After accompanying Dion to the harbour, the architect had gone to the
Forum to converse with the men he met there, and learn what they feared
and expected in regard to the future fate of the city.
All news reached this meeting-place first, and he found a large number
of Macedonian citizens who, like himself, wished to discuss passing
events in these decisive hours.
The scene was very animated, for the most contradictory messages were
constantly arriving from the fleet and the army.
At first they were very favourable; then came the news of the treason,
and soon after of the desertion of the cavalry and foot soldiers.
A distinguished citizen had seen Mark Antony, accompanied by several
friends, dashing down the quay. The goal of their flight was the little
palace on the Choma.
Grave men, whose opinion met with little opposition, thought that it was
the duty of the Imperator--now that Fate had decided against him, and
nothing remained save a life sullied by disgrace--to put himself to
death with his own hand, like Brutus and so many other noble Romans.
Tidings soon came that he had attempted to do what the best citizens
expected.
Gorgias could not endure to remain longer in the Forum, but hastened to
the Choma, though it was difficult to force his way to the wall, where a
breach had been made. He had found the portion of the shore from which
the promontory ran densely crowded with people--from whom he learned
that Antony was no longer in the palace--and the sea filled with boats.
A corpse was just being borne out of the little palace on the Street of
the King and, among those who followed, Gorgias recognized one of
Antony's slaves. The man's eyes were red with weeping. He readily obeyed
the architect's sign and, sobbing bitterly, told him that the hapless
general, after his army had betrayed him, fled hither. When he heard in
the palace that Cleopatra had preceded him to Hades, he ordered his
body-slave Eros to put an end to his life also. The worthy man drew
back, pierced his own breast with his sword, and sank dying at his
master's feet; but Antony, exclaiming that Eros's example had taught him
his duty, thrust the short sword into his breast with his own hand. Yet
deep and severe as was the wound, it did not destroy the tremendous
vitality of the gigantic Roman. With touching entreaties he implored the
bystanders to kill him, but no one could bring himself to commit the
deed. Meanwhile Cleopatra's name, coupled with the wish to follow her,
was constantly on the lips of the Imperator.
At last Diomedes, the Queen's private secretary, appeared, to bring him,
by her orders, to the mausoleum where she had taken refuge.
Antony, as if animated with fresh vigour, assented, and while being
carried thither gave orders that Eros should have a worthy burial. Even
though dying, it would have been impossible for the most generous of
masters to permit any kindness rendered to pass unrequited.
The slave again wept aloud as he uttered the words, but Gorgias hastened
at once to the tomb.
The nearest way, the Street of the King, had become so crowded with
people who had been forced back by Roman soldiers, between the Theatre
of Dionysus and the Corner of the Muses, that he had been compelled to
reach the building through a side street.
The quay was already unrecognizable, and even in the other streets the
populace showed a foreign aspect. Instead of peaceful citizens, Roman
soldiers in full armour were met everywhere. Instead of Greek, Egyptian,
and Syrian faces, fair and dark visages of alien appearance were seen.
The city seemed transformed into a camp. Here he met a cohort of
fair-haired Germans; yonder another with locks of red whose home he did
not know; and again a _vexil_ of Numidian or Pannonian horsemen.
At the Temple of the Dioscuri he was stopped. A Hispanian maniple had
just seized Antony's son Antyllus and, after a hasty court-martial,
killed him. His tutor, Theodotus, had betrayed him to the Romans, but
the infamous fellow was being led with bound hands after the corpse of
the hapless youth, because he was caught in the act of hiding in his
girdle a costly jewel which he had taken from his neck. Before his
departure for the island Gorgias heard that the scoundrel had been
sentenced to crucifixion.
At last he succeeded in forcing a passage to the tomb, which he found
surrounded on all sides by Roman lictors and the Scythian guards of the
city, who, however, permitted him, as the architect, to pass.
The numerous obstacles by which he had been delayed spared him from
becoming an eye-witness of the most terrible scenes of the tragedy which
had just ended; but he received a minute description from the Queen's
private secretary, a well-disposed Macedonian, who had accompanied the
wounded Antony, and with whom Gorgias had become intimately acquainted
during the building of the mausoleum.
Cleopatra had fled to the tomb as soon as the fortune of war turned in
favour of Octavianus. No one was permitted to accompany her except
Charmian and Iras, who had helped her close the heavy brazen door of the
massive building. The false report of her death, which had induced
Antony to put an end to his life, had perhaps arisen from the fact that
the Queen was literally in the tomb.
