped speaking, and regarded the boy

contemplatively.

"Learn--what?" asked Charmides, turning towards him slightly.

"Many things, Charmides, that it will be well for you to know. Will you

drink of this? And there is new bread, also."

But the Greek refused more food, and was not sufficiently interested in

the conversation begun to question Kabir further on the things that he

should learn. The sun was rising now--a great, fiery wheel, burnished

and dripping, sending its rays of dazzling drops high up the curved way,

while it came on more slowly, more surely, till it rolled clear of the

horizon, in a cloud of glorious, blinding flame.

Charmides prayed silently till the day was well begun, and sea and sky

were resolved into their ordinary hues of blue and white and gold. Then,

Kabir having gone again, the rhapsode, spent with his wakeful night, and

sorrowful at heart with longing for his distant home, lay down upon the

planks and slept. It was near noon when he woke again; and over all the

ship one could feel the vibrations of excitement at thought of the

nearness of Tyre, the home city. It should show along the horizon by

sunset, and for that hour every soul on board was eagerly, impatiently

waiting.

To Charmides, standing forlornly near the prow, it appeared, at last, in

a dream-like mist of scarlet and gold. Rushing water and green eddies

and that marvellous, blinding haze mingled together and melted away to

make room for the long-dreamed-of cloud picture that rose, like a

conjured vision, out of the east. It was a mirrored city of white walls

and drooping cypress-trees that stood far out in front of the gradually

heightening coast-line behind them. It was Tyre, the city of the rising

sun, viewed thus for the first time at the day's end. It was the gate of

the new world. Charmides had stood long before its closed door, waiting,

watching for admittance. Now, at last, the key was in his hand.

"It is fair, my home," observed Kabir, coming to stand at his shoulder,

his tone fraught with suppressed joy and pride.

Charmides assented quietly. "Oh yes, Kabir. It is, indeed, fair.

Very--fair."

IV

ASHTORETH

Not until an hour after sunset did Charmides at last set foot on shore

and stand, in the dim evening crimson, on the western strand of the

island city. His bundle of clothing and money was on his back. His lyre

hung from his waist by a thong; and on his head, over its usual fillet,

he wore a peaked cap of crimson cloth, cut after the Tyrian fashion. He

was waiting for Kabir, who lingered to indulge in a round of chaff with

half a dozen loquacious fellows on a small barge that was just about to

put off for the galley. Kabir had, in the friendliest way, invited the

shepherd to share his own lodging at the house of his brother in the

city; but, notwithstanding this, the rhapsode felt forlorn enough as he

stood looking out across the darkening waters in the direction of his

home. It was a sudden and most untoward emotion that made the Greek

blind to his appearance when Kabir finally came to his side. For not

till the Phoenician's hand fell upon his shoulder, and the rather raucous

voice sounded close in his ear, did Charmides turn, with a start, to

follow his guide out into the streets of Tyre.

They were narrow, these streets, and twisting, and very dirty. Moreover,

though the business of the day was finished, the thoroughfares were

still a wriggling mass of litters, chariots, camels, asses, dogs, and

men. Charmides slipped through patches of filth, and stumbled over

animals that lay in his path, while he looked about him in dull

displeasure at the buildings of stone and clay-brick and dried mud,

sumptuous or wretched beyond belief, that lined these lanes. On all

sides rose the clamor of rude, Phoenician voices and the mouthing of

ungraceful words. Here and there a fire of sticks, burning in some

court-yard and visible through an open door-way, cast an uncertain light

across their path. Kabir walked rapidly, and in silence. His momentary

feeling of excitement at being again in his native city had passed, and

he had regained his usual placid indifference--the indifference that

Charmides before now had found unexpectedly sympathetic.

After nearly half an hour's walk the Phoenician halted before a very

fair-sized wooden house, and, knocking ponderously upon the closed,

brass-bound door, turned to Charmides with a slight smile, saying:

"It is the house of my brother, where I, also, make my home when I am

here. You will be welcome in my family."

Charmides had no time to make a fitting reply, for the door was quickly

opened by some one who, after peering for a moment or two into the

darkness at the waiting figures, gave a sudden, loud shout of delight

and seized Kabir by the girdle. For the next ten minutes the young Greek

stood in the background, watching the general mêlée that ensued upon the

shout. Four children, besides the half-grown boy who had opened

the door, made a speedy appearance; and they were followed by a

quiet-looking woman who manifested extreme pleasure at sight of Kabir.

Finally, out of the gloom of the interior, drawn by the hubbub of

excitement at the door, appeared a dignified and well-dressed man, who,

on perceiving Kabir, gave a quick exclamation, and, brushing away the

clinging children, embraced his brother with every sign of delighted

affection.

Half an hour later the whole party were seated in a well-furnished room,

Charmides and Kabir partaking of supper, while the Phoenicians sat close

about them, listening eagerly to the story of the long voyage, the

disaster on the rocks of Selinous, and the account of Charmides and his

family.

"So you fare on to Babylon, stranger?" observed Abdosir, Kabir's

brother. "It is well that you reached Tyre no later. The last caravan of

the summer leaves for the East in three days, under charge"--he turned

to his brother--"under charge of Hodo, whom you, Kabir, will surely

remember. A month ago he came up from the great city, has now finished

his business, and returns homeward by way of Damascus. The Greek will do

well in his care."

"Yes, that is excellent.--Hodo! One could have asked no better master of

the caravan." Kabir turned to Charmides with a smile; but the youth sat

silent, his eyes still fixed on the face of Abdosir, his expression

containing little enough of joy.

"You have heard what my brother says," continued Kabir, in Greek. "This

Hodo is a Babylonian, and well known to us. He is a shrewd merchant and

an excellent comrade. We will recommend you to him to-morrow. If your

caravan starts in three days' time you will reach the city of Istar

easily enough in another month."

Charmides tried hard to answer this speech in a proper spirit, but he

found it an effort to speak at all. At the present moment the only wish

of his heart was that any communication with distant Babylon might be

found impossible, and that he himself might be at liberty to turn his

face once more to the west. Perhaps this mood was partly induced by

weariness. If so, Kabir knew his companion better than the Greek knew

himself; for, after finishing their meat and wine, and talking for a few

minutes with his nephews and nieces, Kabir quietly suggested to his

sister-in-law that the Greek be shown a sleeping-apartment to which he

might retire when he would, which proved to be immediately.

The room in which Charmides finally fell asleep was one that boasted of

greater luxury than he had ever known before. Walled with painted tiles,

hung with embroideries, carpeted with rugs from far Eastern looms, and

lighted by a hanging-lamp of wrought bronze, it presented to the Greek

an appearance of comfort that drew from him a long sigh of content; and

he sank to sleep on the soft couch with the name of Zeus on his lips and

the image of his mother in his heart.

