inity in everything she looked upon. The immortals who had
afflicted her, and whom she had often bitterly accused, could be kind
and merciful too. The sea, on whose shining surface the blue vault of
heaven with the moon and stars rocked and twinkled, the soft breeze
which fanned her brow, the new delicious longing which filled her
heart-all she felt and was conscious of, was a divinity or an emanation
of the divine. Mighty Poseidon and majestic Zeus, gentle Selene, and the
sportive children of the god of winds, seemed to be strangely near her
as she rode along. And it was the omnipotent son of Kypris, no doubt,
who stirred her heart to beat higher than it had ever done before.

Her visit to her mother's grave, too, her prayer and her offerings
there, had perhaps moved the spirit of the beloved dead to hover near
her now as a guardian genius.

Still, now and again the memory of something terrible passed over her
soul like a sweeping shadow; but what it was which threatened her and
those dear to her she did not see, and would not now inquire. What the
morrow might bring should not cloud the enchantment of this hour. For
oh, how fair the world was, and how blessed might mortals be!

"Iakchos! Iakchos!" the voices about her shouted, and it sounded as
gleeful as though the breasts of the revelers were overflowing with
gladness; and as the scented curls of Diodoros bent over her head, as
his hand closed on hers, and his whispered words of love were in her
ear, she murmured: "Alexander is right; the world is a banqueting-hall,
and life is fair."

"So fair!" echoed the youth, pensively. Then he shouted aloud to his
companions: "The world is a banqueting-hall! Bring roses, bring wine,
that we may sacrifice to Eros, and pour libations to Dionysus. Light
the flaming torches! Iakchos! come, Iakchos, and sanctify our glad
festival!"

"Come, Iakchos, come!" cried one and another, and soon the enthusiastic
youth's cry was taken up on all sides. But wine-skin and jar were long
since emptied.

Hard by, below the cliff, and close to the sea, was a tavern, at the
sign of the Cock. Here cool drink was to be had; here the horses might
rest-for the drivers had been grumbling bitterly at the heavy load added
to the car over the deep sand--and here there was a level plot, under
the shade of a spreading sycamore, which had often before now served as
a floor for the choric dance.

The vehicle soon drew up in front of the whitewashed inn,