When, borne in the arms of his faithful servants, he reached the
mausoleum, mortally wounded, the Queen and her attendants vainly
endeavoured to open the heavy brazen portal. But Cleopatra ardently
longed to see her dying lover. She wished to have him near to render the
last services, assure him once more of her devotion, close his eyes,
and, if it was so ordered, die with him.
So she and her attendants had searched the place, and when Iras spoke of
the windlass which stood on the scaffold to raise the heavy brass plate
bearing the bas-relief of Love conquering Death, the Queen and her
friends hastened up the stairs, the bearer below fastened the wounded
man to the rope, and Cleopatra herself stood at the windlass to raise
him, aided by her faithful companions.
Diomedes averred that he had never beheld a more piteous spectacle than
the gigantic man hovering between heaven and earth in the agonies of
death and, while suffering the most terrible torture, extending his arms
longingly towards the woman he loved. Though scarcely able to speak, he
tenderly called her name, but she made no reply; like Iras and Charmian,
she was exerting her whole strength at the windlass in the most
passionate effort to raise him. The rope running over the pulley cut her
tender hands; her beautiful face was terribly distorted; but she did not
pause until they had succeeded in lifting the burden of the dying man
higher and higher till he reached the floor of the scaffolding. The
frantic exertion by which the three women had succeeded in accomplishing
an act far beyond their strength, though it was doubled by the power of
the most earnest will and ardent longing, would nevertheless have failed
in attaining its object had not Diomedes, at the last moment, come to
their assistance. He was a strong man, and by his aid the dying Roman
was seized, drawn upon the scaffolding, and carried down the staircase
to the tomb in the first story.
When the wounded general had been laid on one of the couches with which
the great hall was already furnished, the private secretary retired, but
remained on the staircase, an unnoticed spectator, in order to be at
hand in case the Queen again needed his assistance. Flushed from the
terrible exertion which she had just made, with tangled, dishevelled
locks, gasping and moaning, Cleopatra, as if out of her senses, tore
open her robe, beat her breast, and lacerated it with her nails. Then,
pressing her own beautiful face on her lover's wound to stanch the
flowing blood, she lavished upon him all the endearing names which she
had bestowed on their love.
His terrible suffering made her forget her own and the sad fate
impending. Tears of pity fell like the refreshing drops of a shower upon
the still unwithered blossoms of their love, and brought those which,
during the preceding night, had revived anew, to their last magnificent
unfolding.
Boundless, limitless as her former passion for this man, was now the
grief with which his agonizing death filled her heart.
All that Mark Antony had been to her in the heyday of life, all their
mutual experiences, all that each had received from the other, had
returned to her memory in clear and vivid hues during the banquet which
had closed a few hours ago. Now these scenes, condensed into a narrow
compass, again passed before her mental vision, but only to reveal more
distinctly the depth of misery of this hour. At last anguish forced even
the clearest memories into oblivion: she saw nothing save the tortures
of her lover; her brain, still active, revealed solely the gulf at her
feet, and the tomb which yawned not only for Antony, but for herself.
Unable to think of the happiness enjoyed in the past or to hope for it
in the future, she gave herself up to uncontrolled despair, and no woman
of the people could have yielded more absolutely to the consuming grief
which rent her heart, or expressed it in wilder, more frantic language,
than did this great Queen, this woman who as a child had been so
sensitive to the slightest suffering, and whose after-life had certainly
not taught her to bear sorrow with patience. After Charmian, at the
dying man's request, had given him some wine, he found strength to speak
coherently, instead of moaning and sighing.
He tenderly urged Cleopatra to secure her own safety, if it could be
done without dishonour, and mentioned Proculejus as the man most worthy
of her confidence among the friends of Octavianus. Then he entreated her
not to mourn for him, but to consider him happy; for he had enjoyed the
richest favours of Fortune. He owed his brightest hours to her love; but
he had also been the first and most powerful man on earth. Now he was
dying in the arms of Love, honourable as a Roman who succumbed to
Romans.
In this conviction he died after a short struggle.
Cleopatra had watched his last breath, closed his eyes, and then thrown
herself tearlessly on her lover's body. At last she fainted, and lay
unconscious with her head upon his marble breast.
The private secretary had witnessed all this, and then returned with
tearful eyes to the second story. There he met Gorgias, who had climbed
the scaffolding, and told him what he had seen and heard from the
stairs. But his story was scarcely ended when a carriage stopped at the
Corner of the Muses and an aristocratic Roman alighted.