He awoke alone. Kabir's bed, across the room, had been slept on, but was

empty now. The daylight about him was dim enough, but the half-light

gave no hint of the hour; for the single window in the room was scarcely

so large as a man's hand. Sounds of life were to be heard in the city

outside, and from the house around him. Once really awake, then, and

conscious of his whereabouts, Charmides rose in haste, dressed, smoothed

his hair, looked for water but found none, and proceeded with some

hesitation into the living-room. This he found to be occupied only by

one of the children, a little girl, who greeted him shyly, and bade him

eat of the food that had been left for him upon the table. Charmides, as

timid as the child, forbore to ask for the water without which he felt

it impious to begin the day, and sat down, as he was bid, to a repast of

millet bread, buffalo milk, and lentils. These things he finished, to

the satisfaction of the little Phoenician, and then looked about him

wondering what to do. It was evidently late. By a question or two he

learned that Kabir and Abdosir had been gone from the house for an hour

or more, that Zarada was out on a visit, and that, in all probability,

it would be noon before any one returned to the house. With this

knowledge Charmides sought his mantle and cap, and went forth into the

city to learn something of Tyre for himself.

Tyre by daylight was no less unlovely but rather more interesting than

Tyre at night. Charmides, accustomed to the well-ordered dignity of life

in his distant Doric city, was amazed and bewildered here, in the midst

of this labyrinth of narrow streets choked with men and animals. Having

some idea of direction, he felt no dread of losing his way, but wandered

on at will, hurried and pushed from one side of a street to the other,

always too diverted by what he saw to resent the interferences. He

chanced presently on a broader thoroughfare, one fairly well kept,

stretching in a straight line from north to south. This, as he guessed,

was the principal street of the city, terminating, as he could not know,

on the north, in the great agenorium, or open mart, east of the Sidonian

harbor, and, on the south, in the grove and temple of Melkart. Charmides

moved along up this street, admiring the solid stone buildings that

lined it on either side; watching the graceful chariots drawn by richly

caparisoned horses, and driven by men who, from their dress, were

evidently rulers in the oligarchy; and constantly annoyed by the

importunities of beggars or venders of cheap wares that were to be found

everywhere through the city, but most of all on this street. He had

walked farther than he knew, for at length he came in sight of the sea

that stretched out before him from the other side of a great, open

square running down to the water's edge.

Open square it had been, no doubt, at the time of its planning; but, in

all probability, since the day of completion, no one had ever seen it

empty. Just now, certainly, there was not a spare foot of pavement in

its entire area, and Charmides looked about him with the wonderment and

pleasure of a child. Directly before him were the shoe and sandal

venders, who occupied about a quarter of an acre of space. Shoes were an

article that Charmides had never seen worn. Their purpose was easy to

divine, however, and he fell to admiring the cleverness of their

invention and the beauty of their ornamentation. Beyond this interesting

spot came the silk and cloth merchants, then the leather venders, brass

and metal workers, and dealers in Egyptian and Sidonian jewelry. To the

left of these was the market, where grain, fish, fruits, meat, and wines

were to be had; while down the whole eastern edge of the space lay a row

of dirty, supercilious-looking camels, half of them for sale, half of

them owned by sellers in the mart.

Charmides had not yet begun to thread a path through the tangle of men

and merchandise when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to find

Kabir at his side.

"So you are here, my Charmides! Have you come to seek us out? Who

directed you hither?"

"I came by chance to this place, not knowing you were here. It is

wonderful! I have not seen anything like it before."

"No. Selinous certainly has no such place. Here, indeed, we are well

met. Desert needs of yours may be supplied before we leave the market.

Now, Charmides, you must be made known to him who will lead you farther

into the East. Hodo the Babylonian is with me. Hodo! Here!"

Kabir looked round and beckoned to a little fellow who had left him to

examine the goods of a cloth merchant near by. At Kabir's call, however,

he turned, and, seeing Charmides, came over to his friend's side.

Charmides beheld a small man, hardly five feet high, swathed from head

to heels in white garments of rich texture. Well as they were worn,

however, they could not conceal the semi-deformity of the little fellow.

He was altogether crooked: crooked in his legs, in his back, in his

nose, in his expression--an ugly little man with an ugly little face

that had in it a singularly infectious gleam of humor.

Hodo looked at Charmides, and his ugliness gathered and broke into a

delighted smile that transformed every feature of his face. Charmides

looked at Hodo and could not refrain from answering the smile with a gay

laugh. Thenceforward Hodo felt that he had Charmides for a friend.

"Now, Theronides, Hodo will go with us into the mart here and will tell

us what you need for the desert journey, that we may buy."

"But what things should I need? I have all necessary garments, as many

as I can carry with me, now."

"What to wear on the head for dust?" demanded Hodo, speaking Phoenician

in a deep and rather rich voice.

"This cap--and my fillet. In the heat I shall not need even those."

"Hump!" Hodo grinned, crookedly. "I have crossed the desert nineteen

times, young Greek, and I will tell you what you must wear. See--you are

a yellow man, and your skin is as thin as a Phrygian's, while mine is

like leather. Your hair is too fine to shield you at all from the fierce

rays of Shamash. There must be a square of silk to wind about your head,

and two thicknesses of muslin to protect your neck in the back. Then, if

you think me versed in desert knowledge, you will leave off that short

tunic and get a single linen garment that will cover you down to your

heels. You will want a light cloak, perhaps, for night, for comfort; but

you will not often wear it. The rains are over. Summer is upon us. None

will suffer from cold upon the desert."

Charmides listened closely to this speech, yet was not able to

understand all that the Babylonian said, for he spoke Phoenician as

thickly as a Phoenician spoke Greek. The rhapsode, therefore, turned

appealingly to Kabir, who explained the words at length; and then,

Charmides having very sensibly put himself into Hodo's hands, the three

proceeded to make the necessary purchases, for which Kabir paid, while

Charmides repaid him from his bag at Kabir's abode. On their return walk

Charmides questioned Hodo as to when and whence their caravan was to

start, and he found that it would be but two days before men and camels

assembled on the mainland, in a little square opposite the Egyptian

harbor.

"And we do not go straight to Babylon?"

"As straight as will be well in this season. Damascus first, then out

and over the desert. It is the easiest route--twenty days' ride from the

gate of Six Thieves."

"And you come now from Babylon?"

"Two months ago I was there, Greek. Kabir knoweth it."

Charmides nodded apologetically and said no more. Kabir watched for the

light to come into his eyes, and waited for a certain question. But the

youth kept silent, and, after a pause, the Babylonian took the words out

of Kabir's mouth and rushed in upon the young man's thoughts.

"It is said, Greek, that you take this long journey for the sake of our

goddess, the lady Istar, queen of the gods of Babylon."

Kabir kept his eyes fixed on those of Charmides, but failed to see any

interest come into the youth's expression. Instead, a frown spread

itself over the fair forehead, and the young mouth straightened

ominously.

"The object of my journey matters little," was his low-voiced reply.

Hodo's eyes stretched open. He sent a grimace of astonishment to Kabir,

and silence followed Charmides' last words. The three walked on

uncomfortably, till there came sounds of a surprising chuckle from the

Babylonian, who, as both his companions turned towards him, exclaimed,

irrepressibly:

"The thought of Ishtar brings me to another. Kabir--to-morrow, I

remember, is the day of the semi-yearly rites of Ashtoreth--at her

sanctuary on the mainland."

