'THAT he possesses the privilege of occupying a front seat at the games, and is exempt from paying duty on all articles imported or exported by him, and that he has right to leave or enter the city in time of peace or war.

'THIS DECREE to be inscribed by the Temple Wardens in the Great Temple of Artemis, where other grants of citizens have been subscribed.

'THAT ALL MEN MAY KNOW the people of Ephesus delight to honour such deeds of heroism, whether performed on behalf of a friend or an enemy.'

This read, Saronia the High Priestess bade Chios come to her, and taking the crown from an attendant, she placed it on the brow of the Greek, saying: 'Hail, honoured of the Ephesian people!' And at the same time she handed him the letter sealed with the seal of Rome.

As she did so, she looked steadfastly into his eyes, conveying her thought to him: 'Open it not here.'

He saw the oleander and the myrtle both entwined upon her bosom, and this he understood not.

He placed the parchment within the folds of his robe, and after thanking the givers, he retired with the Proconsul.

After passing the precincts of the Temple, the two men wished each other fortune and separated—the Roman to Nika, and Chios to wonder at the twin symbol which graced the bosom of Saronia.

He broke the seal of the parchment; between the folds he saw a tiny scrap. He read it—the other was nothing to him.

'To-morrow, when midnight has passed, haste to the bend of the river Cayster, which flows by the grove of Hecate. Fear nothing. The child of the Bride of Britain will be there.'

It was from Saronia, and he feared for her. He kissed the tiny scrap passionately.

'I will be there should all the Furies in Hades block the way....

'By the bend of the river—by the bend of the Cayster which washes the fringe of the horrible grove. I know the place well, where the chrysophrus with golden-coloured head swims to and fro. I know the spot where the iris bends its yellow flowers, where the lordly swans glide past, and the cranes dwell, and the nightingale sings from the silvery leaves of the sacred trees.

'I will be there, Saronia, my soul, my light, my love! I will be there to strike for thee with the strength of a lion if needs be!'



CHAPTER XXX

BY THE RIVER CAYSTER

The grove of Hecate was filled with beautiful trees—palm and myrtle, cypress and pine, the rich springing laurel, and the holy shoot of the deep blue olive.

Statues studded the wood, and the river Cenchrius watered the ground, and here had been heard the sound of the dance-loving lyre at the feasts of the gods.

Through this tree-clustering wood the fair-haired Muses came to worship, and the Sybil let loose her golden locks when the gods breathed on her.

The Cayster came south to the margin of the grove, moving rapidly northward and westward, sweeping by myriad blooms of the rose and iris, till it flowed from the land to the sea, carrying with it the snow-born waters of Cenchrius, Marnas, and Selinus—all goodly streams which watered the plain of Ephesus.

* * * * *

The priestess Saronia was thoughtful and calm. Not a ripple of agitation crossed her face as she gave her orders to a sacred slave:

'Summon seven of the Melissae—my bees, my virgin priestesses.'

She said to them:

'Prepare sacrifice for to-night. I offer to Hecate in the Sacred Grove. Take there a lamb, black as night, and honey of the rarest kind bear ye. Let the slaves dig a new pit, and place an altar therein, that all may be ready when I come. I leave the Temple gate when the watch tells out the hour before midnight. Merina and Smyrna shall accompany me to the confines of the grove.'

* * * * *

That night Chios quietly stole along under the stars until the old road to Smyrna intersected his path; but he did not swerve from his course until he reached the Cayster. Following its sinuous banks, disturbing the wild-fowl as he went, and treading on a carpeting of sweet-scented night-flowers, he soon reached the bend of the river which laved the grove.

There he rested on a block of white marble, brought to be set up as a memorial.

He gazed over the dark and silent stream. He arose, and paced to and fro. Not a sound was heard, save his own footfall and the nightingale's song.

He did not wait long ere he saw the form of a woman moving towards him.

Stealthily she came.

His heart danced with joy, for well he knew who it was.

'I am here,' cried Saronia.

'Noble girl!' replied Chios, as he kissed her.

'Art thou not fearful of this meeting?' said she.

'No,' replied the Greek. 'I have been told that love which would not dare death is not worthy the name of love.'

'It is death to both if discovered.'

'So much the better,' said he. 'We should then be for ever free.'

'Dost thou guess my mission to thee, Chios?'

'Partly.'

'Well, let me tell thee. I would hear more of the story—more of whom I am.'

'Darling girl, would I could tell thee! I know no more. I have told thee all.'

'Yet, I know more.'

'How?'

'By the power of divination.'

'And what hast thou gained by thy magic?'

'This: she whom thou spoke of is no other than my own mother. Further, she died unknown, uncared for, calling on the name of the Jewish Christ.'

Chios gasped for breath, and started back as if stung by a serpent, exclaiming, with bated breath:

'The Jewish Christ! Can it be true?'

'As true as the morning sun shall rise. I know it true, and judge it passing strange. How such a faith grew in her I know not. The mysteries of this creed I cannot understand, although it grows apace in Ephesus; but this I know: when I called forth into the world of spirits no answer came from her, whereby I am convinced she has gained entrance into a kingdom where the least of its subjects is greater than the mightiest of Diana's followers. I am the Arch-Priestess of yonder sacred Temple. My mother is greater than I, for I could not reach her plane, but—I will!'

'And how, Saronia?'

'I know not.'

'Wilt thou also turn Christian and follow the Nazarene?'

'No; I hate the thought. That faith is darker to me than the rolling blackness of the Styx.'

'What if thou sawest light in the darkness, and found a narrow path leading up to a plane of loveliness where, perchance, thy mother dwells? Wouldst thou not walk in it?'

'Yea, that I would, and would lay down my life to commence the journey. I am not a traitor to my goddess. I have followed her with all my strength, believing her to be the source of my being, and to whom I may return; but conditions are changing in me. My faith tried—it does not totter. Mark well, I say it does not stagger—it trembles only! My soul cries for more light—light—more light! And I cannot satisfy its longings. I ask thee, dost thou know of this Christ?'

'I do. I have sat at the feet of one of His greatest teachers, and he unfolded to me some of its mysteries.'

'Chios, I fear! Go on.'

'What shall I tell thee? I am not a teacher.'

'Art thou a believer?'

'I am, so far as I know; but its mysteries are great. I have scarcely touched the fringe of this new faith.'

'Hast thou, then, cut thyself adrift from the worship of our sacred goddess?'

'I have.'

'Oh, Chios, Chios, this is worse than all! Let me lean upon thee; I am weary—I am weary and alone.'

'No, dearest, thou art not alone, for the Father is with thee.'

They sat down on the block of white marble. He laid her head upon his shoulder, and the warm tears fell upon his hands; then he whispered:

'Dearest love, take courage. All will be well.'

'No, no, Chios. The strings of the lyre are broken. Saronia is alone.'

And, looking up, with her eyes melting with tenderness towards him, she said:

'The slave became a priestess, and the priestess a broken reed. Thou in spirit hast left me.'

'No, dearest, that is not so. We shall join hands when we fall, like leaves in the autumn time.'

'That may not be so, my love, my Chios, my joy, my life, my soul! Farewell! I am lost to thee, and thou to me, for ever—for ever!'

'No, no, Saronia; we will never part!'

'But we must, unless one resigns the faith; and, if we both believe our own, which can be liar, traitor? Thou shalt keep thine own. To thee it is truth, mine falsehood! I have no call to follow thine—I know not the way. I have espoused myself to the faith of Diana; I adhere to it until a greater than she broods over my spirit, and begets a new light for a new creed; when such shall come to pass I will not fail to do my duty. Until then I follow by the light I possess. This is my determination, dearest Chios. This I will do, and no other.'

'Saronia, this is more than I can bear. My soul sinks into a depth of woe unspeakable. Not that I fear, for, as light hath come to me, so also shall it shine on thee. I have not the gift of a seer, but I know we are one in spirit, must believe alike, worship the same God. As the light first strikes the tops of the mountains and afterwards floods the vale, so it broke first on me, and anon it shall burst on the soul of my Saronia.'

'Chios, Chios, my spirit thirsteth! Give me this light if thou canst. Give me truth.'

'And still thou lovest me, Saronia?'

'Love thee! Ah! a thousandfold more for fear our love may end with life. I know thou art good. Go thy way; serve thy God. I go mine to the grove yonder, to offer sacrifice to my goddess. Saronia must be true to her trust; let Chios be the same.'

He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. Holding her head between his hands, he gazed lovingly into her eyes, saying:

'Our love can never die. It is begotten from above. I will come again to thee, and teach thee of the new faith. I have with me a parchment, closely written, given to me by the holy man I saved from death. May I leave it with thee, Saronia? It may be of use. Thou dost not refuse it? May the Christ of God bless thee! And now good-bye. This is our meeting-place. It is unfrequented. Thou knowest how to signal me.'

Drawing her mantle around her tightly, he kissed her again and again, and she vanished into the night.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE DOOMED CITY

Two men were on the summit of the mountain which overlooked Ephesus. They had been earnestly engaged in conversation for some time, and, as they walked together, Chios said:

'How glorious is the decline of day! How splendid looks the city bathed in the golden light of eve!'

