y, and if all is
well...." Here she paused, pointed to the curtain, and went on again in
a lower tone: "It all depends of course, on Agne's playing us no trick."

"How so? Why? She is a good girl and I will..."

"No, no," said Herse holding him back. "She does not know yet what the
business is. The lady wants her..."

"Well?"

"To sing in the Temple of Isis."

Karnis colored. He was suddenly called from a lovely dream back to the
squalid reality. "In the Temple of Isis," he said gloomily. "Agne? In
the face of all the people? And she knows nothing about it?"

"Nothing, father."

"No? Well then, if that is the case... Agne, the Christian, in the
Temple of Isis--here, here, where Bishop Theophilus is destroying
all our sanctuaries and the monks outdo their master. Ah, children,
children, how pretty and round and bright a soap-bubble is, and how soon
it bursts. Do you know at all what it is that you are planning? If the
black flies smell it out and it becomes known, by the great Apollo!
we should have fared better at the hands of the pirates. And yet, and
yet.--Do you know at all how the girl...?"

"She wept at the lady's singing," interrupted Herse eagerly, "and,
silent as she generally is, on her way home she said: 'To sing like
that! She is a happy girl!'"

Karnis looked up with renewed confidence.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "that is my Agne. Yes, yes, she truly loves her
divine art. She can sing, she will sing! We will venture it, if you, I,
all of us die for it!

"Herse, Orpheus, what have we to lose? Our gods, too, shall have their
martyrs. It is a poor life that has no excitement. Our art--why, all
I have ever had has been devoted to it. I make no boast of having
sacrificed everything, and if gold and lands were again to be mine I
would become a beggar once more for the sake of art: We have always held
the divine Muse sacred, but who can keep up a brave heart when he sees
her persecuted! She may only be worshipped in darkness in these days,
and the Queen of Gods and men shuns the light like a moth, a bat, an
owl. If we must die let it be with and for Her! Once more let pure and
perfect song rejoice this old heart, and if afterwards... My children,
we have no place in this dim, colorless world. While the Arts lived
there was Spring on the earth. Now they are condemned to death and it
is Winter. The leaves fall from all the trees, and we piping birds need
groves to sing in. How often already has Death laid his