For a second or two Kabir did not reply. He was musing--on a subject

relative to Charmides' girlish purity. Finally he said: "Yes. The yearly

festival of Tammuz took place a month ago. To-morrow is the festival of

the virgin rites. We will go--all three. You, Charmides, shall see the

ceremonies of our Aphrodite, Astarte of the Mazzarines. She is our

Tyrian Istar."

Charmides looked at him with new animation. "Do they offer sacrifice?"

"Yes--in the grove--doves and lambs, and one young bullock. But the real

ceremony takes place within the temple. Knowing but little of our

Eastern customs, you will do well to see that."

Charmides nodded acquiescence, and Hodo chuckled to himself again. But

the silence that followed lasted till they had once more reached the

house of Abdosir.

During the remainder of that day Charmides made no remark on the subject

of the amusement promised for the morrow. Kabir tried to draw him to it

by talking of the great temples of Melkart, Baal, and the Olympian Zeus

that were on the island. But Charmides seemed to be developing a

surprising and unnecessary taciturnity, for which the Phoenician,

regarding him as extraordinarily young, would hardly have given him

credit; and, before the evening was over, Kabir was moved to consider, a

little more closely, how much depth of character really lay behind that

open and ingenuous personality.

As a matter of fact, Charmides' silence was the result of a chance

remembrance of his last talk with his mother, mingled with a prophetic

intuition of what the morrow would bring forth. When the morrow arrived,

however, and Hodo, gay in red embroideries, came with it, Charmides

appeared in his holiday garments, and seemed as ready as his companions

to set forth to the holy place.

The grove and temple of Ashtoreth, or Astarte, of Tyre, were outside the

city proper, and lay on the mainland, south of the Egyptian harbor. From

the spot where ferry-boats left one after the passage of the narrow

channel, there was a walk of nearly a mile southward to the entrance of

the grove. This was marked by open gates and two ill-carved stone

statues, the subjects of which Charmides regarded with haughty

displeasure. His first impression, however, was ameliorated by the great

beauty of the wood, where cedar and cypress trees grew at will, while

the shaded ground was kept clear of leaves and brush, and was covered

with a rare velvet turf. The coolness and shade to be found beneath the

great branches, after the pitiless sunshine through which they had been

walking, was delicious; and the Greek would willingly have given the

afternoon to wandering here, watching the golden shadows and exploring

the sinuous paths that wound everywhere before him. He did not, however,

venture to suggest this course. There was now a stream of men passing

and following them to the temple. Hodo was half running in his

eagerness, and Kabir himself had perceptibly quickened his pace. Neither

of them spoke, and the Greek was free to watch the people around him, to

marvel at the richness of their garments, the profusion of their

jewelry, and the extreme animation of their faces. He caught glimpses,

also, of three stone altars, carved in indistinguishable bas-relief,

covered with offerings, and attended by yellow-robed priestesses, with

whom, indeed, the way to the temple was thronged. It was ten minutes'

walk from the entrance of the grove before the temple itself was

reached.

A broad, low, badly proportioned building of stone, colonnaded with

pillars of Assyrian design and startlingly disagreeable to the Greek

eye, frieze and pediment carved with gross caricatures of the Phoenician

pantheon, and a sloping, square door-way of Egyptian style, was the

sight that met Charmides' eyes--the far-famed sanctuary of Ashtoreth of

Tyre. The crowd of men assembling at this door-way from every part of

the grove made it necessary to wait one's turn before entering. Hodo,

Kabir, and Charmides had difficulty in keeping together in the crush,

but finally found themselves inside.

Here was darkness, odorous with stale incense, dotted with glimmering

lights, moving with men. Once within, Kabir and Hodo performed some

prostrations and muttered a prayer or two, to the words of which

Charmides listened rather blankly. Then the three of them passed from

the entrance hall into the great room of the temple. This was lighted

from the roof by hundreds of swinging lamps; and, Charmides' eyes having

become accustomed to the softened light, he was able to see everything

distinctly.

The entire company of spectators halted at the upper end of the room.

Opposite them, in the farther wall, was the shrine of the goddess, in

which her statue stood. About this shrine hung bronze lamps of beautiful

workmanship, in which burned perfumed oil and frankincense. In front of

the shrine, which was paved with African marble, was a slab of smooth

granite, eight feet long, six broad, and about four in height. Around

this knelt a company of priestesses, all but one of whom were robed in

yellow. The one, whose bowed head could hardly be seen, was clad in a

single garment of white veiling; and her hair, unbound, fell in a brown

curtain to the floor on either side of her. Charmides, taking his eyes

from the group of worshippers, looked again around the room. About it,

built into the walls behind the pillars, were half a hundred dim niches,

shadowy, unlighted, of indeterminable depth, the purpose of which he

failed to divine. Except for these, the pillars, the shrine, and the

altar, there was nothing to look at in the room, for the walls were bare

of inscriptions, and there were no other statues than the one of

Ashtoreth in her sanctum.

This survey finished, Charmides turned all his attentions to the group

of priestesses at the end of the room. They were now chanting aloud;

and, from the restlessness among the company of men, Charmides decided

that the ceremony was approaching a point of interest. Presently Kabir

seized his hand and the two of them followed in the wake of Hodo, who

was eagerly forcing a passage into the front rank.

All those in the first row were, whether by chance or design Charmides

could not know, young, more or less comely, and dressed with extreme

elegance. As the rhapsode gained his new position he felt upon him the

eyes of half the company; and not a few whispers relative to his fair

skin and his fine physique reached his ears. His speculation as to the

reason for this was presently forgotten, however, for the women down the

room had formed into a semicircular phalanx, in the very centre of which

stood the white-robed, unveiled girl. Then, to the sound of a

processional chant, all of them began a slow advance up the hall towards

the orderly ranks of men. The Greek caught a new order of whispers, now,

that rose about him on all sides. Of these he understood here and there

a phrase: "Beautiful this time!" "Her hair is her veil!" "Ashtoreth will

that she choose me!" "Baal did well to let her come!" And then, as the

chant ended and the women halted ten feet from the front row of men,

every sound ceased. After a short pause the priestesses separated into

two groups, and from their midst the white virgin came slowly forth. At

her appearance every man dropped upon one knee, Kabir pulling the

wide-eyed Greek down beside him. Again there was a pause, during which

Charmides felt his heart beating uncomfortably. The maiden was regarding

the ranks of men before her. Slowly, fearfully, her eyes moved along

from face to face, their passage marked here and there by a sharply

drawn breath from some one before her. Charmides, entirely ignorant of

the meaning of this rite, watched her with tentative interest. She was

young, her face as white as her robe, her big, half-terrified eyes of a

dove-gray color. Pretty--very pretty--she was, as pretty as Doris--but

not beautiful. Charmides had, of late, been picturing too divine a

beauty to feel any tremor of eagerness before this gentle priestess of

Ashtoreth.

All at once her eyes flashed to his. He drew back, earnestly hoping that

she would pass him by. But this was not to be. The gray orbs halted at

the blue ones, moved languidly over his perfect face, descended to his

shoulders--arms--body--and at last a faint tinge of red crept into her

deathly cheeks. She nodded once to him, murmuring half a dozen

indistinguishable words. Instantly Charmides felt two violent shoves,

the one from Kabir on the right, the other from Hodo on the left.

