en in armour. Arrived
at length in a portico, open to the supper-chamber, they contrived that
their mechanical march-movement should fall out into a kind of highly
expressive dramatic action; and with the utmost possible emphasis of
dumb motion, their long swords weaving a silvery network in the air,
they danced the Death of Paris. The young Commodus, already an adept
in these matters, who had condescended to [80] welcome the eminent
Apuleius at the banquet, had mysteriously dropped from his place to
take his share in the performance; and at its conclusion reappeared,
still wearing the dainty accoutrements of Paris, including a
breastplate, composed entirely of overlapping tigers' claws, skilfully
gilt. The youthful prince had lately assumed the dress of manhood, on
the return of the emperor for a brief visit from the North; putting up
his hair, in imitation of Nero, in a golden box dedicated to Capitoline
Jupiter. His likeness to Aurelius, his father, was become, in
consequence, more striking than ever; and he had one source of genuine
interest in the great literary guest of the occasion, in that the
latter was the fortunate possessor of a monopoly for the exhibition of
wild beasts and gladiatorial shows in the province of Carthage, where
he resided.

Still, after all complaisance to the perhaps somewhat crude tastes of
the emperor's son, it was felt that with a guest like Apuleius whom
they had come prepared to entertain as veritable connoisseurs, the
conversation should be learned and superior, and the host at last
deftly led his company round to literature, by the way of bindings.
Elegant rolls of manuscript from his fine library of ancient Greek
books passed from hand to hand about the table. It was a sign for the
visitors themselves to draw their own choicest literary curiosities
from their bags, as their contribution to the banquet; and one of them,
a [81] famous reader, choosing his lucky moment, delivered in tenor
voice the piece which follows, with a preliminary query as to whether
it could indeed be the composition of Lucian of Samosata,+ understood
to be the great mocker of that day:--

"What sound was that, Socrates?" asked Chaerephon. "It came from the
beach under the cliff yonder, and seemed a long way off.--And how
melodious it was! Was it a bird, I wonder. I thought all sea-birds
were songless."

"Aye! a sea-bird," answered Socrates, "a bird called the Halcyon, and
has a note full of plaining