This was the very Proculejus whom the dying Antony had recommended to
the woman he loved as worthy of her confidence.
"In fact," Gorgias continued, "he seemed in form and features one of the
noblest of his haughty race. He came commissioned by Octavianus, and is
said to be warmly devoted to the Cæsar, and a well-disposed man. We
have also heard him mentioned as a poet and a brother-in-law of
Mæcenas. A wealthy aristocrat, he is a generous patron of literature,
and also holds art and science in high esteem. Timagenes lauds his
culture and noble nature. Perhaps the historian was right; but where the
object in question is the state and its advantage, what we here regard
as worthy of a free man appears to be considered of little moment at the
court of Octavianus. The lord to whom he gives his services intrusted
him with a difficult task, and Proculejus doubtless considered it his
duty to make every effort to perform it--and yet---- If I see aright, a
day will come when he will curse this, and the obedience with which he,
a free man, aided Cæsar---- But listen.
"Erect and haughty in his splendid suit of armour, he knocked at the
door of the tomb. Cleopatra had regained consciousness and asked--she
must have known him in Rome--what he desired.
"He had come, he answered courteously, by the command of Octavianus, to
negotiate with her, and the Queen expressed her willingness to listen,
but refused to admit him into the mausoleum.
"So they talked with each other through the door. With dignified
composure, she asked to have the sons whom she had given to Antony--not
Cæsarion--acknowledged as Kings of Egypt.
"Proculejus instantly promised to convey her wishes to Cæsar, and gave
hopes of their fulfilment.
"While she was speaking of the children and their claims--she did not
mention her own future--the Roman questioned her about Mark Antony's
death, and then described the destruction of the dead man's army and
other matters of trivial importance. Proculejus did not look like a
babbler, but I felt a suspicion that he was intentionally trying to hold
the attention of the Queen. This proved to be his design; he had been
merely waiting for Cornelius Gallus, the commander of the fleet, of whom
you have heard. He, too, ranks among the chief men in Rome, and yet he
made himself the accomplice of Proculejus.
"The latter retired as soon as he had presented the new-comer to the
hapless woman.
"I remained at my post and now heard Gallus assure Cleopatra of his
master's sympathy. With the most bombastic exaggeration he described how
bitterly Octavianus mourned in Mark Antony the friend, the
brother-in-law, the co-ruler and sharer in so many important
enterprises. He had shed burning tears over the tidings of his death.
Never had more sincere ones coursed down any man's cheeks.
"Gallus, too, seemed to me to be intentionally prolonging the
conversation.
"Then, while I was listening intently to understand Cleopatra's brief
replies, my foreman, who, when the workmen were driven away by the
Romans, had concealed himself between two blocks of granite, came to me
and said that Proculejus had just climbed a ladder to the scaffold in
the rear of the monument. Two servants followed, and they had all stolen
down into the hall.
"I hastily started up. I had been lying on the floor with my head
outstretched to listen.
"Cost what it might, the Queen must be warned. Treachery was certainly
at work here.
"But I came too late.
"O Dion! If I had only been informed a few minutes before, perhaps
something still more terrible might have happened, but the Queen would
have been spared what now threatens her. What can she expect from the
conqueror who, in order to seize her alive, condescends to outwit a
noble, defenceless woman, who has succumbed to superior power?
"Death would have released the unhappy Queen from sore trouble and
horrible shame. And she had already raised the dagger against her life.
Before my eyes she flung aloft her beautiful arm with the flashing
steel, which glittered in the light of the candles in the many-branched
candelabra beside the sarcophagi. But I will try to remain calm! You
shall hear what happened in regular order. My thoughts grow confused as
the terrible scene recurs to my memory. To describe it as I saw it, I
should need to be a poet, an artist in words; for what passed before me
happened on a stage--you know, it was a tomb. The walls were of dark
stone--dark, too, were the pillars and ceiling--all dark and glittering;
most portions were smoothly polished stone, shining like a mirror. Near
the sarcophagi, and around the candelabra as far as the vicinity of the
door, where the rascally trick was played, the light was brilliant as in
a festal hall. Every blood-stain on the hand, every scratch, every wound
which the desperate woman had torn with her own nails on her bosom,
which gleamed snow-white from her black robes, was distinctly visible.