'Ay, true,' replied his companion; 'and I would that its fate led to peace, but it is not so.

'Seest thou the great city as it lies beneath us, its shrines and palaces like polished silver and burnished gold, and its frowning walls and battlements like a mighty circle of adamant?

'Look at its many terraced gardens of vine, olive, citron, and pomegranate, and gaze upon its purple-misted sea, and count, if thou canst, the multitude of white-winged ships bringing merchandise to pour into the lap of this mighty mart.

'The many-toned instruments sending forth their plaintive strain come up upon the perfume-laden air, and the song of the priests from yonder mighty Temple, the wonder of the world, floats lazily by like a vessel drifting with the tide.

'But, like the city of Salem, o'er which my Master wept, so this is doomed.

'The time shall come, and ere long, when it shall sicken and die. Those mighty buildings shall be no more. Yea, the mightiest of them, the great Temple of the goddess, shall become a wreck, and its splendour be rent in pieces and distributed amongst the nations, its floorway be covered with the dust of centuries, and its very site be questioned in the minds of men.

'The faith of Him I serve shall flourish here and grow until it blazes out like a forest of fire; but for a brief time only, for the place is accursed, and love will grow dim and the light depart. Amidst the din of war men will hurry to and fro in her beautiful streets and squares, pillaging and destroying as they conquer. Her splendid harbour will become a wild morass, a covert for the night-birds when the stormy winds rush over the plain from mountain to sea. Her streets will be deserted and silent, not a footfall be heard where the myriads trod. Nothing shall be left of her save a wilderness of marble ruins and tales of her former grandeur.'

'How terrible!' exclaimed Chios. 'Is that the destiny of beautiful Ephesus?'

'It is so; and well for thee light dawns into thy soul and thy spirit purifies, fitting thee for a brighter home. My time is well-nigh spent. I shall soon go hence.'

'Dost thou leave us?'

'Yes. I go to Rome to work, suffer, and die. Our ways diverge. Yet fear not. We enter the same haven at the right time. When once a man's face is set heavenward, God will not remove him until he be fit to enter His kingdom. I am glad I met thee, and, better still, my Lord and Master moulds thee for the future.'

'Judah, hast thou ever come into contact with the priests of the great theatre?'

'No. Why dost thou ask?'

'I thought if such were the case thou mightest give thine opinion of their faith.'

'That I can do.'

'Well, what think thou of Diana?'

'What think I? That the people who worship her are in earnest. They believe what is told them. Their forefathers did the same. It was good enough for them, so they follow—follow like dogs their master. Now and again those with keener insight step aside and utter protest, sniffing danger. Most of them are whipped into their place again, and all goes on as before.... The priests know their work, and are clever. The people may believe the myths and accept them as truths, but their teachers know they are fables, and use them as such to illustrate their faith.

'The worship is one of the senses—ours is spiritual, and needs a spiritual sight only to know as much of God as the soul of man can comprehend. A dreary shore with the great darkness around is to the Christian a temple filled with light. Thou hast friends amongst the worshippers of Diana, Chios?'

'Yes, one especially. She who gave me back my life—the great High Priestess Saronia.'

'Saronia, the High Priestess! I know her. When thou offeredst thy life to preserve mine, I saw her save thee from the lion.'

'What meanest thou?'

'She killed the lion's strength. One look from her could quell many such beasts. Her gaze would stay an eagle in its flight, and bring it earthward to her feet, swifter and surer than an arrow winged with lightning. She is deadly with her power! A mighty foe to those within her sphere, but with a follower of my Master she is powerless. The least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than she, and thou, Chios, art greater than the mighty Saronia. The Spirit which leads thee is the first, the greatest, the Lord of Hosts. All principalities and powers are beneath Him. Before His gaze the rebel prince fell like lightning from heaven.

'Listen, friend; I think I read thine heart. Thou lovest this terrific being—is it not so? Tell me. Thy secret shall be well kept. I may help thee.'

'Thou speakest truly. I know I am safe in thine hands. I trust thee to lead the way for my eternal good, and I may confide this portion of my life's history to thee. 'Tis a passion which may never be realized, but I dare hope she may be won for our God—and what a mighty spirit for good she would be!'

'Chios, her great spirit is of no common order. It has lived through the ages, and for the time is deeply buried in its prison of clay. We will awaken her, if we can, from out the cold and damp mists which surround her. This clay form to her is as Hades.'

'How can it be done?'

'This wise. The man who lives in harmony with God has the Deity on his side. He is a son; the Lord is his Father. Speak to Him as a child, and remember His power is infinite—and I will pray the Father and His Son that help may be given thee.'

'Tell me of the Son.'

'His Son is the Christ. To the Greeks this is foolishness, but be thou led by the Great Spirit, and He will teach thee all things, and thou wilt love the Son, and He will work with thee to win the desire of thy heart.'

'I understand not. These mysteries are well known to thee, and I obey. I am young in the faith, and cannot run.'

'For the present,' replied Judah, 'thou wilt do well in using thy faith; but the time will shortly arrive when thou wilt understand. Great is the mystery, clouds and darkness are around Him. Thou hast placed thy feet upon the ladder; as thou climbest thou wilt emerge into brightness. Trust and learn. As a pilot takes the helm at the harbour-mouth and shapes the course betwixt the sands, so mayst thou give way to the Great Pilot, and thus obtain abundant entrance into the haven whose promontories run out from the eternal shore.'

'Thou speakest again with authority?'

'I do. For awhile my spirit freed itself from the body, and moved into a sphere unseen, unknown to mortal eye. There I heard truths which no language can convey—not even your beautiful Grecian tongue could reveal them. I heard the language of Heaven, and was taught of God things mysterious and unlawful to utter; but I shall hear the grand rhythm again when I return home.... Now the sun is gone, and the west is banked with night-clouds. Let us depart.'



CHAPTER XXXII

ENDORA

Where the river of Ephesus joins the sea the great rocks stand out as fortresses of the land, and the deep blue waters roll homewards to the shore, urged by a never-changing law bidding them kiss the strand and die.

On the shrill breezy air the sea-birds wheel and soar until their white wings turn to silver as they circle round the sun and sink into its brightness as a star dies into day.

The cliffs are abloom with blossoms of gold, like a garden of woodland flowers. On the summit overlooking the sea stands a temple and shrine to the goddess.

Northward is the mountain of Gallesus, with its pine precipices and aerial summits piercing the clouds. At its feet the city of Claros, with temple and groves of ash and mighty oracle sacred to Apollo.

Further away, from the Cilbianian, and turning west of the lake Selinusian, comes southward a river moving along midst bright oleander and blossoms of myrtle, murmuring adieu to the gods of the river as it passes on its course to the bosom of ocean.

Away to the west and the south, like a misty dream, are the pale-blue tops of Pactyas; between them and the Gallessian range stands the city of Ephesus, Coressus and Pion like sentinel hills guarding its massive gates.

Here on this rock-bound cliff, near the altar, stood Endora, the witch.

The day was young and no one about, and she gazed far out at sea, straining her evil eyes until they seemed to start from their sockets.

She turned with a disappointed air, and, gazing towards the city, cried:

'Doomed art thou! Little did they know I was about. Had Chios known I was there, he would have been more careful. Turned Christian! Loves Saronia!

'I will not betray him. Hag as I be, cursed as I am, all Hades shall not draw me to reveal. This blasted spirit of mine may drift, yet I swear by the father of the gods—no, no, I cannot swear by him! What shall I swear by?

'I swear by Chios and Saronia, mortals like myself, that I will be true, true. Can I be true? No, no, no, I will not betray them. That is all!

'What a curse hangs over this beautiful place! I heard that strange man tell Chios the great city shall die. I know a sibyl has spoken, "That the earth opening and quaking, the Temple of Diana would be swallowed like a ship in a storm into the abyss, and Ephesus, lamenting by the river banks, would inquire for it then inhabited no more." And, who knows, she may be true! What care I? Endora will be far hence. I have to do with the present. I have come to watch for the white sails of the Roman fleet bringing back the Proconsul. I know they are near, expected to-day.

'Now one long gaze out over the great, cloud-mirroring sea. My eyes are keen. No, they come not, and I go hence.'

She turned landward and saw Saronia.

She cowered towards the sea-flower-blooming sward as the priestess said:

'What doest thou here, woman?'

'Naught, my lady, but for the gathering of fragrant herbs.'

'Thou liest. The wild thyme and its fellows grow not upon this breezy crag, ever washed by the salt sea foam; but, stay, Endora—I know thy name. I would speak with thee. Once when I was a slave thou wert good to me, and told me my star was rising full of splendour. How didst thou know?'

'Noble lady, I spoke not of my own knowledge, but as the spirit prompted me.'

'Again, when thou helped me to escape my persecutors, what impelled thee?'

'The knowledge I was aiding one beloved of Hecate! 'Twas not love—love in me is dead, dead and scentless. The curse—the curse! and it will weigh me down for ever.'

'Art sure of this?'

