slipped aside,
went wrong or lost its edge before the image could be extracted from the
block.

One illusion after another floated before her eyes first it was Gorgo,
the idol of her old heart, lying pale and fair on a sea of surf that
rocked her on its watery waste--up high on the crest of a wave and then
deep down in the abyss that yawned behind it. She, too--so young, a
hardly-opened blossom--must perish in the universal ruin, and be crushed
by the same omnipotent hand that could overthrow the greatest of the
gods; and a glow of passionate hatred snatched her away from the aim of
her hopes. Then the dream changed she saw a scattered flock of ravens
flying in wide circles, at an unattainable height, against the clouds;
suddenly they vanished and she saw, in a grey mist, the monument to
Porphyrius' wife, Gorgo's long-departed mother. She had often visited the
mausoleum with tender emotion, but she did not want to see it now--not
now, and she shook it off; but in its place rose up the image of her
daughter-in-law herself, the dweller in that tomb, and no effort of will
or energy availed to banish that face. She saw the dead woman as she had
seen her on the last fateful occasion in her short life. A solemn and
festal procession was passing out through the door of their house, headed
by flute-players and singing-girls; then came a white bull; a garland of
the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate--[This tree was regarded as the
symbol of fertility, on account of its many-seeded fruit.]--hung round
its massive neck, and its horns were gilt. By its side walked slaves,
carrying white baskets full of bread and cakes and heaps of flowers, and
these were followed by others, bearing light-blue cages containing geese
and doves. The bull, the calves, the flowers and the birds were all to be
deposited in the temple of Eileithyia, as a sacrifice to the protecting
goddess of women in child-birth. Close behind the bull came Gorgo's
mother, dressed with wreaths, walking slowly and timidly, with shy,
downcast eyes-thinking perhaps of the anguish to come, and putting up a
silent prayer.

Damia followed with the female friends of the house, the clients and
their wives and some personal attendants, all carrying pomegranates in
the right hand, and holding in the left a long wreath of flowers which
thus connected the whole procession.

In this order they reached the ship-yard; but at that spot they were met
by a band of crazy monks from the