Farther away, on the right and left, the light was dim, and near the
side walls the darkness was as intense as in a real tomb. On the smooth
porphyry columns, the glittering black marble and serpentine--here,
there, and everywhere--flickered the wavering reflection of the
candlelight. The draught kept it continually in motion, and it wavered
to and fro in the hall, like the restless souls of the damned. Wherever
the eye turned it met darkness. The end of the hall seemed black--black
as the anteroom of Hades--yet through it pierced a brilliant moving bar;
sunbeams which streamed from the stairway into the tomb and amid which
danced tiny motes. How the scene impressed the eye! The home of gloomy
Hecate! And the Queen and her impending fate. A picture flooded with
light, standing forth in radiant relief against the darkness of the
heavy, majestic forms surrounding it in a wide circle. This tomb in this
light would be a palace meet for the gloomy rule of the king of the
troop of demons conjured up by the power of a magician--if they have a
ruler. But where am I wandering? 'The artist!' I hear you exclaim again,
'the artist! Instead of rushing forward and interposing, he stands
studying the light and its effects in the royal tomb.' Yes, yes; I had
come too late, too late--far too late! On the stairs leading to the
lower story of the building I saw it, but I was not to blame for the
delay--not in the least!
"At first I had been unable to see the men--or even a shadow; but I
beheld plainly in the brightest glare of the light the body of Mark
Antony on the couch and, in the dusk farther towards the right, Iras and
Charmian trying to raise a trapdoor. It was the one which closed the
passage leading to the combustible materials stored in the cellar. A
sign from the Queen had commanded them to fire it. The first steps of
the staircase, down which I was hastening, were already behind
me--then--then Proculejus, with two men, suddenly dashed from the
intense darkness on the other side. Scarcely able to control myself, I
sprang down the remaining steps, and while Iras's shrill cry, 'Poor
Cleopatra, they will capture you!' still rang in my ears, I saw the
betrayed Queen turn from the door through which, resolved on death, she
was saying something to Gallus, perceive Proculejus close behind her,
thrust her hand into her girdle, and with the speed of lightning--you
have already heard so--throw up her arm with the little dagger to bury
the sharp blade in her breast. What a picture! In the full radiance of
the brilliant light, she resembled a statue of triumphant victory or of
noble pride in great deeds accomplished; and then, then, only an instant
later, what an outrage was inflicted!
"Like a robber, an assassin, Proculejus rushed upon her, seized her arm,
and wrested the weapon from her grasp. His tall figure concealed her
from me. But when, struggling to escape from the ruffian's clutch, she
again turned her face towards the hall, what a transformation had
occurred! Her eyes--you know how large they are--were twice their usual
size, and blazed with scorn, fury, and hatred for the traitor. The
cheering light had become a consuming fire. So I imagine the vengeance,
the curse which calls down ruin upon the head of a foe. And Proculejus,
the great lord, the poet whose noble nature is praised by the authors on
the banks of the Tiber, held the defenceless woman, the worthy daughter
of a brilliant line of kings, in a firm grasp, as if it required the
exertion of all his strength to master this delicate embodiment of
charming womanhood. True, the proud blood of the outwitted lioness urged
her to resist this profanation, and Proculejus--an enviable honour--made
her feel the superior strength of his arm. I am no prophet, but Dion, I
repeat, this shameful struggle and the glances which flashed upon him
will be remembered to his dying hour. Had they been darted at me, I
should have cursed my life. They blanched even the Roman's cheeks. He
was lividly pale as he completed what he deemed his duty. His own
aristocratic hands were degraded to the menial task of searching the
garments of a woman, the Queen, for forbidden wares, poisons or weapons.
He was aided by one of Cæsar's freedmen, Epaphroditus, who is said to
stand so high in the favour of Octavianus.
"The scoundrel also searched Iras and Charmian, yet all the time both
Romans constantly spoke in cajoling terms of Cæsar's favour; and his
desire to grant Cleopatra everything which was due a Queen.
"At last she was taken back to Lochias, but I felt like a madman; for
the image of the unfortunate woman pursued me like my shadow. It was no
longer a vision of the bewitching sovereign--nay, it resembled the
incarnation of despair, tearless anguish, wrath demanding vengeance. I
will not describe it; but those eyes, those flashing, threatening eyes,
and the tangled hair on which Antony's blood had flowed--terrible,
horrible! My heart grew chill, as if I had seen upon Athene's shield the
head of the Medusa with its serpent locks.
"It had been impossible for me to warn her in time, or even to seize the
traitor's arm--I have already said so--and yet, yet her shining image
gazed reproachfully at me for my cowardly delay. Her glance still haunts
me, robbing me of calmness and peace. Not until I gaze into Helena's
pure, calm eyes will that terrible vision of the face, flooded by light
in the midst of the tomb, cease to haunt me."
