e hot, vari-coloured crowd melted away and disappeared, so that when
the Emperor rose and made the sign of the Cross over his people, first
to the right, and then to the left, and thirdly over the half-circle
behind him, and the singers of Saint Sofia and the Church of the Holy
Apostles mingled their bass chant with the shrill trebles of the chorus
of the Hippodrome, to the sound of silver organs, he thought that the
great hymn of praise was rising to her and to her alone; and that men
had come from the uttermost parts of the earth to pay homage to her,
to sing her praise, to kneel to her--to her, the wondrous, the very
beautiful: peerless, radiant, perfect.

A voice, followed by a cough, called from the hole in the wall; but
Rufinus paid no heed, so deeply sunk was he in his vision.

"Rufinus, the Chief is calling you," said Cephalus.

Rufinus started, and hurried to the hole in the wall. The Head of the
Department gave him a message for an official in another department.

Rufinus hurried with the message downstairs and delivered it. On his way
back he passed the main portico on the ground floor. He walked out into
the street: it was empty. Everybody was at the games.

A dark-skinned country girl passed him singing a song about the swallow
and the spring. She was bearing a basket full of anemones, violets,
narcissi, wild roses, and lilies of the valley.

"Will you sell me your flowers?" he asked, and he held out a silver
coin.

"You are welcome to them," said the girl. "I do not need your money."

He took the flowers and returned to the room upstairs. The flowers
filled the stuffy place with an unwonted and wonderful fragrance.

Then he sat down and appeared to be once more busily engrossed in his
index. But side by side with the index he had a small tablet, and on
this, every now and then, he added or erased a word to a short poem. The
sense of it was something like this:--

Rhodocleia, flowers of spring
I have woven in a ring;
Take this wreath, my offering, Rhodocleia.

Here's the lily, here the rose
Her full chalice shall disclose;
Here's narcissus wet with dew,
Windflower and the violet blue.
Wear the garland I have made;
Crowned with it, put pride away;
For the wreath that blooms must fade;
Thou thyself must fade some day, Rhodocleia.

THE SPIDER'S WEB

To K. L.

He heard the bell of the Badia sound hour after hour, and still sleep
r