'Yes, Lady Saronia, I am sure I am accursed of Hecate. In me it takes the form of a dead love with hatred raging through my soul. In others love is rampant and reason dead. Such is the case with one I know. Her curse is to love madly without an echo of love to answer.'

'What was thy crime, Endora?'

'That which neither god nor man can forgive.'

'Tell me.'

'I dare not.'

'I command thee!'

'No, no; leave me quiet! I have lived in Ephesus these many years. No one knows me, where I came from, what my crime. Bid me leap into the great depths below and gurgle out my life beneath the waters, out of human sight—anything—anything, but grant me silence!'

'I will not! Speak truthfully! The High Priestess of Hecate commands thee.'

The woman's face grew pale as death.

'Wilt thou bury my secret in thy heart, and close thy lips for ever on it?'

'Be quick, say on! First, who art thou?'

'The mother of Chios!'

'Thou!'

'Yes, I am.'

'What art thou?'

'I was a priestess at Delos, where Apollo and Diana came forth—a priestess of the Oracle. Broke my vows; wed; fell to what thou seest me: a priestess of high degree acting—acting the part of a hag. I was doomed to death. The people think me dead, but I live, deserted by the one who caused my fall. I live, thirsting for revenge—I, Endora the witch, eking a crust of bread by fortune-telling and love philtres, bearing the load of Hecate's curse. I they call Endora am no other than Myrtile of Delos! Now, noble Saronia, thou knowest how love is dead, and I the accursed. Oftentimes I come here and gaze across the AEgean Sea towards the far-off sunny isle of Delos, where it lies like a jewel in the sea—Delos, where the laurel trembled at the coming of the unseen gods, where temples, amphitheatres, and colonnades crowned every crest, and filled the vales of the lovely home of Latona.'

For a moment, as Saronia thought of her own mother, a shudder passed. 'Twas but a moment, and the priestess looked as calm as summer eve.

'Hast thou ever told the story to another?'

'No, no, and no human being but the mighty Saronia should ever have drawn it from me. Thou by thy power dost compel me to act unwillingly. I would far rather have buried it under those blue, seething waters and have ended my course.'

'It is well. See thou dost guard it; see thou dost guard it. Now, what can I do for thee? When humble was my lot and thou sawest my exaltation nigh, thou saidst, "Remember me when thou enterest on thy high estate." What may be done for thee?'

'Nothing. I go my way, leaving in thy keeping my awful secret, and trust thy silence. I go to my den on the mountain side, unwinding my fate. The thread will soon be broken, but ere it snaps my mission will be perfected.'

'Hast thou a mission?'

'As truly as yon passing ship glides on towards the harbour mouth, and until it be accomplished Endora is the witch of Ephesus, the blackened soul. After that, I know not what.'

'Can I aid thee? Gold I have; take some.'

'No. I am not thankless, but have sufficient. Can Endora be of service to thee?'

'I fear not.'

'Then adieu. I shall come to this loved spot again. It is the nearest I can come to my beloved Delos.'

She crept away amongst the golden flowers down the side of the cliff. The seagull cried to its mate, the waves dashed up their foam till it mixed with the silvery light, and falling like showers of dew, lay on the lips of the flowers.

* * * * *

And Saronia, the High Priestess of Diana, stood out against sky and sea, stood out against silver and blue, the great globed sun, a circle of light, forming a halo around her head.



CHAPTER XXXIII

NIKA

'He is away, my lord and master, my wedded husband, the Proconsul of Ephesus. Gone to Rome on State matters. Let him go! There are other Romans here as good as he, perhaps better. I shall mix with them, and, doing so, further hate the man I am tied to, sold to. I hate him! There is but one love in my heart—the love for Chios, who spurns it. Stay! I wonder if there be another beside Chios who may quench this flame devouring me? There may be. And this I determine, wherever I find love in unison, thither will I advance, and that immediately before Varro's return. Varro! Varro! what care I for Varro? I will deceive him if it pleases me. The world will call me vile if they discover. What care I for the world? What care I for the worms which crawl? Many worse than Nika. No, what cares Nika, accursed of Hecate? Take thy pleasure; to love is life, and union of souls is strength even if we be but two—'tis better than one against the hosts of hell! Nika is single-handed; Nika has no kindred soul to join in the fight—Nika the doomed one, against whom the Fates war, around whom the Furies rage. Arouse thyself! Set thy face against what is called goodness, chastity! Defy those principalities and powers which torture thee, laugh at thee, shatter thy hopes, damn thee for the next life, before thou puttest aside the vile clay of this, make sport of thy soul ere half the circle of thy days is spent!

'No, no! Enough, enough! I will fill my cup with every pleasure, if well deep enough be found. I will joy in the sunshine, if it be but for one day, like the many-coloured lily which opens to the morning sun and dies at eventide. Away, Nika, to the world of pleasure! But first drink deep of Grecian wine to brace thyself. What care I for peace? I shall be no worse than many of my Romans.'

* * * * *

The sun went down like an angry god, the west was ablaze with lurid gleam, the winds rushed in from the sea and smote the land, burying it with a shroud of foam. The rain descended in torrents and deluged the shore. The storm passed through the great city and away over the mountain-tops. The streets were deserted and a gloom rested on the land.

One solitary human being might have been seen winding her way from place to place, and up the mountain side towards the home of Nika. With wet and clinging garments she hesitated in front of the house. Watching an opportunity, she pushed through the hedgerow of myrtles and stood within the garden. Stealthily she crept from shrub to shrub, now under the shelter of a laurel, then tearing through a mass of roses and trampling under feet the loveliest flowers, scarcely knowing whither she went, but making for a light which filtered through a window of many-coloured glass, until at last she stood in front of it, and dimly saw the overhanging jasmine and the great, white flowers of the magnolia. For a moment the perfume, like an angel guardian, uttered protest and dared approach, but the spirit impelling that form enveloped in soaking garb was one not long to be brooked by sentiment, and she moved like a panther carefully forward, and peered through the casement left open to admit the perfumed air. She gazed anxiously through the opening, and saw the form of the beautiful Nika sitting on a low chair. The double tablet of wax lay upon her knees, and in her hand was an ivory point chased with diamonds. She had just written, and was evidently agitated.

At the sight of this the soul of the woman without was moved to its very depths, and she longed to behold what was marked on the tablet. The divining power of her spirit asserted itself, and she knew by the writer's look that it was a message of importance, and probably one of love. She waited till Nika had finished it; then the Roman stretched out her white arms and flung herself back in a deep reverie.

The eyes of the witch Endora were directed steadily on her, and as she gazed, Nika fell asleep, and her hands drooped listlessly by her side.

Like a snake, Endora glided into the room, reached the sleeping Roman, then, gently raising the tablet from her knee, she moved as softly and serpent-like from the room, and stole back by the way she came—back through the deserted streets, up the hill Pion to her cave.

* * * * *

Once inside, she bolted the rough door, through the chinks of which the wind moaned.

Lighting her lamp, she stripped off her saturated clothes. Before even she kindled a fire, she drew out the stolen thing, and, with straining eyes, read its contents. Then a hellish satisfaction lit up her haggard face, and she laughed with fiendish glee, murmuring to herself, fearful of listening ears:

'Ha, ha, ha! My mistress Nika, thou hast a lover. Thou art safe now in the meshes of the fowler. The measure thou hast meted out to others shall be measured back to thee again—again, I say. And the house of Venusta shall sorrow, as they say the Egyptians did for their first-born. Not only shall they suffer on thine account; their own sins shall weigh mightily on them. Yea, root and branch shall suffer, and they shall wither away until not a footfall of theirs be heard, nor an echo of their voices resound through their marble home. The witch Endora, like a Cassandra, smells the past, and speaks of evil.

'Day after day, night after night, have I been on the trail, tracked her like a bloodhound, haunted her to earth. I lie not; she is worse than I! The Roman shall know all, and Saronia, whom she tortured, be avenged. If her soul is too kind to feed upon such a rare morsel, then the witch of Ephesus—I, Endora—will do so, and gloat over the fate of Nika, proud, despicable daughter of Lucius the Roman! Now let me breathe the air; the stormy air, the sunlight, and the breeze belong to me as much as to the good.'



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE HOROSCOPE

Nika was pale and worn, and scarcely spoke.

'What ails thee, dearest wife?' said Varro.

'Naught,' replied she; 'tired only. All night long have I watched through the storm. I knew by the signal-fires thou wert off the harbour mouth. Dost thou think I could rest when my lord rode on the top of crested waves, and the creaking timbers of the vessel sang omens fierce and loud? No, no; Nika is of different mould. My father is a warrior and a sailor, and ofttimes has he told me of the fearful perils of the seas.'

'Nika, thou art my darling wife! How hast thou fared during my absence? Hast thou longed for my coming?'

'Truly I have. And sometimes, when cloudy times were over me, I wished me dead rather than alone. Friends tried to cheer me; their work was but mockery, I well knowing naught but thy presence could fill the heart which has but room for one great joy—one which fills it to overflowing.'

'Thou lovest me too much, Nika.'

'Nika never loves but with all her soul,' replied she.