His friend laid his hand on his arm, spoke soothingly to him, and
reminded him of the blessings which this terrible day--he had said so
himself--had brought.
Dion was right to give this warning; for Gorgias's bearing and the very
tone of his voice changed as he eagerly declared that the frightful
events had been followed by more than happy ones for the city, his
friend, and Barine.
Then, with a sigh of relief, he continued: "I pursued my way home like a
drunken man. Every attempt to approach the Queen or her attendants was
baffled, but I learned from Charmian's clever Nubian that Cleopatra had
been permitted, in Cæsar's name, to choose the palace she desired to
occupy, and had selected the one at Lochias.
"I did not make much progress towards my house; the crowd in front of
the great gymnasium stopped me. Octavianus had gone into the city, and
the people, I heard, had greeted him with acclamations and flung
themselves on their knees before him. Our stiff-necked Alexandrians in
the dust before the victor! It enraged me, but my resentment was
diminished.
"The members of the gymnasium all knew me. They made way and, ere I was
aware of it, I had passed through the door. Tall Phryxus had drawn my
arm through his. He appears and vanishes at will, is as alert as he is
rich, sees and hears everything, and manages to secure the best places.
This time he had again succeeded; for when he released me we were
standing opposite to a newly erected tribune.
"They were waiting for Octavianus, who was still in the hypostyle of
Euergetes receiving the homage of the epitrop, the members of the
Council, the gymnasiarch, and I know not how many others.
"Phryxus said that on Cæsar's entry he had held out his hand to his
former tutor, bade him accompany him, and commanded that his sons should
be presented. The philosopher had been distinguished above every one
else, and this will benefit you and yours; for he is Berenike's brother,
and therefore your wife's uncle. What he desires is sure to be granted.
You will hear at once how studiously the Cæsar distinguishes him. I do
not grudge it to the man; he interceded boldly for Barine; he is lauded
as an able scholar, and he does not lack courage. In spite of Actium and
the only disgraceful deed with which, to my knowledge, Mark Antony could
be reproached--I mean the surrender of Turullius--Arius remained here,
though the Imperator might have held the friend of Julius Cæsar's
nephew as a hostage as easily as he gave up the Emperor's assassin.
"Since Octavianus encamped before the city, your uncle has been in
serious danger, and his sons shared his peril. Surely you must know the
handsome, vigorous young Ephebi.
"We were not obliged to wait long in the gymnasium ere the Cæsar
appeared on the platform; and now--if your hand clenches, it is only
what I expect--now all fell on their knees. Our turbulent, rebellious
rabble raised their hands like pleading beggars, and grave, dignified
men followed their example. Whoever saw me and Phryxus will remember us
among the kneeling lickspittles; for had we remained standing we should
certainly have been dragged down. So we followed the example of the
others."
"And Octavianus?" asked Dion eagerly.
"A man of regal bearing and youthful aspect; beardless face of the
finest chiselling, a profile as beautiful as if created for the
coin-maker; all the lines sharp and yet pleasing; every inch an
aristocrat; but the very mirror of a cold nature, incapable of any lofty
aspiration, any warm emotion, any tenderness of feeling. All in all, a
handsome, haughty, calculating man, whose friendship would hardly
benefit the heart, but from whose enmity may the immortals guard all we
love!
"Again he led Arius by the hand. The philosopher's sons followed the
pair. When he stood on the stage, looking down upon the thousands
kneeling before him, not a muscle of his noble face--it is certainly
that--betrayed the slightest emotion. He gazed at us like a farmer
surveying his flocks and, after a long silence, said curtly in excellent
Greek that he absolved the Alexandrians from all guilt towards him:
first--he counted as if he were summoning individual veterans to reward
them--from respect for the illustrious founder of our city, Alexander,
the conqueror of the world; secondly, because the greatness and beauty
of Alexandria filled him with admiration; and, thirdly--he turned to
Arius as he spoke--to give pleasure to his admirable and beloved friend.
"Then shouts of joy burst forth.
"Every one, from the humblest to the greatest, had had a heavy burden
removed from his mind, and the throng had scarcely left the gymnasium
when they were again laughing saucily enough, and there was no lack of
biting and innocent jests. The fat carpenter, Memnon--who furnished the
wood-work for your palace--exclaimed close beside me that formerly a
dolphin had saved Arius from the pirates; now Arius was saving marine
Alexandria from the robbers. So the sport went on. Philostratus,
Barine's first husband, offered the best butt for jests. The agitator
had good reason to fear the worst; and now, clad in black mourning
robes, ran after Arius, whom but a few months ago he persecuted with the
most vindictive hatred, continually repeating this shallow bit of verse:
"'If he is a wise man, let the wise aid the wise.'