"Rise! Rise to your feet!" Kabir whispered, peremptorily.

Charmides obeyed.

"Go forward to her. The hierodules will take you."

Charmides went towards the girl. Before he had reached her two of the

other women advanced to his side and took him by the hands, at the same

time recommencing their chant. Thereupon the whole company, women and

men, began a slow march back towards the shrine. Charmides was still in

the maze of his first surprise. He walked mechanically between his

conductresses, his eyes fixed on the back of the sacrificial maiden who

moved in front of him. At twenty paces from the altar the general

company stopped. Only Charmides, the girl, and two priestesses advanced

till they stood directly in front of the shrine with the altar behind

them. Then a hush fell upon the multitude, and Charmides experienced a

sudden tremor--a dread of what was to happen next. He had no idea

whatever for what purpose he had been chosen, whether it threatened his

life, endangered his freedom, or gave promise of honor. Kabir had been

eager for him to go, however; and it was evident that many had desired

his place. At any rate, the blood in his veins was Greek--and Doric

Greek. This thought brought tranquillity, and he stood with renewed

indifference till a move was made that struck him like a blow. At a

certain phrase in the chant the two women stepped to either side of the

white virgin, unclasped the two wrought pins that held her robe upon the

shoulders, and, with a quick twist, let the garment fall to the floor.

There was an impulsive quickening in the song. Slowly the girl faced

Charmides, her head drooping, her hands clasped before her, her brown

hair falling about her shoulders. Supported on either side, she moved

towards him till her knee touched his tunic. Charmides took a hasty step

backwards, not hearing the faint sigh that escaped her lips. Then one of

the priestesses frowned.

"Take her up to Ashtoreth!" she said, pointing from the girl to the

stone altar.

Now at last Charmides understood, and he turned white with wrath. For an

instant he let his eyes rest in utter scorn, utter disgust, upon the

three women in front of him. Then he hurled at them a Greek phrase,

fortunately incomprehensible to the multitude. Lastly, unheeding the

look of abject terror that was overspreading the face of the girl, he

turned upon his heel and began to walk rapidly down the long hall to the

door.

By this time the chant had given place to a rising chorus of

astonishment and wrath on the part of the men, and of woe on the side of

the women. Still the Greek, absorbed in his own displeasure, kept on his

way, and would presently have been outside the building, when Kabir,

darting from the throng, seized him roughly by the shoulders.

"Charmides! Thou fool! What do you?"

The rhapsode, frowning angrily, tried to shake off his companion, but

Kabir's hands were strong.

"Know you, I say, what you do?"

Charmides turned upon him. "I will not dishonor her, neither myself!" he

said, in a voice husky with repression.

"Dishonor--in the rites of Ashtoreth! Nay, you would kill her, rather,

then?"

Charmides shrugged.

"You have refused her after the presentation. That is a sign that she is

displeasing to the goddess. She will now be offered up upon the altar of

death. Her blood must wash away the shame you put on her. Her heart will

be cut out and thrown to the dogs to eat."

The young Greek shivered and stood passive. His eyes wandered aimlessly

over the scene before him. Kabir dropped his hold, but Charmides made no

move to go on. He seemed to be considering. The company was eying him in

an anxious silence that had something of respect in it. But the eyes of

the doomed girl burned upon his back in mute, despairing entreaty. Every

murmur had died away, and a deadly hush settled over the great hall. The

lights burned calmly from above, and the odor of fresh incense became

overpowering. Still the shepherd did not move. One instant more and

Aris, the high-priestess, would send the order for the sacrificial

knife. The Greek's thoughts wavered vaguely between his mother and his

own natural instincts of purity on the one hand; and, on the other, the

exigencies of the Phoenician religion. The struggle was fierce. Heraia's

memory was infinitely dear, and the Greek idea of manhood strong within

him. Still, death--death was terrible to his mind; and the death of this

young girl--

His meditations were interrupted here. Something had suddenly clasped

his feet, something lay twisted on the floor before him. A white body,

half covered with the long locks of dishevelled hair that flowed from a

lowered head, lay there on the stones. Two strained arms caught at his

knees. A faint voice, choked with the tears of despair, was begging

incoherently for the life that he could give. All of a sudden he melted.

He bent his head, drawing a long breath of resignation. Then he stooped,

lifted the girl in his arms, and carried her rapidly over to the altar

of Ashtoreth. And the great bacchanal that followed upon his act the

youth neither saw nor heard.

* * * * *

Kabir and Hodo were both of them abjectly respectful to Charmides next

day. For all his defeat, the youth had been left their master, and he

knew it. The name of Ashtoreth was not spoken before him in Abdosir's

house; no mention ever after did either Phoenician or Babylonian make of

the affair of yesterday; and in one day more Charmides had looked his

last upon the city of the sea.

It was in a state of mental chaos that Charmides began his journey to

Babylon. In the glare of midday the long row of well-watered camels,

heavy laden with riches of the West, swayed to their feet, on the

mainland of Tyre, and turned their heads in the direction of Damascus.

Charmides had said good-bye to Kabir an hour before, and now sat his

animal with an eager light in his eyes and a clutch of regret in his

heart--desire for the new, love for the old. He tried hard that day to

fix his mind on the great object of his journey, the goddess of Babylon,

whom he was so soon to see. But all things around him were new, all

things fair, and soon he gave up the attempt at abstraction to watch

what went on around him. Far ahead, upon the foremost camel, was Hodo,

the leader of the caravan, who, with his desert costume, had also donned

an undeniable dignity of demeanor. Before and behind Charmides, in the

very centre of the line, sat solemn Orientals whose nationality he did

not know. Far to the right stretched flat, fertile fields of grain. To

the left, at no great distance, the river Leontes flashed a tumultuous,

sunlit course down to the sea. Eastward, in front, rose an uneven line

of jutting hills, bathed in the luminous, tranquil light of intensely

pure air. The day was hot, the motion of the camel so far rather

soothing. Charmides' turbaned head drooped. His eyelids closed. Thoughts

of Istar were mingled with memories of the white virgin. Presently,

then, he fell asleep.

V

TO THE GATE OF GOD

Five days later the camels of a shortened caravan passed out of the

Hittite city and turned their faces towards the southeast. It was early

morning. Before them the sky was radiant with promise of the coming of

the lord of day. Behind them, Damascus slept. Far to the right, a mere

olive-colored shadow on the horizon, was the line of verdure that marked

the course of the river Jordan, the eastern boundary of Phoenicia.

Ahead, and on every side for endless miles, in infinite, sparkling,

yellow waves, stretched the desert, a vast, silent plain of death,

dreaded by man and beast; a foe that Assyrian armies had found

more terrible than all the strength of Egypt; that Babylon in her

mighty decadence knew to be a safer guard against plundering

hoards than all her towering walls; that the wandering Hittites,

Damascenes born of the burning sand, themselves would not venture

upon at this season of the growing year. And into this, light-hearted,

went Charmides the Greek, for the final proof of his steadfastness,

the final trial of his strength, for which the reward was to be

a sight of the great goddess--Ish-tar--kâ--Bab-i-lû.