'Tell me, girl, how is our old friend Chios?'

'Chios? I have not seen him for many a day. I may say I have not seen him since thou left for Rome. I am told that strange being has turned voyager. It appears he took it into his head to visit Delos, and a trading-ship passing on its voyage thence called into this port, and Chios embarked.'

'Has he returned?'

'I believe so. I understand he arrived two days since.'

'I will go and see him shortly.'

* * * * *

A day or two had flown, and Varro was at the studio of Chios.

'Well, my friend,' said the Proconsul, 'how has the time passed with thee since I deserted Ephesus? Hast seen yet the charming Ionian girl who is to smite thy heart like the sharpened beak of a war bireme when it sends its prow into the soft pinewood sides of an enemy's ship? No? Well, I am sorry for thee, Chios. Thou deservedst a better fate. Nika told me of thy wanderings to Delos. Didst thou have pleasure in that lovely isle?'

'I enjoyed it immensely, and learned many quaint stories of the place. I saw the Temple and the rock-cleft chasm through which the priestesses derived inspiration. I heard the story of Myrtile, that she was beautiful and wise as she was lovely; how she broke her vows, and suffered death as a punishment for her crime.'

'How sad those stories are, Chios!'

'Yes, very, but the earth is full of such. Where dost thou spend this evening?'

'Now, Chios, I am going to confide in thee. Guess what it is!'

'I cannot.'

'I have desired to get the horoscope of Nika. They tell me the witch Endora who lives in the side of yonder hill is one of the most eminent calculators of Ionia. Where she received her education 'tis a mystery. She has not been taught in Ephesus. I go to this poor old woman. What sayest thou, Chios?'

'Don't go. No good will come of it.'

'Art thou a seer?'

'No; neither do I understand magic, but somehow I feel you will act wisely in keeping away.'

'Lovest thou not the mysteries?'

'No.'

'Neither those who love them?'

'I love all my friends, whate'er their faith.'

'Thou art a born diplomatist, Chios; but to-night will find me walking over the long grass leading to the cave of the wise woman of Ephesus.'

* * * * *

That night he did go, and with some intrepidity knocked at the door of the mysterious cave. It was answered by Endora, peering out into the starlit night.

'Whom seekest thou?' said she.

'Endora.'

'I am Endora. What requirest thou?'

'I wish to consult thee.'

'My place is poor for thee. Come within. Now, what is thy requirement?'

'Thou tellest the future?'

'Well?'

'Dost thou cast an horoscope truly?'

'Likely enough.'

'Wilt thou cast from this?'—handing the date and time of birth.

Endora took it, sat down, and commenced her work. Presently she looked up, and said:

'I see enough to assure me that it will fit but the life of one person.'

'And that one?' said Varro.

'A woman, the wife of the Proconsul of Ephesus, and thou art he.'

'This augurs well. I have heard great worth attached to thy wisdom. Now pray tell me hast thou ever seen her?'

'Yes, many times. What dost thou think of thy wife? Art thou jealous of her since thou art come to dive into her future and her past?'

'No, my woman! No, no; why should I be jealous? She is chaste as she is beautiful, and kind as she is wise. I have fullest confidence in my wife. What seest thou, Endora?'

'I fear,' replied the witch, 'I must have been mistaken; for now I see here a beautiful woman with rippling hair of golden hue flowing back from a snowy brow.'

'Yes, yes; go on. That is right.'

'No, it cannot be the Nika you call wife; she has eyes of blue, deep as the sea, and her cheeks are tinged with the glory of the pomegranate. She stands erect; she walks like a queen.'

'Thou art right, Endora. 'Tis she! Thou art an artist; go further.'

'She has ruby lips, and her teeth are white and smooth as pearl; but within she is a cauldron of——'

'Stay, wretch!' cried Varro.

'I will not. A cauldron of lies! A sink of deception! A tiger whelp! A soul drowning in iniquity, destined to wander in darkness for ages on ages!'

'Stop—stop thy murderous tongue! It must be, as thou sayest, some other—not Nika!'

'No, no. Thou shalt not stay me; I will go on. It—is—thy—wife! She is beautiful without, but within I see her as I say.'

'Poor thing! thou art deceived. Thou art delirious; I pity thee, and will get physician's aid for thee. I go now. Here is some gold. Rest thyself. Thine is a case demanding pity.'

'I take not your gold; I want not your pity. I am sane. Would I had been born a drivelling idiot, and remained so to this present!'

'But surely, woman, thou canst not be other than mad to say such horrible things about Nika, my wife, my greatest treasure!'

'I am not mad, noble man; but speak the truth, and speak it plainly. Thy wife deceives thee. She is vile!'

'Curse your gray locks! I will smite you where you stand if you do not retract those blackened lies!'

'Listen, Proconsul: I will not withdraw what I have said, but will further tear the veil from off thy deluded eyes. I have known her long, and watched her well—the reason, mine. I have followed in the groove of her life; but, to come to the present, thou hast been from Ephesus, leaving thy beautiful Nika behind—leaving thy soul's happiness with her. How has she repaid thee? How! By giving her love to——'

'Silence, thou reptile of hell!' And he sprang forward, clutching the woman by the throat.

Her face grew dark and her eyes started; her mouth twitched convulsively, as if she essayed to speak.

Maddened with fury, Varro still clutched her with the grip of death, holding her out at arms' length, glaring at her like a tiger with its prey.

With one supreme effort the woman gathered together her dying strength sufficiently to enable her to thrust her hand into the folds of her dress and draw forth a tablet and hold it out towards him.

Instinctively he relaxed his grip, and the witch cried out:

'Read! Read!'

He grasped the tablet, opened it, and saw the signature of Nika.

Endora fell, her face lying on the stony floor. He heeded her not, but, with a face as death-like as that of the witch, glanced down the lines of the tablet.

Then, with a moan such as is heard when the weary storm tells its sad tale through the cypress-trees, he sat down and buried his face in his hands.

For some time he remained in the same position, until a sigh came from the prostrate woman.

He arose and went towards her, saying:

'Whatever may be thy sins, in this I am the sinner for bruising thee.'

He gave her wine, damped her furrowed, fevered brow, raised her from the floor, and watched by her until she had fully regained consciousness.

She murmured:

'I do not blame thee. Were I a man, I would have done likewise. Endora pities thee. Thou hast wedded a snake, and she has stung thee. What wilt thou do?'

'Charge her.'

'And should she deny?'

'She shall be tried by the rites of the Virgin Cave of Hecate.'

He arose, and, throwing his mantle around him, strode out into the night down the hillside to his home.

On his arrival, Nika met him with honeyed words and sweetest smiles, but he passed her coldly, and went to his chamber—not to sleep. The room seemed filled with choking air. He opened the window and let in a cooling draught, and the moonlight, faint and low, stole softly across the floor.

For a moment he rested, buried in thought, scarcely knowing what to do. His face betrayed great passion. He arose, and paced the room until the day dawned over the sea, when he fell upon a couch, and passed into a dreamy sleep.

When the morning had fully come, he went out and breathed the cool virgin air, but soon returned.

His wife met him again with all the ease that duplicity can command.

'And where hast thou been, Varro? Why so cold yesternight to thy loving wife?'

'Nika, thou art false, false! What hast thou been doing whilst I journeyed to Rome?'

'What dost thou mean?'

'Mean! Just what I say. I am not a man to bandy words. Thou art unfaithful to me. Dost thou deny it?'

'I do. I swear by Jove I am guiltless! I have traducers, and they lie!'

'Knowest thou this writing, Nika?' And, drawing the tablet from his bosom, he said: 'Dost thou recognise this?'

For a moment, and just a moment only, as a bird flies past and hides the moon, her face assumed an ashen hue, but a crimson blush rushed in and retired, leaving sufficient colour to make her beauty more enchanting. Then, throwing her proud head back on her shoulders, she laughed, saying:

'Dear old jealous husband! I can explain all, I see. I understand what has ruffled your pretty plumage. I remember the other night writing on that tablet—a great joke'—and again she laughed out merrily.

'I will tell thee, Varro. For want of something to do, I sat down and read the love poems by Andros. Yes, Varro. Art thou listening? Well, what do you think? A sudden idea came into my mind to try if I could write an epistle to an imaginary lover. So I did, just for amusement, Varro. I laid the tablet in my lap and fell asleep, and lo! when I awoke it was gone; and, strangely enough, you, Varro, bring it to me. This is all, dear. Of course, thou believest me?'

'No, I believe it not. Thou shalt no longer be wife of mine until thou provest thyself. This affair is not a secret in Ephesus, and men of Ionia and nobles of Rome shall never point the finger of scorn at Varro. If thou art true, fear not; if false, then take thy reward.'

'What meanest thou, husband? Thou art not serious? How can I prove other than by my word?'

'Thou forgettest there is a tribunal for such offences.'

'True. Tell me.'

'The Virgin Cave of Hecate.'

'The cave! Saronia!' shrieked Nika, and fell to the floor a helpless form.

The Roman took her up and laid her on a couch, her hair flowing in golden masses to the ground, and her face like the face of death when Chios painted her!

