rish
faithfully the sweet worship of Isis. They fly from the surface, where
the Church has victoriously planted the cross of the ascetics, to the
secret bosom of Mother Earth with their holy and beloved religious
ceremonies. They still keep, hidden below the pyramids of Cheops, a few
hundred amphoras of the strong wine which intoxicated the initiated at
the orgies of joy and love. The secret is kept from generation to
generation, there is always only one priestess who knows the cellar and
keeps the key. I kissed the priestess and she let me in. She was like a
wild cat, but her wine was good; and at parting she gave me five
amphoras to take on board my ship."

"I did not get as far as that with Smerda," said the Corsican. "She let
me drink in the cellar, but at parting she only gave me this." And he
bared his brown throat.

"A dagger-stab of jealousy!" laughed Cethegus. "Well, I am glad that
the daughter has not degenerated. In my time, that is, when the mother
let me drink, the little Smerda still ran about in baby-frocks. Long
live the Nile and sweet Isis!" And the two men drank to each other. But
yet they were vexed that they shared a secret which each believed he
had possessed alone.

The others, however, were charmed by the amiable humour of the icy
Prefect, who chatted with them as youthfully as the youngest amongst
them, and who now, when the favourite theme of young men at the
wine-cup had been introduced--love adventures and stories of lovely
women--bubbled over with anecdotes of jests and tricks, of most of
which he had himself been witness. Every one stormed him with
questions. The Corsican alone remained dumb and cold.

"Say," cried the host, and signed to the cup-bearer just as a burst of
mirth caused by one of these stories had ceased; "tell us, you man of
varied experience--Egyptian Isis-girls, Gallic Druidesses, black-haired
daughters of Syria, and my plastic sisters of Hellas--all these you
know and understand how to value; but tell us, have you ever loved a
Germanic woman?"

"No," said Cethegus, "they were always too insipid for me."

"Oho!" said Kallistratos; "that is saying too much. I tell you, I was
mad all the last calendars for a German girl; she was not at all
insipid."

"What? you, Kallistratos of Corinth, the countryman of Aspasia and
Helena, you could burn for a barbarian woman? Oh, wicked Eros,
sense-confuser, man-shamer!"

"Well, I acknowledge it was an error of the senses. I have