as they had passed the last houses, men and women alike began to
sing; no leader started them, nor lyre accompanied them, and yet their
song went up as though with one voice.

Diodoros and Melissa knew every note sung by the Greeks or Egyptians of
Alexandria, at this or any other festival, but this melody was strange
to them; and when the young man whispered to the girl, "What is it that
they are singing?" she replied, as though startled from sleep, "They are
no mere mortals!"

Diodoros shuddered; he fancied that the procession was floating above
the earth; that, if they had been indeed men of flesh and blood, their
steps would have been more distinctly audible on the pavement. Some of
them appeared to him to be taller than common mortals, and their chant
was certainly that of another world than this where he dwelt. Perhaps
these were daimons, the souls of departed Egyptians, who, after a
midnight visit to those they had left behind them, were returning to the
rock tombs, of which there were many in the stony hills to which this
street led. They were walking toward these tombs, and not toward the
gate; and Diodoros whispered his suspicion to his companion, clasping
his hand on an amulet in the semblance of an eye, which his Egyptian
nurse had fastened round his neck long ago with an Anubic thread, to
protect him against the evil-eye and magic spells.

But Melissa was listening with such devout attention to the chant that
she did not hear him. The fatigue which had reached such a painful
climax had, during this peaceful rest, given way to a blissful
unconsciousness of self. It was a kind of happiness to feel no longer
the burden of exhaustion, and the song of the wanderers was like a
cradle-song, lulling her to sweet dreams. It filled her with gladness,
and yet it was not glad, not even cheerful. It went to her heart, and
yet it was not mournful-not in the least like the passionate lament of
Isis for Osiris, or that of Demeter bewailing her daughter. The emotion
it aroused in her was a sweetly sorrowful compassion, which included
herself, her brothers, her father, her lover, all who were doomed to
suffering and death, even the utter stranger, for whom she had hitherto
felt no sympathy.

And the compassion bore within it a sense of comfort which she could not
explain, or perhaps would not inquire into. It struck her, too, now and
then, that the strain had a ring as of thanksgiving. It was, no doubt,
addressed to the