He called a slave to attend to Nika, hurried to his apartment, and sent word to Venusta instructing her to come immediately, stating her daughter was ill.

Venusta came, and was terror-stricken at her daughter's appearance, and that day the wife of the Proconsul was removed to her mother's home on the side of Mount Coressus.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE VIRGIN CAVE

In the Sacred Grove of Hecate, where the sun lit up the cypress-trees, and the birds sang on the billowy branches of the cluster-pine, and laurels greeted the gods, waving their dark-green foliage on the whispering air; where roses twined like weary children round the olive-trees, and oleanders, white as snow and pink as rosy dawn, bent down and kissed the murmuring brook; where the pale narcissi mirrored themselves in silent pools like stars of silver on the solemn sea, and the maddening perfume of that lovely flower mingled with the odour of the sweet grass, wild thyme, and violets—here the blue celandine and hyacinth vied in colour with the saffron flower and scarlet poppy, sacred to Diana, and every bloom was the emblem of a god; and the nymphs kept guard o'er sacred trees, and naiades revelled in gayest dance the long night through.

The Sacred Cave was here—the Virgin Cave of Hecate, around which, like lost souls out of place, grew alder, dark, deadly aconite, and branches green of juniper, waiting their call to burn as incense to the infernal goddess.

A winding pathway led down to the cave, the cave of trial.

Its doors were strong, of olive wood, with tracings wrought in gold. On either side uprose stout pillars of malachite; and over the entrance, in curious marble richly carved, were figures of Hecate in judgment.

Within this cave none but the pure might enter. There was the sacred syrinx—should a woman go therein, the doors closed by invisible hands. If pure, a soft and heavenly strain was heard, and the doors opening of their own accord, the honoured woman appeared crowned with a garland of leaves of pine; but if guilty, sobs and disconsolate weeping were audible, and the people passed away, leaving her to her fate. And after three suns had risen and set, the High Priestess entered, found the cave empty, and the syrinx fallen to the ground.

This was the day Nika would enter the cave. No hope had come. Day after day she had gazed over the blue sea with the vain thought that she might catch a glimpse of her father's fleet returning. Not a vestige of it hove in sight. To the last she buoyed herself with the hope that aid would come and save her from this frightful ordeal; but no. The sky was cloudless, the ocean calm—calm and unruffled as a sleeping child.

The priests and priestesses of the Temple would accompany her in solemn procession, and Nika, clad in garments of black, would be taken to the Sacred Grove. Torch-bearers and heralds would lead them by the tufts of yellow iris down the winding path to the cave, outside which an altar stood, and the great Saronia waited, with head thrown back and hands outspread towards the ground; her raven hair flowed down and lay in waves on folds of costly yellow silk bestudded with stars; her face was calm as death, rigid as a marble statue; emotion showed no place in that mysterious being.

Five beautiful girls, the loveliest of Ionia, priestesses of the goddess, bees of the Temple, waited on her; but the beauty and dignity of the great High Priestess outshone them all, as the rising sun puts out the light of the silvery stars.

The black lamb had been sacrificed to Hecate, and its crimson blood streamed over the altar into the earth.

The priestesses were hidden from view by a turning in the way, and it was only when the last tall lines of myrtles were passed that they could be seen. But the clanging of cymbals was near, the strains of the lyre broke in, and the low tones of the mellow flute kept up a sacred melody.

The first of the heralds drew near the altar sacrifice, stood still a moment, then blew a blast which made the blossoms quiver; and the procession came with measured tread, carrying banners many-coloured, and bearing symbols of the goddess which glittered in the sunlight.

Nika, pale and trembling, stood within a circle of the priests, enveloped by the many standards which they bore.

Suddenly the silken shields were lowered, the circle broke in twain, and formed a guard on either side; and Nika, looking down between the lines, saw the dark face and towering form of Saronia standing by the altar.

With one loud, piercing cry of anguish, the girl rushed madly towards her, and when within three paces plucked a jewelled dagger from her bosom, and made to plunge it into the heart of her former slave.

One look from the mystic eyes of the High Priestess overawed her, and she shielded her face with her mantle of black.

No tremor passed the face of the High Priestess. It was fixed like a cold, pale moon in the cloudless sky. She could have slain Nika had she chosen. Her glistening dagger remained untouched. She heeded it not, but moved solemnly towards the cowering girl, holding forth her hands as she approached her, saying:

'Lean on me, fair woman of Rome. I may make thy burden less.'

The eyes of Nika rolled back their maddening look, and gazed into those of the priestess.

'O Saronia, Saronia, save me! or, if thou canst not, then forgive!'

For the first time the face of the High Priestess relaxed, and it was veiled with a look of pity.

'Would I could help thee, Nika! In this case I have not power. I stand here, not to punish, but to perform the sacred rites my office demands; but I forgive thee, forgive thee, Nika, whatever may be thy fate.'

The low tones of Diana's hymn broke the stillness, and Saronia led the trembling woman to the Virgin Cave of Hecate.

The great doors swung back, the doors of olive were wide apart, and soft Ionian music floated by like the rhythm of angels' wings.

'Nika—let me kiss thee, Nika.'

And Saronia took the face bestrewn with golden hair between her jewelled hands, and passionately kissed the trembling lips of the daughter of Lucius.

Then she led the fated woman to the cave, and left her.

The great doors flew back like the jaws of death, and in a moment or two sounds of weeping were heard, and the people turned away. Full well they knew the syrinx had fallen, and Nika was gone—for ever.



CHAPTER XXXVI

REVERIE

The passing of Nika spoke strongly to Saronia. She had lived with her, served with her, felt the keen injustice of her nature, and now the end had come.

Had it been woman against woman, she would not have crushed the Roman; but it was not so. It was a woman in conflict with the goddess. Saronia had been powerless to help, and dared not question the vengeance of Hecate.

She sympathized with Lucius, her old master, always kind; pictured him returning to Ephesus, hastening to his home on the Coressian hill, expecting loving greeting, hearing the dreadful death of his only child from a broken-hearted wife. She saw the tears streaming down the face of the weather-beaten mariner, and watched the wrecked soul as it looked out through the lustreless eyes.

It was horrible to think of all this, and to dwell on the thought that question after question would arise in his mind why the Fates did not sooner bring him home that he might have saved her—fought for her, if need be; and, above all, why did not Saronia protect her against the power of the Roman, Proconsul though he was? He would revert back to the time when he saw her at the altar steps looking sweetly on him and his sailors when they came to pray.

All the agony of Lucius came before her, and her spirit was clouded with gloom.

She threw herself down, and buried her beautiful face, sighing as if her heart would rend in twain. She was a woman, not a goddess—a woman with sympathies keen enough to feel for others, even to the binding up of the broken-hearted and offering forgiveness to her most violent foe.

A mysterious link had suddenly snapped in her chain of destiny. What it was she could not divine.

The death of Nika moved her in a peculiar manner, such as nothing else had done since the deep of her being was broken up by the call of the great spirit to follow the goddess.

It was a dark chapter in her life's history, and she earnestly desired to know its hidden meaning; she would wait patiently until the time came when all should be revealed.

She arose, looked towards the sea, and saw in vision the white sails of the fleet of Lucius bringing him to port.

A storm crossed her face, as when the icy winds of winter furrow the waves and clouds swoop down to wed the foaming main. Her whole nature trembled like the shaken hull of a tempest-haunted ship. The spirit of Hecate was on her, and the voice of the terrible goddess rang out in her soul:

'Tell him the curse hath killed her! Say the gods are avenged!'

* * * * *

When the evening had come, Saronia retired and lay on a couch of black marble. The windows of the room were thrown open to admit what little breeze there was; the honeysuckle and jasmine climbed the walls like rival lovers, and breathed their perfume on the priestess.

She looked towards the Temple; the sun threw rays aslant the roof and pillars, and it shone resplendent in the dying day.

In the rear of it sprang up against the sky tall trees of cluster-pine and ash, further away rose the great mountains, and behind them the golden gates of the setting sun, and beyond all, soft clouds cradled in light floated like temple domes of a great spiritual city.

The soul of the priestess was drawn away towards the glorious vision, and for a while she had forgotten herself. Darkness had changed to light, and she longed to be beyond all the uncertainty of this troubled existence, and move into a sphere where hope might be lost in love—where she would see things as they are, see them with the truth of a risen soul, not as she now saw them, with a soul straining to gaze at spiritual beauty through a mass of corruption, a shroud of earthly mould.

Her spirit struggled to free itself, to spread out its pinions and soar into an element of its own; but the time had not yet arrived for the prisoner to be free—her prison was bolted with bars of brass.

As the shadows deepened on the floor of that sacred room, and the last flickering light of day played between her tresses, turning her silvery robes to gray, it was evident her mind was much agitated—influenced in a marked degree.

She took from her bosom the parchment Chios had given—the manuscript which taught the Christian creed—and, grasping it firmly with her right hand, walked towards the window, looking lovingly and long at the great Temple. She moved away, murmuring:

'I will see Chios. I will see him, and know more of his faith.'

