d say:

"Art thou going to gather moonshine, Aurelius? Why then didst thou not
fetch baskets?"

And he would answer, laughing and pointing to his eyes:

"Here are the baskets wherein I gather the sheen of the moon and the
glimmer of the sun."

And so it was: the moon glimmered in his eyes and the sun sparkled
therein. But he could not translate them into marble and therein lay the
serene tragedy of his life.

He was descended from an ancient patrician race, had a good wife and
children, and suffered from no want.

When the obscure rumor about Lazarus reached him, he consulted his wife
and friends and undertook the far journey to Judea to see him who had
miraculously risen from the dead. He was somewhat weary in those days
and he hoped that the road would sharpen his blunted senses. What was
said of Lazarus did not frighten him: he had pondered much over Death,
did not like it, but he disliked also those who confused it with life.

"In this life,--life and beauty;
beyond,--Death, the enigmatical"--

thought he, and there is no better thing for a man to do than to delight
in life and in the beauty of all things living. He had even a
vainglorious desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view and
restore his soul to life, as his body had been restored. This seemed so
much easier because the rumors, shy and strange, did not render the
whole truth about Lazarus and but vaguely warned against something
frightful.

Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the sun which
was setting in the desert, when a rich Roman attended by an armed slave,
approached him and addressed him in a sonorous tone of voice:

"Lazarus!"

And Lazarus beheld a superb face, lit with glory, and arrayed in fine
clothes, and precious stones sparkling in the sun. The red light lent to
the Roman's face and head the appearance of gleaming bronze--that also
Lazarus noticed. He resumed obediently his place and lowered his weary
eyes.

"Yes, thou art ugly, my poor Lazarus,"--quietly said the Roman, playing
with his golden chain; "thou art even horrible, my poor friend; and
Death was not lazy that day when thou didst fall so heedlessly into his
hands. But thou art stout, and, as the great Caesar used to say, fat
people are not ill-tempered; to tell the truth, I don't understand why
men fear thee. Permit me to spend the night in thy house; the hour is
late, and I have no shelter."

Never had anyone asked Lazarus'