"Reaching home was not easy. The street was swarming with Roman
soldiers. They fared well enough; for in the joy of their hearts many a
prosperous citizen who saw his property saved invited individual
warriors, or even a whole maniple, to the taverns or cook-shops, and the
stock of wine in Alexandrian cellars will be considerably diminished
to-night.
"Many, as I have already said, had been quartered in the houses, with
orders to spare the property of the citizens; and it was in this way
that the misfortune with which I commenced my narrative befell the
grandmother. She died before my departure.
"All the gates of the city will now stand open to you, and the niece of
Arius and her husband will be received with ovations. I don't grudge
Barine the good fortune; for the way in which your noble wife, who had
cast her spell over me too, flung aside what is always dear to the
admired city beauty and found on the loneliest of islands a new world in
love, is worthy of all admiration and praise. For yourself, I dread new
happiness and honours; if they are added to those which Fate bestowed
upon you in such a wife and your son Pyrrhus, the gods would not be
themselves if they did not pursue you with their envy. I have less
reason to fear them."
"Ungrateful fellow!" interrupted his friend. "There will be numerous
mortals to grudge you Helena. As for me, I have already felt many a
slight foreboding; but we have already paid by no means a small tribute
to the divine ones. The lamp is still burning in the sitting-room.
Inform the sisters of their grandmother's death, and tell them the
pleasant tidings you have brought us, but reserve until the morning a
description of the terrible scenes you witnessed. We will not spoil
their sleep. Mark my words! Helena's silent grief and her joy at our
escape will lighten your heart."
And so it proved. True, Gorgias lived over again in his dreams the
frightful spectacle witnessed the day before; but when the sun of the 2d
day of August rose in full radiance over Alexandria and, early in the
morning, boat after boat reached the Serpent Island, landing first
Berenike and her nephews, the sons of the honoured philosopher Arius,
then clients, officials, and friends of Dion, and former favourite
guests of Barine, to greet the young pair and escort them from the
refuge which had so long sheltered them back to the city and their
midst, new and pleasant impressions robbed the gloomy picture of a large
portion of its terrors.
"Tall Phryxus" had rapidly spread the news of the place where Dion and
Barine had vanished, and that they had long been happily wedded. Many
deemed it well worth a short voyage to see the actors in so strange an
adventure and be the first to greet them. Besides, those who knew Barine
and her husband were curious to learn how two persons accustomed to the
life of a great capital had endured for months such complete solitude.
Many feared or expected to see them emaciated and careworn, haggard or
sunk in melancholy, and hence there were a number of astonished faces
among those whose boats the freedman Pyrrhus guided as pilot through the
shallows which protected his island.
The return of this rare couple to their home would have afforded an
excellent opportunity for gay festivities. Sincerely as the majority of
the populace mourned the fate of the Queen, and gravely as the more
thoughtful feared for Alexandria's freedom under Roman rule, all
rejoiced over the lenient treatment of the city. Their lives and
property were safe, and the celebration of festivals had become a life
habit with all classes. But the news of the death of Didymus's wife and
the illness of the old man, who could not bear up under the loss of his
faithful companion, gave Dion a right to refuse any gay welcome at his
home.
Barine's sorrow was his also, and Didymus died a few days after his
wife, with whom he had lived in the bonds of love for more than half a
century--people said, "of a broken heart."
So Dion and his young wife entered his beautiful palace with no noisy
festivities. Instead of the jubilant hymenæus, the voice of his own
child greeted him on the threshold.
The mourning garments in which Barine welcomed him in the women's
apartment reminded him of the envy of the gods which his friend had
feared for him. But he often fancied that his mother's statue in the
tablinum looked specially happy when the young mistress of the house
entered it.
Barine, too, felt that her happiness as wife and mother in her
magnificent home would have been overwhelming had not a wise destiny
imposed upon her, just at this time, grief for those whom she loved.
Dion instantly devoted himself again to the affairs of the city and his
own business. He and the woman he loved, who had first become really his
own during a time of sore privation, had run into the harbour and gazed
quietly at the storms of life. The anchor of love, which moored their
ship to the solid earth, had been tested in the solitude of the Serpent
Island.