Thus was this magnificent spirit besieged by contending forces. She stood like a mountain peak encircled with storm, like a beacon on a rock lashed by the fury of the maddening seas, like a ship in a valley of waves, rudderless, shroudless, with creaking timbers and sailless yards.

Her first thought was, under the cover of night, to fly to the studio of Chios. No, he would not be there. A better way suggested itself.

She stood erect, with face towards where the city lay, and, stretching out both hands, she threw a wave of will forward in search of Endora. It reached her at her mountain home.

The witch sprang to her feet, and the command of Saronia came to her: 'Come to the Temple to-morrow morn. Bring me a gift of roses.'

That night the priestess rested, slumbering till the sun arose and the mists on the mountains had cleared away. Then she awoke, and went forth to the morning service. As she passed by, many beasts were being sacrificed at the altar in front of the Temple, portions of the flesh and basins of blood were being carried within.

She stood beside the sacrifice in the midst of the Temple, heard the crackling wood as it slowly burned up the pieces, watched the smoke until it ascended, freely passing out through the aperture in the roof; then she knew the sacrifice was accepted of the goddess.

The omen at one time would have been to her one of great joy. Now another voice was echoing: 'Sacrifices and burnt-offerings I have no pleasure in. The true sacrifice is a broken and a contrite heart.'

As soon as she could, she turned from the Temple and sought the quiet of her room, sitting by the window where the sunlight kissed the roses and the breezes fanned her cheeks.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE MESSAGE

As the day advanced a message was brought to the priestess that a woman was without who wished to speak to her, and that she carried roses in her hand, an offering to Diana.

'Let her come to me,' said Saronia.

'Come within and seat thyself. I have much to say to thee, mother of Chios. I know I may trust thee. Thou wilt never betray?'

'No. By all that is left for my eternal salvation, I swear to be true!'

'Then hear me. Take this message to Chios. I must see him.'

'Thou knowest, lady, Chios is a Christian?'

'I do. Dost thou know aught of this sect, seeing thou movest abroad among the people?'

'O noble Saronia, 'tis a mighty God they serve.'

'What meanest thou?'

'I will tell thee. One day there came to my house the sons of Sceva; they came to cast out a spirit of evil from a tortured man.'

'Did they succeed?'

'No. Miserably failed! And I, by my power, tried by Hecate to draw him forth, but I could not.'

'By what process did they attempt this?'

'They invoked the name of the Jewish Christ, but the spirit rebelled against them, and disowned their power. They had made a cross, the symbol of that God, to carry out their plan, and when they had fled and I also looked back, I saw the cross all lit with glorious sheen in the hands of the man, and the spirit had come out of him. I fear this faith; Diana, Hecate are servants to it, and this Christ will prevail in Ephesus. I would this God would shield me from the curse, and I would lie at His feet in gratitude and joy.'

'Endora, thou speakest strange sayings. Art thou certain of all those things, or are they phantasies of the mind?'

'They are true, noble Saronia, as true as yonder Temple is the shrine of thy goddess; true as there is a central sun in the universe, around which all other suns revolve. And this Christ, they say, is the great spiritual orb, the grand Spirit of the whole around which every other intelligence moves, and to whom every spirit in the vast domains shall bow. It's a terrible thought, is it not?'

'Why?'

'Because, if this saying be true, Diana is no more. She is not supreme, and will fade away as the ages grow, dwindling into nothingness, and her teaching be but a beautiful story.'

'Ah! Endora, thou speakest wisely. Truly thou art acting a part in assuming the craft of a low-born fortune-teller. I see thou art skilled in words, and still hast the soul and wisdom of a priestess; as a diamond thou wilt sparkle, begrimed as thou art with the adverse circumstances of thy life. Thou hast interested me. It is well one should know what is propagated around her. Hast thou any more respecting this strange belief?'

'Only this: One day when on the mountain yonder two men were near. I hid, but close enough to listen.'

'Who were they?'

'One was Chios, the other his teacher, one of the chiefs of the Christians.'

'What did they say?'

'I heard the old man speak in prophecy, saying the time was not far away when the beautiful city beneath them should crumble to decay, the temples perish, and the altars be broken and buried deep in the earth, until men should seek for the glories and religion of Ephesus, but should search in vain—that the faith of the goddess should be but a broken note in the great hymn which the ages sing. More he said, but all of the same import.'

'What kind of man was this prophet?'

'He was mean in appearance, possessing an intellect like the mind of a god. His eyes were piercing, and his spirit consumed his flesh; his body was but a disguise. Surely within that frail and plainly-built structure there resided a soul which has circled around the central throne of the King of the universe. He is a messenger from Him, whoever He may be.'

'Endora—Myrtile may I call thee?—go! Be careful of the message to Chios. My life—everything depends on its safe delivery. Place it carefully, and speed away. The message demands action this day.'

* * * * *

Endora crept up the avenue of myrtles to the door of Chios, and timidly knocked at it.

'I have a message for thee.'

'From whom didst thou receive it?'

'From the High Priestess, Saronia.'

'What knowest thou of her? Thou mockest me.'

'No, I do not. Read it. Thou wilt see her in every line.'

He eagerly glanced at the message, and turned deadly pale.

'Come within, Endora.'

'Thou knowest my name. How so?'

'It matters little. I know thy name.'

As the old woman moved into the studio, a strange, weird light lit up her cold, sinister face, and she gazed around at the beauties displayed there.

'Sit down and rest. Dost thou know the contents of this message?'

'No.'

'Then I will tell thee. Saronia has trusted thee; I must. She cannot err; her judgment is good, and I abide by it.'

'Ah, ah!' laughed Endora. 'I am safe, noble Greek. Thou canst trust me. The High Priestess confides in me; Chios may do the same. Shall I swear?'

'No; but look into my eyes, and tell me thou wilt be true.'

As she gazed into his eyes a shudder passed through her, and for an instant she reeled as if drunken. Recovering herself, she said:

'Art thou satisfied?

He made no reply.

Endora cried:

'Speak—speak out straight from thy heart, or I will not receive thy secret!'

'Yes; I can trust thee,' replied Chios. 'Why, I do not know. I am safe in thine hands. Who art thou? What art thou?'

'I? I am a poor castaway, cast aside on the dung-heap like a broken lamp! I am a reptile doomed to crawl the earth like the meanest snake. I am Endora of Ephesus, the witch of Mount Pion! Who art thou? What a foolish question, when all know thee to be Chios the Greek, the great artist of this mighty city!... Thou art safe in the hands of Endora. Thou art son of some mother who cherished thy young life. Hast thou a mother?'

'No.'

'Where is she?'

'Dead.'

'Didst thou ever know her?'

Chios was silent, and his eyes looked far away.

'I have faint remembrance of her; she died when I was quite a child.'

'Didst thou love her?'

'Love her? Yes, passionately.'

'Is thy father alive?'

'I never knew him. But enough of this. Sufficient I trust thee in respect of this message. Speak to me on no other subject. It bids me meet the High Priestess to-night near the Sacred Grove, and she requests me to tell thee this and to command thee be there and stand sentinel, to give timely warning if strangers approach.

'Why or how Saronia confides thus in thee 'tis passing strange. But it must be right. Thou knowest all now. Go thy way. Do thy part for thy mistress, and I will do mine.'

'I will be there,' replied Endora, 'and, if necessary, die for thee.'

And she went out to the great road beyond the garden gate.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE DEAD PRIEST

That night, with none to question her, Saronia passed out from the Temple towards the Sacred Grove of Hecate.

Arrived there, she offered sacrifice, and left the dying embers blackening the sacred altar. Perchance some priestess next day should secretly want proof of Saronia's visit. This done, she hastened to the meeting-place on the bank of the Cayster, where Chios awaited her, and, like a faithful hound, Endora stood guard a hundred paces off, the only access to the river's brink.

Saronia and Chios were safe. He spoke first.

'Why comest thou here, my love, and such a fearful night? How the winds search through the trees and tangle thy beautiful tresses!

'What hast thou to say? Thou runnest fearful risk. And yonder woman—canst thou really trust her?'

'Yes, trust her fully; she is safe. I have desired to see thee, Chios, and have dared everything. I would know more of this faith,' and her voice sank to a whisper. 'Since thou gavest me the parchment to read my mind ever reverts to the words of fire it contains. I would know their hidden meaning, trace them to their source, and plant them in my heart were I sure they were words of truth. Thou hast a noble teacher in the man who wrote them. Is it possible, Chios, I may meet him and learn fully? My brain, disorganized, reeling with doubt, will madden me to death. I cannot live without knowing the truth. Tell me, canst thou help me?'

'Saronia, what thou askest is a fearful thing. I wish thee every good, and would pour out my life to serve thee; but hast thou considered—hast thou counted the cost?