Now, indeed, at this early hour, when night's sweetness had not yet been

dispelled, Charmides, bareheaded, sat smiling at the sunrise, at the

novelty of the sand-plain, at the steady, awkward trot of his camel, at

the solemnity of the turbaned Babylonians before and behind him, and at

Hodo's crooked little figure at the head of the line. There were twenty

camels, well packed with articles of Tyrian and Damascene manufacture,

and a man to add to each load. On the back of every animal, where the

sight of it would not continually tantalize the desert traveller, hung a

water-skin, still dripping from contact with the well, but not to be

replenished for five weary days. Before their departure, Hodo had

explained to the Greek the best hours for, and the most satisfying

methods of, drinking; for these things had been reduced to a minute

system by traders, in seasons when wells might go dry and water was in

any case scarce. In consequence of his instructions, and the

determination to obey them rigidly, Charmides found himself from the

very first in a state of thirst. In the freshness of the morning this

was not difficult to bear; but by noon, when the whole sky blazed like

molten gold and the desert was a plain of fire, the desire for drink

increased till it became a torture before which he weakened and fell. He

took more than a cupful of water from his skin before the tents were

pitched for the mid-day rest, and he felt himself an object of censure

for the entire caravan; though, in truth, there was no trader of them

all but had done the same thing many times, before long training had

hardened him to endurance.

This caravan was the last to cross the desert that year; and the heat

bore with it one compensation. The strong guard of soldiers, or

fighting-men, that generally accompanied a caravan to guard it from

plunder by the wild desert tribes, had been dispensed with. The

forefathers of the modern Bedâwin were not hardier than their

descendants, and they made no dwelling-place in the Syrian desert at

this season. It was, indeed, dangerously late for the passage; and each

succeeding day brought a fiercer sun and shorter hours of darkness. The

rest at noon was long, but there was no halt at all by night. Oases

wells were low, and there must be no lagging by the way. Hodo held daily

council in his tent with the three eldest traders, to make sure of the

best course to keep, and to save the few miles possible to save. At one

of these conferences, some days out, the man that rode behind Charmides,

Ralchaz by name, spoke to Hodo of the young Greek, suggesting that

Charmides was bearing the journey hardly, and would need care if he were

to cross the desert alive. Hodo, a little conscience-smitten with the

knowledge of neglect, hastened off to the tent occupied by Charmides and

two of the younger men. Here he found that it was, indeed, high time to

attend to the rhapsode's condition.

Charmides was lying, face down, on the rug that covered the sand in the

tent. Motionless, his body rigid, his hands clasped in front of him,

making no sound, breathing inaudibly, he lay; while at a little distance

his two companions, Babylonians, squatted together over their meal of

locust-beans, bread, and dates, now and then regarding the youth with a

kind of wistful helplessness.

Hodo, scarcely looking at the other two, ran to Charmides' side, knelt

by him, and, placing a hand on his shoulder, cried out:

"Charmides! Charmides! Speak! What demon of sickness has got you?"

He spoke in Chaldaic, using the idiom that a Greek would not understand.

The entreaty, however, had its effect. Charmides made an effort, rolled

upon his back, and looked up at the master of the caravan. Hodo gave a

quick exclamation of dismay and cried out:

"Tirutû! Bring me some water!"

One of the men sprang to his feet. "Gladly! Yet he will not drink."

"Not drink! Allât help us! Why?"

"He has emptied his own skin and will not accept of water from ours."

Hodo nodded his understanding. "Go, then, to my tent, and bring one of

the skins of extra water, together with a jar of the wine of Helbon--and

see that you move like Râman!"

Charmides understood not a word of this conversation, but he surmised

its trend, and essayed to say something in Phoenician. Coherent speaking,

however, had become impossible; for his tongue was swollen out of all

shape, and his mouth was on fire with fever. Hodo laid a gentle hand

upon his forehead, smoothed the hair back from it, noted the inflamed

and pitiable condition of the wide, blue eyes, the brilliant fever-flush

that burned upon the fair cheeks, and his face grew graver still.

"The journey will go hard with him," he muttered.

Tirutû presently returned with the damp pigskin on his shoulder, and a

small, glazed stone flask in his right hand. Ustanni, the second of

Charmides' fellow-tentsmen, was already at Hodo's side with a bronze

cup. This they filled with a mixture of water and wine, and then Hodo,

lifting the Greek's head upon his arm, held the drink to his lips.

Charmides' nostrils quivered like an animal's. The tears started to his

eyes, and there was a convulsive working of the saliva glands in his

mouth. For one agonized moment he resisted the temptation; and then,

with the abandon of a creature half crazed, he drank at a gulp all that

the cup contained, and begged guiltily, with his fevered eyes, for more.

Hodo let him take all that he wanted. Then food--bread, dates, and

cooked sesame--was fed him. Next his eyes, rendered almost useless by

the desert glare, were rubbed with a balm brought from Hodo's tent,

which reduced their fever and inflammation in a miraculous way. Two

hours later, at the forming of the caravan, Charmides' camel was led out

and fastened next to Hodo's at the head of the line; and when the Greek,

walking more easily than for three days past, came to mount, he found a

full water-skin strapped upon the animal's back, and two little jars of

Hodo's rare wine balancing each other on either side of its neck.

Venturing to remonstrate feebly at this lavish generosity, the rhapsode

was silenced by a flood of angry eloquence from Hodo, who finished his

tirade by saying:

"Drink as often as yours is the desire, for I tell you this truly:

Shamash is pitiless to those who pray not to Mermer; and, in drinking of

his gift, you will do honor to the god of Rains. I will not leave you

behind me in the desert, Charmides; and yet I cannot carry your dead

body on to Babylon. Therefore you will do well to live. For I think that

the Lady Istar will be displeased if, when you are so near, you desert

her for the Queen of Death. So, Charmides, again I bid you drink; shut

your eyes to the sun; eat and sleep as you can. See that you heed these

words." And with a little chuckle at his own advice, Hodo mounted his

beast, and, after the usual tumultuous rising, with many shouts and much

wielding of his hide-whip, set the caravan once more in motion.

For forty-eight hours more Charmides, making a strong effort, stubbornly

refusing to admit that he was still sick, made an appearance of recovery

from his indisposition. He talked with Hodo, asking welcome questions

about trade, life, and home. He spoke to those members of the caravan

from whom hitherto he had held aloof. And he made a desperate effort to

learn from the leader a few phrases in the Babylonish tongue. This last,

however, proved a Herculean task. The Greek race was notoriously the

least apt of any nation at learning foreign tongues. Phoenician had been

difficult enough; but when it came to the harsh, thick accents, the many

syllables, and the curious construction of this other language, the

language of the people of Istar, Charmides found it an apparently

hopeless task, from which, in his present condition, he shrank

miserably.

