ecting
applause, but no one was listening; the tempest was spreading terror
among most of the freedmen and slaves.

Philotas and Myrtilus were following Daphne and her companion Chrysilla
as they hurried into the tent. The deep, commanding tones of old
Philippus vainly shouted the name of Althea, whom, as he had bestowed
his hospitality upon her in Pelusium, he regarded as his charge, while
at intervals he reprimanded the black slaves who were to carry his wife
to the ship, but at another heavy peal of thunder set down the litter to
throw themselves on their knees and beseech the angry god for mercy.

Gras, the steward whom Archias had given to his daughter, a Bithynian
who had attached himself to one school of philosophy after an other, and
thereby ceased to believe in the power of the Olympians, lost his quiet
composure in this confusion, and even his usual good nature deserted
him. With harsh words, and no less harsh blows, he rushed upon the
servants, who, instead of carrying the costly household utensils and
embroidered cushions into the tent, drew out their amulets and idols to
confide their own imperilled lives to the protection of higher powers.

Meanwhile the gusts of wind which accompanied the outbreak of the storm
extinguished the lamps and pitch-pans. The awning was torn from the
posts, and amid the wild confusion rang the commandant of Pelusium's
shouts for Althea and the screams of two Egyptian slave women, who, with
their foreheads pressed to the ground, were praying, while the angry
Gras was trying, by kicks and blows, to compel them to rise and go to
work.

The officers were holding a whispered consultation whether they should
accept the invitation of Proclus and spend the short remnant of the
night on his galley over the wine, or first, according to the counsel
of their pious commandant, wait in the neighbouring temple of Zeus until
the storm was over.

The tempest had completely scattered Daphne's guests. Even Ledscha
glanced very rarely toward the tents. She had thrown her self on the
ground under the sycamore to beseech the angry deity for mercy, but,
deeply as fear moved her agitated soul, she could not pray, but listened
anxiously whenever an unexpected noise came from the meeting place of
the Greeks.

Then the tones of a familiar voice reached her. It was Hermon's, and
the person to whom he was speaking could be no one but the uncanny
spider-woman, Althea.

They were coming to have a sec