'Thou art the High Priestess of the Ephesian faith, steeped in the ways of Hecate, initiated into the mysteries of life and death, respected by thy followers, looked up to as a pattern for all the world to follow. Hast thou thought of the great sacrifice thou wilt make if perchance thou dost embrace the faith of the despised Nazarene? Consider what will become of thee—what thine end. Thou must fly the Temple, leave its altars, desert thy flock, be pursued until a merciful death blots out the life of the greatest, noblest woman in all Asia! Now, having told thee of this, I am ready to obey; but it shall never enter into thy mind, whatever befall thee, that Chios, who loves thee with a love that Heaven alone can understand, ever drew thee away from a faith which thou hast made thine own to one which perhaps thou mayest not understand.'

'Dearest Chios, I have thought much of this. Many hours have I dwelt on it. I am decided. Saronia will not embrace a new faith until it eclipses the old one. Then, for such a faith, if such there be, Saronia is prepared to die. To gain knowledge of the greatest truth is my mission on earth, and, gaining this, I rise a step nearer the Divine Presence.'

'Thou shalt meet Judah. When wilt thou come?'

'Not too soon, lest suspicion arise. Say, let one week pass, and I will be where thou wilt.'

'Then we meet on the side of Mount Pion at the cave of Endora.'

'Good; it shall be so, Chios.'

'Now let us go. I will see thee into the road leading to the Temple. Fear not detection. The night forbodes a gale. Already the winds whistle through the reeds, and the nodding trees answer to the outriders of the tempest.'

Suddenly a shriek went up, and was borne on the winds of night.

'What is that?' whispered Saronia. ''Tis like the cry of a parting life.'

'List!' said Chios. ''Tis some bird of evil shrieking the advent of storm.'

They had not long to wait ere another shriek, more deadly than the first, rose up towards the skies.

'Hide thee between the rushes, Saronia. I will see what it means. Stay until I return, whate'er betides.'

The priestess did as she was bidden, and Chios stole softly down the pathway until he saw Endora—the black form of the witch surrounded by the night—and at her feet lay the lifeless form of a man.

For a moment the Greek was terror-stricken, and when his breath had returned he gasped:

'Endora! Endora! what meaneth this?'

'I slew him,' replied she.

'Thou?'

'Yes, I slew him. See, my dagger reeks with blood!' and she held it aloft, pointing it upwards towards the heaven, looking like the statue of a night-fiend.

Then she spoke again:

'Had he a thousand lives, and my arm would not prove weary, I would take them all. Hear me, Chios: I stood guard for thee and Saronia. This dead man tracked her—knew her.'

'Knew her?' repeated Chios.

'Yes, recognised her—and thou. He came, as I have said, and was well-nigh upon you, when the form of Endora stood in the path. He spoke to me; he had lost the scent, did not know which way you had taken—this path or the one that branches off. He asked if I had seen a woman go this way towards the river. I answered "No." "Thou liest!" said he. "Thou knowest her whereabouts; thou knowest who she is—Saronia, the High Priestess, and Chios her lover. Speak out, hag, or I will wrest thy life from out thy vile carcase! Where is she?" Then said I: "Go thy way, man! I know not, and care less." He seized me by the throat, relaxed his hold, bade me speak, gripped it again, bruised me until I felt my life gurgling away. I knew I was not fit to die, and he—he should not murder me! He held me by the throat at arms' length, and shook me like a dog; but when he drew me towards him, I used my dagger and let out his life's blood—yes, the life-blood of a traitor!' And, turning her head from Chios, she murmured: 'The life-blood of—thy—father!'

'Endora! Endora! what hast thou done?'

'Nothing but saved my life and thine and that of the great Saronia, by killing a brute who would have had no mercy had he succeeded. I should have died, thou also, or both banished, and Saronia would have been in the power of this man, who had a passion for her.'

'He?'

'Yes, he.'

Chios stooped down, gently drawing back the mantle which had fallen over the dead man's face, when, to his horror, he discovered who the murdered man was.

Standing erect, he looked into the eyes of Endora.

'Woman, thou hast committed a frightful deed! Thou hast slain the High Priest of the Temple of Diana!'

She stood motionless, silent. Then, raising herself to her full height, she said:

'Chios, this may bring me death;' and she uttered a moan like the sighing of the doomed. 'Take thy dagger, plunge it into my heart! Do not let them torture me! Death from thine hand I would receive as a kiss of love! As for the death of this man, I repent not. I knew him well before I slew. Were he a god, and I could kill, I would have done so!'

What was to be done? The first impulse of Chios was to call Saronia and tell her all. No; he dared not. She must be free from knowledge of the thing.

He took the dead body and drew it on one side, that Saronia might not perceive it.

Then, ordering Endora home, he went back to the priestess.

'What ails thee, Chios? Thou art agitated. Has aught occurred?'

'No; it must have been the wild bird's shriek. No being was about save Endora. Let us move away.'

And they walked up the pathway past the corpse, and as she passed she shuddered.

'Art thou cold, Saronia?'

'No; but by some strange intuition I feel the presence of the dead.'

'Banish the thought!' said he. ''Tis but the moaning winds which play upon thy soul.'

'Where is Endora, Chios?'

'Gone; I sent her home.'

They arrived at the confines of the grove through which Saronia must pass.

'One kiss, my love,' said the Greek—'one kiss from those sweet lips, and I go to feed upon the memories of Saronia. Do not forget next week at the home of Endora, on the Mountain of Pion. Good-night, dearest—good-night!'

She passed through the Sacred Grove, took with her her implements of sacrifice, and went within the walls which surrounded the Temple. Great gusts of wind came roaring through the pine-trees of the grove, rushed onwards, striking the sacred pile, shrieking and crying with many-sounding voices around the marble pillars, until the mighty Temple was as a great harp on which the storm-winds played a solemn requiem for the dead priest.



CHAPTER XXXIX

CONSTERNATION

Next morning some fishermen, who had come down the river Cayster in their boat of many colours and crooked prow, moored it near the spot where Chios and Saronia met the previous night. They lowered the sail, with long yard and streaming pendant, rolled it up carefully, placed it fore and aft across the thwarts, counted their fish, took them with their nets and gaily stepped on shore, singing as they went, with hearts as light as the morning breeze and hopes as bright as the sunlight. For had they not a good catch of golden mullet which would sell well?

They moved happily along the pathway, stooping and gathering the yellow flowers covered with silvery dew. There was plenty of time: the day had just begun, and they would easily gain the market for the early sale.

Suddenly the foremost of them saw the body of the High Priest. He stood aghast. By this time the others came up and stood around, horror-stricken at the sight.

'Who has done this?' said a stalwart Ionian, with curly hair and sparkling eyes.

'Great Jupiter!' cried another. 'Who has committed the foul deed?'

'A priest—a priest of rank!' exclaimed the third. 'See the insignia of office!'

For a moment they knew not what to do. Their position was critical. One suggested they might be suspected of the murder, and they had better get on board their boat and float lower down the stream, keeping silence.

Others were for going to the city and publishing the calamity, and this prevailed. And they hastened on, and made it known to the guard.

The news of the murder of the Chief Priest of the Temple burst like a thunder-cloud, and spread with great rapidity until Ephesus and its environs rang with the tidings. Messengers hastened along the coast from Teos and Claros to Priene, and over the Meander to the Carian Miletus, to Magnesia and Mysa through to Sardis and Smyrna, in hopes by spreading the news that the murderer, if fled the city, might be taken.

The Agora, Gymnasium, Odeum, Theatre—all the public places were closed. Silence seemed dropping from the heavens and casting out the joys of the people as they hung in groups and spoke in whispers.

As the day passed, the feeling of melancholy wore off, and intense excitement set in. The worshippers of Diana clamoured for instant action, and blamed those who held power for not already capturing the criminal.

Those of sounder judgment cast about for a motive for this deed, but they also were baffled. What business had the priest at night by the river side? Again, a thief had not killed him: everything of value remained upon his person; his jewels were untouched, even to the sacred Ephesian letters set in diamonds and rubies, and the sacred symbol of the shrine in gold and opals fell over his breast in sight of all. There was a great mystery about it. Some few dared to think within themselves that love and jealousy might clear it.

Then it was remembered a custom existed backwards in the years that when a new High Priest was intended to be, the new should slay the old and take his place. And this satisfied many, whilst others who had desired to persecute the Christians clearly saw their hands in the matter, and preached a general massacre.

At the Temple there was sore distress. Priests went to and fro with silent tread, and the great building resounded with cries and lamentations. The great Priestess Saronia wore on her face a death-like calmness.

She had heard of the fishermen finding the body, and remembered the shriek which arose on the gusty air. She dared not speak; it would sound her own death-knell. She could not confess her presence at the margin of the river that fatal night.

Her lips were sealed, her tongue silenced. But dark suspicions floated through her burning brain. Endora knew of this foul matter. Chios was innocent, but during his absence from her the woman must have told him all, and both held the secret.

All this was too horrible to Saronia. Wild, heaving waves of furious thought rushed through her soul, threatening to engulf her reason, but like a shivering barque she determined to struggle through the breakers to the open sea and know the end.

The Temple was desolate, the High Priest gone away for ever; but little did she know his death had saved her life, and the life of her beloved.



CHAPTER XL

TWO MASTER MINDS

The stars were shining softly through the mists of a summer night; the moon had touched the western rim; the winds were sleeping low upon the pine-clad hills, and Nature, weary, lay in sweet repose.