The desert days crept on. The hours from red dawn to redder twilight

were filled with fainting prayers for night and darkness. And when night

came, and with it the golden moon, it seemed that the heat scarcely

lessened; for up from the yellow sands rose a burning stream of

day-gathered fire that made the very camels wince, and called forth many

a smothered curse and groan from the long-seasoned men. Yet these nights

were wonderful things. The high moon overshadowed all her lesser lights,

so that the sky around was strung with few stars; but these glittered

with dazzling radiance against their luminous background. And when the

dread dawn approached, and the moon grew great on the western horizon,

balanced by the long, palpitating lines of light in the east, the sight,

to any but desert travellers, was a thing to pray to. Charmides, indeed,

in spite of his condition, did marvel at the miracles of the sky. But

his lyre was heavy in his hands, his voice too cracked for song, and he

could but sit, drooping, on his camel, head throbbing, body on fire,

drinking in the golden fire, and wondering vaguely if he should ever

find the Babylon that he sought, or whether Apollo had destined him for

a different and a higher place.

Another besides the Greek had begun to speculate on the same subject.

Hodo, with his Babylonish idea of the dreary after-life, watched his

charge with an anxiety and a grief that betrayed a surprising affection

for the youth. Though Charmides suffered no longer from thirst, though

Hodo's own food was prepared for him, though the best camel in the

caravan was at his disposal, he grew weaker and yet more weak, and his

fever increased till the desert sands themselves were no hotter than his

skin. On the eighteenth day of the journey Charmides was lifted from his

animal at the noon halt, talking incoherently of Selinous, of Heraia, of

Kabir, and Apollo. He showed no sign of recognizing Hodo and the pitying

traders that clustered about the tent where he lay. Rather, he gave them

strange names which they had never heard; he talked to them in his own

language; and he tried continually to sing in his cracked, harsh voice.

Hodo watched him doubtfully for a time; then his lips straightened out

and his crooked face grew grim. He dismissed every one from his tent,

and set himself to watch over the sick man alone. Gradually Charmides

sank into a drowsy state, and, five hours later, when the camels were

reloaded and placed in line for the long night march, he was still but

half conscious. Hodo had him lifted upon his camel and strapped there,

since he showed himself unable to sit upright. A moment or two later the

cry for the march was given, and the little procession started forward

at its usual trot. Next morning Charmides lay limply forward upon his

animal's neck, in a state of irresistible coma; and Hodo mentally

prepared to bury him there in the sand before another dawn. All day,

indeed, the Greek hovered on the borderland of death; yet, since he had

not passed it when the halt was ended, he went on again with the rest in

the late afternoon.

For twelve hours now the rhapsode had been unconscious. It was, perhaps,

the sudden renewal of motion, after the mid-day rest, that roused him.

At all events, the caravan was scarcely moving before his eyes lost

their glazed stare, and he half closed them while he looked about him.

It was a pleasant hour of the afternoon. Behind him the sun was nearing

the horizon, and in the sky overhead floated two or three feathery

shreds of cloud--a gladsome sight. With an effort, in which he

discovered how very weak he had become, the rhapsode turned himself till

he lay in such a position that he could watch the sunset. He had almost

an hour to wait--a long, hot, drowsy hour, during which, however, he did

not drop back into torpor. As the sun sank, a ridge of white, billowy

clouds, such as are almost never to be seen in those skies in summer,

rose to catch the falling globe. And when the fire reached them,

Charmides quivered with delight to see the flood of color--scarlet and

purple, and pale, pinkish gold--that ran over the white mass. A valley

between two of these lofty hills received the central stream of

blood-fire, and on this blinding spot the Greek fixed his eyes and

gazed, till his brain reeled with the seething glory. When the sun had

left the world and the other lights grew pale, this one place retained

all its brightness. The watcher was too feeble even to wonder at the

phenomenon; nor did he marvel when, out of this bank of fire, a figure

began to resolve--a figure human in form and yet most splendidly divine.

There was a face that glowed with the hues of the evening, framed in

short, waving locks of auburn red, still fiery with the sunset, and

crowned with a circlet of silver stars that burned radiantly through the

coming dusk. Then Charmides perceived that all the clouds had formed

into a flowing garment that enveloped the body of the apparition. When

the glow was quite gone, and purple shadows had stolen softly through

the whole sky, the mighty figure stood out clearly and more clear, till

every fold in the royal vestment was distinct, till the two bright

streaks that had stretched out on either side of the shoulders had

become wings of silver, and the patch of gold low on the right was a

lyre, ready-strung. The vision was complete. Charmides, now but half

sensible, scarcely noting the cool breath of the descending night,

watched and thirsted for what he knew must come.

He had not long to wait. As the first, faint star came out into the

evening, the heavenly figure moved, floating in stately swiftness upon

his outstretched wings towards the wormlike caravan that crawled across

the sands. And as he moved he lifted the lyre, drawing his hand across

its strings. Charmides gave a faint gasp. It was as if his body had been

plunged into a running stream. Allaraine's music swept across his

senses, now in the faintest, long-drawn vibration, that drew the soul to

one's lips and let it hang there, seeking to follow the flight of the

sound; now in broad chords that swept like the storm-wind over the

plain; again, melting into melody that bore one to the shore of the

sunlit sea. The Heavenly One played on while the shepherd, in helpless

ecstasy, lay back, unnerved and numb, held to the camel only by the

thongs with which Hodo had bound him there. It was a long time, though

how long the rhapsode could not tell, before he was roused by a warm

thrill, to find that the bard of the skies floated beside him, one of

the effulgent wings spreading out over his body, the light from it

bathing his whole figure in a stream of strength-giving fire. And even

in his amazement Charmides wondered why he heard no sound from any

member of the caravan. All was still around him. Star-spangled darkness

was over them all. The moon had not yet risen. Hodo was nodding on his

camel, and many of the traders were in their first sleep. Only he, only

the Charmides whom they had thought dying, was awake to welcome the

messenger of the gods that honored them by his coming. The Greek, lying

under the shadow of the silver wing, felt that a prayer or some other

fitting acknowledgment of the presence should be made. So he struggled

to an upright position and raised his face to that of the god. Slowly

the star-crowned head turned to him, and a pair of deeply glowing eyes,

filled with benign pity, and great with suffering, looked upon the

youth. Charmides' lids fell shut in sudden, ecstatic terror, and, while

his head was bent, he felt upon his hair the touch of the god. Instantly

he fell back. Then, once upon his left eye and once upon his right, came

the imprint of the divine mouth. With the kisses blackness rolled over

him. His spirit slept.

Morning, clear, cloudless, infinitely stifling, swept over the desert.

Hodo, who had drowsed through the night, lifted his head and looked

about him, trying to define the sense of weight at his heart. He

realized it presently, and, reluctant with fear, turned and looked

behind him. Yes. The dread was justified. Charmides lay white and limp

upon his camel. They must bury him that day under the yellow sand of

this godless waste. Hodo's crooked little face screwed up spasmodically.

Then he gave the long, quavering cry that meant, "Halt the caravan."

With some little difficulty the camels were reined up, and all watched

Hodo make the dismount and run to the side of the animal on which the

Greek was bound. Then they understood; and a long, low, minor wail, the

greeting to death, rose from every throat. It stopped with extreme

suddenness when Hodo gave a sudden shout of amazement. Every trader saw

Charmides suddenly sit up, and a few directly behind heard his voice,

stronger than for a week past, cry to his friend a Phoenician greeting.

