The vision did not appear the next day. The sick woman was unusually
animated, for Timon had come from Cæsarea. Alarmed for the life of his
daughter and frightened by Cinna's letters, he had left Alexandria a few
days earlier to look once again on his only child before her parting. At
Cinna's heart hope began to knock again, as if to give notice to receive
it. But he had not courage to open the door to that guest; he did not
dare to harbor hope.
In the visions which had been killing Antea, there had been intervals,
it is true, not of two days, but of one in Alexandria, and in the
desert. The present relief Cinna attributed to Timon's arrival, and her
impressions at the cross, which so filled the sick woman's soul that she
could talk of nothing else, even with her father.
Timon listened with attention; he did not contradict; he meditated and
merely inquired carefully about the doctrine of the Nazarene, of which
Antea knew, for that matter, only what the procurator had told her.
In general she felt healthier and somewhat stronger; and when midday had
passed and gone, real solace shone in her eyes. She repeated that that
was a favorable day, and begged her husband to make note of it.
The day was really sad and gloomy. Rain had begun in the early morning,
at first very heavy, then fine and cutting, from low clouds which
extended monotonously. Only in the evening did the sky break through,
and the great fiery globe of the sun look out of the mists, paint in
purple and gold the gray rocks, the white marble porticoes of the
villas, and descend with endless gleams toward the Mediterranean.
The next morning was wonderfully beautiful. The weather promised to be
warm, but the morning was fresh, the sky without a spot, and the earth
so sunk in a blue bath that all objects seemed blue. Antea had given
directions to bear her out and place her under the favorite
pistachio-tree, so that from the elevation on which the tree stood she
might delight herself with the view of the blue and gladsome distance.
Cinna and Timon did not move a step from the litter, and watched the
face of the sick woman carefully. There was in it a certain alarm of
expectation, but it was not that mortal fear which used to seize her at
the approach of midday. Her eyes cast a more lively light, and her
cheeks bloomed with a slight flush. Cinna thought indeed at moments that
Antea might recover; and at this thought he wanted to throw himself on
the ground, to sob from delight, and bless the gods. Then again he
feared that that was perhaps the last gleam of the dying lamp. Wishing
to gain hope from some source, he glanced every little while at Timon;
but similar thoughts must have been passing through his head, for he
avoided Cinna's glances. None of the three mentioned by a word that
midday was near. But Cinna, casting his eyes every moment at the
shadows, saw with beating heart that they were growing shorter and
shorter.
And he sat as if sunk in thought. Perhaps the least alarmed was Antea
herself. Lying in the open litter, her head rested on a purple pillow;
she breathed with delight that pure air which the breeze brought from
the west, from the distant sea. But before midday the breeze had ceased
to blow. The heat increased; warmed by the sun, the pepperwort of the
cliffs and the thickets of nard began to give out a strong and
intoxicating odor. Bright butterflies balanced themselves over bunches
of anemones. From the crevices of the rocks little lizards, already
accustomed to that litter and those people, sprang out, one after the
other, confident as usual, and also cautious in every movement. The
whole world was enjoying that serene peace, that warmth, that calm
sweetness and azure drowsiness.
Timon and Cinna seemed also to dissolve in that sunny rest. The sick
woman closed her eyes as if a light sleep had seized her; and nothing
interrupted that silence except sighs, which from time to time raised
her breast.
Meanwhile Cinna noticed that his shadow had lost its lengthened form and
was lying there under his feet.
It was midday.
All at once Antea opened her eyes and called out in a kind of strange
voice,--
"Caius, give me thy hand."
He sprang up, and all the blood was stiffened to ice in his heart. The
hour of terrible visions had come.
Her eyes opened wider and wider.
"Dost thou see," said she, "how light collects there and binds the air;
how it trembles, glitters, and approaches me?"
"Antea, look not in that direction!" cried Cinna.
But, oh, wonder! there was no fear on her face. Her lips were parted;
her eyes were gazing, and opening wider and wider; a certain
immeasurable delight began to brighten her face.
"The pillar of light approaches me," said she. "See! that is he; that is
the Nazarene!--he is smiling. O Mild! O Merciful! The transfixed hands
he stretches out like a mother to me. Caius, he brings me health,
salvation, and calls me to himself."
Cinna grew very pale, and said,--
"Whithersoever he calls us, let us follow him."
* * * * *
A moment later, on the other side, on the stony path leading to the
city, appeared Pontius Pilate. Before he had come near, it was evident
from his face that he was bringing news, which, as a man of judgment, he
considered a fresh, absurd invention of the ignorant and credulous
rabble. In fact, while still at some distance, he began to call, wiping
perspiration from his brow,--
"Imagine to thyself, they declare that he has risen from the dead!"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Styx.