On such a night, a week since the High Priest met his fate, Saronia went up the side of Pion to the cave of Endora.

Disguised as she was, Chios did not know her, and she might have passed by unknown had she not turned towards the place where he waited to receive her.

She entered, and sat down wearily. There was great anxiety in her eyes. Chios unfastened the cloak which enveloped her and let it fall back over her shoulders.

'What ails thee, Saronia?'

'What ails me? My heart is rending; I am weary. The soul truly never grows old, but the flesh tires. I am tired of all, and would I were at rest. The surges ever move towards the strand, sometimes gently like the breaking of the day; but with me always the waves beat ruthlessly around my imprisoned spirit, until now, like a drowning man clinging to the last vestige of his wrecked ship, I would fain let go my hold, and sink backwards into the seething waves which wait to engulf me.'

'Do not despair, Saronia.'

'No, I do not despair. I have ever sought to do the right and know the truth, and fear not the future.

'I must find the home best suited for this soul, as I have evolved it, but I feel I have no power to go forward, and I may as well cease my yearnings for light. Perchance more may be meted to me in the ages beyond. That I shall live again and move onwards I know. I know this: it is the jewel left me—it is the anchor of my soul. Break the cordage which fastens me to it, and I drift aimless, hopelessly.'

'Nay, nay, Saronia, do not talk in such a strain. What weighs so heavily on thee?'

'The death of the High Priest. Canst thou clear the mystery, Chios?'

He looked towards Endora. The woman stood leaning against the side of the cave, with eyes aglow, and burning with desire to speak. She stood forth, firmly erect, with head thrown back.

'I slew him, lady—slew him in self-defence; killed him to save the truest, noblest woman on earth, and the man who loveth her, Chios the Greek. He would have strangled me, would have wrenched thy whereabouts from me—did try—until his iron grip upon my throat well-nigh put out my life. Now listen, mighty priestess, and you cultured man of Ephesus. The man I slew killed my love and spirit's aspirations years ago—long ago. The dead priest, who rose to be the highest in Asia, was my husband—the husband of Endora!'

'Thy husband?' exclaimed Saronia.

'Yea, it is true. He left me to my fate. I followed him hither, watched his career, and saw the people of Ephesus fooled with his whining hypocrisy. He knew me not until the fated night. When he fell I stooped and whispered in his ear my name, but it was not Endora! Thou heard'st the second shriek? The whisper of my name caused it. He shattered my life and left me to die; but I did not die, neither will I for his death. My line of life is not broken. I wait events.'

Saronia was speechless, and Chios quivered like a leaf on a restless tree. Gathering strength, he staggered towards the door to breathe the air, and the two women were left alone.

Endora felt the power of the priestess, and dared not speak.

'Hast thou told Chios who thou art? Does he know thou art his mother, and by thine own hand thou hast slain his sire?'

'No, and the secret kills me. Oh that I could die, disappear from the gaze of my son! Thou canst fancy my bursting soul, how my heart aches to hear one loving word from my only child! No, no; this cannot be. Endora, Myrtile the false, accursed, bloodstained, must never be known to Chios, my son, my son! But when I am gone—it will not be long—when I have finished here, tell him—tell him all, and that to the last my longing soul yearned to behold his manly face. Tell him that a mother's instincts, a mother's love, deadened by the curse, still dwelt within me. Mighty Saronia, thou wilt be left to him. Give him the love which a mother could not reveal. As I have said, I shall soon be on my great journey—yea, before the leaves fall from the trees in autumn.

'Now to business. Intendest thou to deliver me to be weighed in the scales of justice?'

'No. I mourn over the fatal act. 'Twas done in self-defence. I will not interfere. Wert thou tried, no one would believe thee. I do. My betrayal of thee would rest a murder on my own soul. The Fates must rule. Go thy way, and render thine account in the great hereafter. The gods will judge thee, and mete out justice. Keep thy counsel. 'Tis better none should know who thou art. Should I outlive thee, I will tell him, and say, blackened as thou art, cursed and full of sin, there was yet a spark of the Divine in thee, a spark which anon shall fire and blaze and burn the dross, and leave thee pure and unsullied as the air in which the gods dwell.'

Chios returned within the cave. The women were silent, until the silence was broken by the footfall of a stranger. It was Judah the Christian.

'What a strange gathering!' murmured Chios, as he went forth to meet his friend.

Endora glided out like a panther, leaving the two men alone with the priestess.

Saronia drew her black cloak closely around her, covering her priestly robes.

Judah knew her. 'Lady of the Temple, thou art safe. Speak; I will not betray thee. Thou art not the first who came in this way. A young ruler in Judea came to my Master by night and learned of Him, and what thou wilt hear from me are the echoes of that Master's voice. Say on.'

Then answered Saronia. 'Behold in me a priestess of the goddess Diana, skilled in the mysteries of her faith, touching the fringe of knowledge as it emanates from my divine mistress, carrying with me a belief hoary with the ages. But a short time since it permeated every cranny of my being, leaving no room for doubt until I heard from Chios thou hadst won him to thy faith. Knowing Chios well, and observing his peace, the things thou hast told him now rise for hearing in my soul. Judah, if thou hast more of truth than I, then show it me! I have power—power to cast around us darkness—thick darkness—and anon fill this darkened cave with spirits of fire, so that it shall blaze with light! Believest thou this? I do not boast to show this power, but to prove I seek not power, but truth and peace. Speak.'

Then said he: 'Thou hast no power here. Thou art shorn of thy strength. The presence of my God is too strong! Invoke thy goddess, or thy gods; they will be dumb to thee. I challenge thee, invoke thy spirits! Call them hither, they will be as dead men to thee!'

She arose, towering with majestic beauty, and, stretching forth her arms, whispered, with a voice full of command:

Spirits of the Temple Altar, Ye who guard the sacrifice, Ye whose pinions never weary Serving Hecate, Diana, Serving Luna, Queen of Heaven, Come ye, by my summons bidden, Light your torches deep in Hades, Wave your brightness in this darkness, Fill this place with light and splendour!

But Saronia was powerless. Her strength was gone, and she stood aghast. Looking first at Chios, then at Judah, she spoke not a word, and her eyes were filled with tears as she learned a greater than Diana was there, and the priestess was a broken reed.

It was then Judah spoke:

'Holy Father, by whose power the north was stretched over the empty space, whose o'ershadowing wings give shelter to unnumbered souls, whose mercy endureth for ever! Holy Son, reclining on the bosom of the Father when the morning stars sang together and the sons of God shouted for joy! Holy Spirit, dispensing peace! Holy Trinity, Great Eternal, Love illimitable—hear Thy servant, and show us Thy goodness!'

Then a Presence passed between them, and Saronia knew the Christ of God was there; but He entered not into her soul.

She saw by the smile of peace on the Christian's face that he recognised his God and was holding communion with Him. And the priestess hid her face, not daring to look upon that holy sight.

'Saronia,' said Judah, 'thy God stands by! Wilt thou worship?'

She raised her eyes upwards to the rugged roof of the cave, and, starting to her feet, cried:

'God of gods, if such Thou be—Spirit of the Mighty Ages—hail! I feel Thy power; it encircles me! I fear Thee, but I do not love. No, no! Saronia came not here to be captured or fascinated by fleeting spasm of fear! My mind is wrought to think and judge dispassionately. No show of power, no tinge of joy or veil of peace, will hold me off from the circle of my faith, which hath taught me knowledge deep and high, all glinting with flames of truth, strong as the moon gives when harvest-time is here. What I ask for is more light—sunlight—that may show me the truth with radiant splendour of a summer day. Canst thou, holy man, bestow this?'

For a moment the power of her mighty mind astounded Judah. Never before had he encountered such a being. He looked on her as she stood erect in all her loveliness, saying:

'Thou art a princess amongst spirits! The wisdom of man will not convince thee. Thou must be taught of God! Thy knowledge is great, Saronia; but listen. Many mighty spirits have wheeled and circled around the throne of the Eternal, dashing from their wings the heavenly sheen, the brilliancy brighter than a myriad suns, as they touched the halo of splendour which surrounds Jehovah. Many of them fell—fell, I say—like lightning from heaven, shorn of their radiance through dire rebellion. They knew the very source of truth, gazed upon the very ocean of it, and fell, carrying knowledge with them and a mighty power, by which they now work evil instead of good, leaving peace and love behind.

'Perchance thou hast been taught of them—filled thy pitcher at their polluted fountain. Wilt thou be satisfied with it, or rise and rise until thou ministereth to Deity? Thou, too, wilt be a rebel if thou closest thy gates against the truth. Thine eyes are clouded, and mercy waits with loving hands to take the veil away!

'Thou seekest light, and even now, although thou knowest it not, thou art on the very verge of the kingdom. And, mark well, when the set time comes, and thy vision is purified, the glory of God will surround thee like a mighty ocean without a shore. The index of my mind points that I should say good-bye. The seed which has been sown must die, and from it rise life and beauty to be crowned with a harvest of flowers. Farewell, mighty Saronia! Farewell, beloved Chios!'