"Charmides is not dead!" shouted the leader, in unmistakable delight.

"It is a miracle! He is well again! The fever is gone!"

The rhapsode smiled, and spoke his thanks to Hodo for all the past care;

but of how he had been made well he said not a word, for he knew that

the miracle had been for him alone. At the noon halt the merchants one

by one came up to him, pressing his hand to their breasts and giving

every expression of friendly joy at his recovery. And fully recovered he

was, indeed. During the succeeding days his fever did not return; nor

did the long hours of the march tire him as hitherto. He returned now to

the tent that he had at first occupied; and, as he ate and slept with

his Babylonish comrades, he tried again, with more success, to acquire a

few phrases in the new tongue. He found his companions willing and

patient teachers. And, truly, patience was necessary. The lips that

could so aptly form the melodious syllables of the most beautiful of

languages were awkward beyond belief at mouthing out the thick words and

strangely constructed phrases of the Semitic tongue.

In the days that followed his recovery Charmides passed the hours of the

march in profound reveries, which, as the days went by, became troubled.

One afternoon, after long deliberation, he made his way to Hodo's tent.

That little fellow was sitting cross-legged on a rug, drinking khilbum

from a bronze cup, and blinking thoughtfully at the stretch of yellow

sand before him. Hodo gave cordial greeting to the Greek, proffered him

wine, and then sank once more into silence. Charmides disposed of his

beverage at a draught, and, after a little hesitancy, looked at his

companion and asked:

"Hodo, how many gods do thy people worship?"

The Babylonian looked up quickly. "Twelve--of the great gods, without

Asshur, whom the Assyrians brought among us, besides many demons, many

spirits, and Mulge and Allât of the under-world. Why do you ask?"

"Because I would learn which it is among your gods that is winged with

silver, crowned with stars, dressed in a purple vesture, and carries in

his right hand a lyre of gold."

Hodo screwed his face into a puzzled knot. "Stars--wings--purple

vesture--lyre--I do not know. Never have I heard that any of the gods

carried a lyre. It is not an instrument much known to us. In the sacred

scriptures Bel is said to carry a staff, and I have seen him on the

walls of the temple with wings. So also Namtar flies. But the rest--how

do you know these things?"

"This god appeared to me in a dream," replied the rhapsode.

Hodo found nothing to say to this, and Charmides also was silent. The

Babylonian refilled their wine-cups, and, after they had been emptied,

the Greek rose and left the tent, unsatisfied, yet deterred by an

indefinable feeling from talking further on the subject of the vision.

So the weeks went by, and the moon waned and grew young again, until,

upon the twenty-first day after leaving Damascus, they were but

forty-eight hours out of the Great City. That afternoon, just after the

start was made, when the camels, after more water than usual, were

moving briskly over the sand, Charmides' eyes, wandering to the distant

horizon, encountered something that set his heart wildly throbbing.

"Hodo! Hodo!" he shouted. "It is the city! Look! The Great City!"

From Hodo, in front, there came, after a minute's look, a ringing laugh.

"Yes, it is the ghost of the false city. We see it often here in the

desert, as we see lakes and trees that are not. Truly it is a strange

thing."

Charmides heard him incredulously. Before his eyes was certainly a

vision of mighty walls, and square towers, and gates, and many-roofed

palaces outlined against the heat-blurred sky. They kept their places,

too, seeming to grow more and more distinct as the caravan proceeded.

The rhapsode closed his eyes and opened them again. It was still there.

Yes, he could now see the groups of palm-trees and faint outlines of

olive foliage around the walls; and presently, when a broad, blue river

was to be seen winding its way from east to west through the plain,

Charmides turned on his camel and called to Tirutû behind:

"Is not yonder city indeed Babylon, Tirutû?"

But the trader smiled and slowly shook his head, and Charmides, half

angry and wholly unconvinced, turned again to the sight that entranced

him. Clear and straight, for ten minutes more, it stood out against the

sky. Then, of a sudden, the city vanished in one quiver, and, where it

had been, only the dark horizon-line, straight and unbroken, stretched

away as usual. Charmides was sad that the dream had vanished; but he

could laugh at himself when Hodo turned to look at him with good-natured

amusement. Still, the picture remained with him, and came to seem, in

after years, his first impression of the far-famed city that was to be

his home.

The march that night was more rapid than usual, and the halt next day

not made till the heat was past bearing. At the noon meal mirth ran

high, and wine and water were drunk with an abandon possible only to men

who had for three weeks practised a cruel restraint. Twenty-four hours

more would bring them to Babylon, and already they were on the borders

of civilization and fertility.

On this day Charmides sat apart from his companions, feeling no desire

to join in their loud joy. When finally the company lay down to rest,

the Greek felt that sleep was impossible for him, and he went off alone

to the little tent where formerly a guard had been stationed, but which

was empty now. Here he sat down upon the sand and let his thoughts hold

unbridled sway. For he was standing on the threshold of his new world,

and he could not but pause for a moment to think of all that he had left

behind him. It was a melancholy time, but not a long, before Hodo's

voice was to be heard giving the signal for the last mount. Quickly the

tents were struck and bound upon the camels; and then the little

procession moved away towards the line of green that bounded the yellow

sands.

By morning they found on all sides fertile fields of grain, already

ripening. And Charmides' sand-weary eyes rested with untold delight on

the rows of wheat, millet, and sesame, barred here and there with little

streams of water conducted from the broad canals that ran everywhere

through the land, and filled all the year round by the great

mother-stream, Euphrates. Now and then the caravan passed a mud-village

set in the midst of a broad field of grass where goats, sheep, and

bullocks herded and donkeys and camels were tethered side by side. The

people of these villages were of the lowest Chaldaic type, nearly black,

thick-lipped, large-nosed, and short of stature. Charmides regarded them

with dismay. He had seen one or two negro slaves brought from northern

Africa to Mazzara, and they had seemed to him less than human. Were the

men of this new race all like that? Presently, however, they came upon a

reassuring sight. The caravan passed one of the large stone wells that

stood in the middle of a grain-field. From it a buffalo, at work in his

rude tread-mill, was drawing water, and beside the animal, clothed in a

long, white garment, bearing a tall jar on her head, one hand upraised,

the other on her hip, stood a slight girl with a skin almost as white as

Charmides' own. Her eyes and hair were shining black; but as Charmides

looked at her she flashed a smile at him, showing a set of pearly teeth,

and, a moment later, laughing aloud, a pure, ringing laugh, that in some

way set Charmides into a cheery frame of mind for the rest of the day.

He came afterwards to know that it was not a native of Babylonia whom he

saw at the well, but one of a captive race resident in this Eastern land

since the year when the city of Solomon fell before the armies of the

great son of Nabopolassar. But there were Babylonians also as white as

the Jews, their Semitic blood having at some time been mingled with that

of Aryan races, Persians, Elamites, or, perhaps, Assyrians, whom a

thousand years of a colder clime had materially bleached.

