IN THE TOILS
“By Pallas! A bird hath flown into our net. The tempest hath driven her to
shelter.”
“A riddle for my interpretation, Marcius?”
“Thou judgest rightly.”
“Methinks I am already on the trail, my gallant; or art thou an impostor?
Come, I am impatient! Doth the bird sing?”
“Thou wilt find out the particulars for thyself.”
“A truce. Solve thine own riddle, I say.”
“Well, my gay Leander, the slaves down‐stairs say that we are honored by a
call—rather unceremonious, I must admit—from a beautiful young Jewess.”
“Ha! A bird of that feather will stir the pulses.”
“Thou sayest well. The sun warms and the breeze refreshes.”
The Roman smiled, and his dark eyes sparkled from beneath their heavy
brows.
“A much‐needed addition to our coterie, Marcius. The gods are propitious
to‐night.”
“Thy discrimination is fine, my genial Greek. Variety is fitting.”
“Fortune commands us to be hospitable.”
“We will obey with alacrity, and make the young Jewess quite at home.”
“Even the elements bespeak a welcome with their noisy commotion.”
“A truce to thy poetic fancies, my gallant. They say the bird hath an
incumbrance.”
“A lover in her train, sayest thou?”
“Nay; a small brother.”
“Did the skies drop them down with the hail‐stones in the storm that just
passed over, Marcius?”
“I cannot swear to it, my Leander; but it seemeth likely, for the slaves
say that they appeared just afterwards at the gate which opens toward the
Cydnus.”
“O thou prosaic Roman! It is the gods who are prodigal with their favors.”
“Be it so. Who recks the wind, where it blows, so that it ministers to our
fancies. Thou art an ardent votary of thy favorite divinities; but
miracles like this are not common.”
“Ah! the Muses whisper to us:—
‘Love, sons of earth—for love is earth’s soft lore,
Look where ye will—earth overflows with me,
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore,
And the winds nestling on the heaving sea.’”
“Son of the Muses! Descend from thy flight among the deities, and be
assured that to the commonplace god of Necessity this visit of our guests
is due. Their light shallop being disabled, they made a very unexpected
but necessary landing upon the dock within our enclosing walls.”
“The shades of Daphne be praised, Marcius; but what of the lad in
attendance?”
“If we find no service for him within the palace, we may have to offer him
to the gods as a Hebrew sacrifice, or, in other words, present him as a
graceful tribute to the waters of the Cydnus.”
“Thou sayest well. The Styx is often a shady but poetic necessity. The
gods give their favorites early release.”
“A happy turn to a shadowy sentiment, my gay Leander, and quite worthy of
thy ever‐presiding Muse.”
“But will not our guest feel neglected at this delay in her reception,
Marcius?”
“Nay, my gallant; she must be made presentable. The slave woman, Chloe,
informs me that she was terribly dishevelled from the storm, but that her
beauty is marvellous. She is being warmed and refreshed.”
“Ah! my favorite Muse again comes to the front:—
‘In the veins of the calix foams and glows
The blood of the mantling vine;
But oh! in the bowl of Youth there glows
A Lesbium more divine!
Bright, Bright,
As the liquid light,
Its waves through thine eyelids shine!’”
“A very graceful song. From whence is it?”
“Oh, it is but a ripple on the surface of the great sea of Grecian lore.”
“Be it so. But a truce to the lore of the past. Let us now to the present.
Pour a libation to Venus, and bring a vessel of the wine of Lesbos, and we
will drink to the health of the fair one—the last to come under our
gracious protection.”
“Thou sayest well, Marcius. What the immortal gods send, let us receive
with thanks, and let it be consecrated in the charmed halls of our temple
of Eros.”
The two seated themselves, and in a little time each had drained a large
amphora of wine—once repeated. Soon the blood shot like flashes of fire
through their veins. At length Leander arose, and took from a vase a
handful of rare flowers.
“I weave a chaplet for my Jewish maiden, and chant once more in her
honor:—
‘We are fallen, but not forlorn,
If something is left to cherish;
As Love was the earliest born,
So Love is the last to perish.’”
With the continued draughts of wine, the Greek and the Roman grew more
talkative and noisy.
“By Bacchus! Leander, did my ears deceive me? Didst thou say _my_ Jewish
maiden before thy song?”
“Gently, impetuous Roman. I drank to _my_ Jewish maiden.”
“We shall _see_, O thou effeminate Greek!”
“We _shall_ see, then, perfidious Roman!”
“Ha! rash dolt! We will have no Brutus here. Slaves! Chloe! Bring up my
guest and introduce her.”
At the same moment he dealt the Greek a powerful blow, which caused him to
measure his length on the bear‐skin rugs that were spread upon the
polished, inlaid floor. Then, clapping his hands for a slave to assist
him, they bore the prostrate Leander into an adjoining chamber, and
deposited him upon a couch. Marcius then returned to receive the latest
guest.
While the episode just narrated had been going on, there had come floating
in from a distance the tones of unseen minstrelsy—now swelling, now
diminishing—in a way to hold the soul spellbound. This was an
accompaniment to the nightly revelry and orgies.
Adjoining the apartment where the comrades had held converse, and
separated from it by heavy draperies, was a large banquet‐room, and still
beyond, the room from whence came the strains of music. Mingled with the
melody and with the measured rhythm of the dance, there escaped fragments
of hilarity, merrymaking, and the echo of voices in pleasing confusion.
All the apartments and their accessories were eloquent with a voluptuous
refinement. Culture, wealth, and depravity seemed here to form a close
combination. The occupants evidently were of patrician blood, corrupted by
luxury and sensuality, while the pictures, statuary, symbols, and images
indicated that their oft‐invoked divinities were as cruel and degenerate
as themselves. The whole interior of the palace was an intricate but
beautiful maze, arranged to confuse and captivate the senses. It was one
of those highly organized efforts, in a luxurious and depraved age, in a
heathen metropolis, to storm the citadels of supposed pleasure, and to
compel the inverted mechanism of Nature herself to yield without reserve
the last charm that is contained in her storehouse. Art, nature, the
flowers, the stars, rhythm, melody, beauty, and feeling, with cruelty and
brutality interwoven—everything was placed under contribution in the mad
and exhaustive search for a perfect sentient paradise. It was an age when
the senses and instincts of mankind seemed to reach a climax of abnormity,
while outwardly gilded with artistic charm and gracefulness. It was an era
of intellectual delusion and spiritual insanity. Man must crowd and
surfeit his baser nature to the bursting‐point to‐day, for to‐morrow he is
not.
The palace was brilliant with numberless lights; and the warm air was
heavy with the odors of myrrh, violets, jasmine, and other flowers and
spices. Fountains cast up a delicate spray which glittered like star‐dust
in their pulsating prismatic play. Mirrors of polished steel duplicated
every beautiful object, dazzled the bewildered senses, and flung chaplets
of rosy chains around the soul of every captive and victim. To breathe the
magic air was to experience a delicious intoxication.
The vaulted ceilings of the principal apartments were frescoed with a sky
in which were floating fleecy clouds of rosy hue, from the midst of which
smiled faces of bewildering shape and beauty.
In the dances and religious processions that were painted upon panels
trooped forms of the divinest beauty, bearing garlands and chaplets and
lyres, keeping time to the soft minstrelsy of melody which seemed to issue
from the very walls. Every ornament, picture, and statue silently chanted
an invitation to ENJOY.
The door from below opened, and Chloe ushered the pure Jewish maiden into
the presence of Marcius. But she came not alone. The small brother, though
uninvited, appeared also, and they were hand in hand.