This last day became fiercely hot, but no noon halt was made. Each man

munched a piece of bread and a handful of dates, and drank a cup of

goat's milk purchased on the way, and the camels were given twenty

minutes' rest and an armful of fodder in the shade of a palm grove near

a canal. Then the march was eagerly resumed, for, even now, many miles

away, the gigantic walls of Nimitti-Bel, the outer wall of the city,

were to be seen towering up on the horizon. At four o'clock they passed

through Borsip, the suburb of Babylon, towards which Hodo cast loving

eyes, for it was his home. But it was night before they entered the open

gateway of Nimitti-Bel, that incredibly gigantic structure, the fame of

which had spread over all the East; and it took nearly an hour to

traverse the sparsely inhabited space between that and the smaller,

inside wall, Imgur-Bel. And before they had reached this, Hodo, turning,

called to the Greek:

"We sleep to-night outside the gate of Bel. It is too late for admission

to the city. The sun has set."

Charmides nodded an absent-minded acquiescence. His thoughts had been

stunned by the first glimpse of this tremendous city, and the chaos in

his mind was too great for him to pay attention to any trivial remark.

Hitherto his measure of magnitude of buildings had been the new temple

of Apollo at Selinous, with its length of four hundred feet, its width

of two hundred, its columns more than fifty feet high: this for a

temple, the third largest in the Greek world. Now he was confronted by a

wall, a wall of defence, forty miles long, two hundred feet from base to

summit,[4] and of such a thickness that upon its top two four-horse

chariots could pass with ease. Watch-towers, in which guards lived, rose

higher still from the great wall, that was open in a hundred places,

each opening provided with a gate of wrought brass, which was closed

from sunset to dawn.

As the caravan neared the inner and lesser wall and approached the gate

of Bel, Charmides saw that before it was a square space, well paved and

arranged with stalls and booths, in which a goodly number of people

evidently purposed passing the night. Each of the hundred gates was

provided with a sort of customs bureau, where all goods to be sold in

the city were appraised and taxed according to a fixed tariff. From this

petty fee cattle, grain, and fruits were not exempt; and, since the

officer of taxes was off duty from sunset till sunrise, it frequently

occurred that, on a market or festival day, each rébit, or square before

a gate, was occupied through the night by those that wished to enter the

city early in the morning.

As the line of weary camels came to a final halt, and the score of

wearier men dismounted for the last time, there was one general, short

cry of thanksgiving, in which Charmides joined as heartily as the rest;

and then Hodo sought him and took him by the arm, drawing him along the

square as he said:

"We will sup together, Charmides--yonder."

In a corner against the wall an enterprising merchant had set up a small

restaurant of clever design, where hot wheaten cakes, roast goat's

flesh, and cooked sesame, together with various fruits, flasks of

fermented liquor, jars of beer, or flagons of goat's milk might be

bought at a very reasonable price. Charmides rejoiced at the sight of

food, for he was spent with the heat and the journey. And he offered to

change one of his silver pieces for such of the food as Hodo and he

desired. But this the little Babylonian would not have.

"This night is the last, my Greek. Eat with me. Many a use there will be

for that silver of yours. On your first night within Nimitti-Bel you

shall be my guest."

Then Charmides tried to thank his friend once more for all the voluntary

and unlooked-for kindness that had been shown him since the caravan left

Tyre. It was with difficulty, indeed, that the rhapsode found words

fittingly sincere for his gratitude. But, long before he had finished,

Hodo, with a little, deprecating gesture, stopped him.

"You shall not thank _me_, Charmides," he said, sadly. "Rather bless

those gods that gave you a face so fair and a personality so gracious

that he who comes in contact with you cannot but love you. Truly, youth,

I am loath to part with you; and I hope that you will not rise so high

that in after-time your eyes will be above the level of mine."

Charmides' reply to this was simply to press the other's hand to his

brow. Then, the two having finished their meal, they wrapped up their

cloaks for cushions and sat down, with their backs to the wall, to watch

the sights in the square. Charmides held his bundle on his knees, and

his lyre lay beside him on the ground. He was bareheaded, and, as he sat

in the shadow of the wall, his face was indistinguishable to the

passers-by. Hodo was silent, and Charmides felt no inclination to talk.

His eyes wandered over the busy square, from which a clatter of

talk was rising. To the Greek, looking on, it seemed as if a hundred

nationalities were before him, so different were the faces, dress,

and manners of the men and women passing on every side. Here a

heavy-bearded, coarse-clad goatherd, with his flock around him, lay

already asleep. There a company of market-girls, bare-headed, in loosely

fluttering robes, stood gossiping together or laughing at the little

date-merchant opposite. Before the gate were half a dozen soldiers with

permits for entering the city after hours, quaffing beer, or the heavy

liquor of the date-cabbage, from their helmets. Farther away a

donkey-boy was beating a refractory member of his drove into submission;

while, in the very centre of the square, the group of camels belonging

to Hodo's caravan lay gazing loftily at the scene before them, their

self-satisfied faces showing no trace of the fatigue that three long

weeks upon the desert sands must surely have brought them. All these,

and infinitely more, the rhapsode watched with increasing interest. New

arrivals were frequent, and the square gradually became massed with

people.

"To-morrow is the eleventh of the month," observed Hodo, suddenly, from

his reverie. "There will be the procession of Nebo and Nergal, and,

later, a feast in the temple. That is why _so_ many of the country-folk

have come."

Charmides nodded assent. He was watching some one of whom he had caught

sight three or four moments before--a young girl, making her way through

a drove of donkeys and sheep. She was accompanied by a single large,

white goat, that followed her closely, and to which she paid but little

attention, seeming sure of its faithfulness. Barefooted, long-haired,

raggedly clad, and very young--a mere child of fourteen or so--she was.

Yet, as Charmides watched her, he found something in the quiet droop of

her eyelids, the pathetic curve of her mouth, and the pallor of her

tired face that stayed in his mind through the whole evening. She

lingered for a moment or two outside the great gate. Then one of the

soldiers, catching sight of her, left his companions to open a small

inner door that led into the city. Through this the goat-girl passed,

and Charmides once more turned to his companion, who was saying:

"Where do you go to-morrow, Charmides?"

The Greek paused to consider. Finally he answered, rather doubtfully: "I

do not know. I seek Istar of Babylon."

Hodo smiled, pityingly. "And after that--?"

Charmides shook his head. "I do not know," he repeated.

"Charmides, you will do well to come with me and stay with me for some

days, till you have learned the ways of Babylon. Will you, then--"

But the Greek quickly shook his head. "Again I thank you, Hodo. You are

good to me. But Apollo, my Lord, watches over me; and the god of the

golden lyre has made me well. With them I shall enter Babylon. With them

I go before Istar. Say no more."

Hodo accepted the decision without further protest. Indeed, he rather

believed Charmides to be, in some respects, a little more than human. At

any rate, after a few moments more of watching the still-moving throng,

he wrapped his cloak about him and lay down upon the stones. Charmides

shortly followed his example. And then, beneath the towering walls of

the Great City, Charmides, in his dreams, knocked again upon the gate of

God.