Part 7 (1/2)
”Mother of Eros, hear thy slave!
”Child of the foam, great G.o.ddess of love, Aphrodite, look down from above!
Thou, who dost madden the G.o.ds with desire, Thou, who fulfillest men's hearts with thy fire, All but the heart of my lord that I crave, Hark to thy slave!
”Spill this hot blood that courses in vain for him, Darken these eyes that are heavy with pain for him, Smite the parched lips that he sees but to spurn them, The hands stretched in love ... take them, break them and burn them!
”Then, in the place where lately he strode, Mingle mine ash with the dust of the road; Thus, though I win not a glance from his eye, Thus, though as ever he pa.s.s me by Careless, unseeing, at least my lord's heel Cannot but touch me, at least I shall feel The embrace of his foot; and his sandall'd sole Shall kiss my dust and make me whole.
”Then let the heart that he has press'd, The ashen lips by him caressed Sink low in the lowly dust of the road Lest another tread where late he trod.
”Mother of Eros, hear thy slave!
”Child of the foam, great G.o.ddess of love, Aphrodite, look down from above!
Thou, who dost madden the G.o.ds with desire, Thou, who fulfillest men's hearts with thy fire, All but the heart of my lord that I crave, Hark to thy slave!”
Cora's song rang through the falling night. Her clear voice, tinkling as though with little golden bells, at first soft and hushed, rose throbbing in pa.s.sion and then broke like a crystal ray and melted in mournfulness and plaintive prayer.
The shadows lay heaped under the palm-trees. Outside the doors of their apartments, in the galleries of the diversorium, sat the travelling merchants, squatting or lying on mat or rug, listening. Uncle Catullus lay in a hammock and Thrasyllus sat beside him and looked up at the stars, which were beginning to show like silver daisies in wide, blue meadows.
”You have sung beautifully, Cora,” said Uncle Catullus to the slave, who was sitting on the ground with the four-stringed harp before her.
”Thank you, my lord,” said the slave.
”Why not call me uncle?” said Catullus, good-naturedly.
”I should not dare,” said Cora, smiling.
”Ilia used to call me uncle.”
”I am not Ilia, my lord.”
Tarrar appeared in the pillared portico.
But his appearance was a surprise. For Tarrar, no longer bandaged, looked like a little savage: he wore his Libyan festive garment; a girdle of feathers hung round his waist; he was crowned with a head-dress of feathers. And he stood grinning.
”Great G.o.ds, Tarrar!” cried Uncle Catullus, with a start. ”What have you done to yourself? You look like a little cannibal! You frighten me! What's happening?”
”We are going to Canopus, my lord, to-night!” cried Tarrar, jubilantly. ”My Lord Lucius lets you know that we are all going to Canopus this very night! Here is his lords.h.i.+p himself!”
And Tarrar pointed triumphantly to Lucius, who appeared upon the threshold. Cora had risen and now curtseyed low to the ground, with outstretched arms.
Lucius looked like a young Egyptian G.o.d. He wore an Egyptian robe of striped byssus, with a border of hieroglyphics worked in heavy embroidery and precious stones; his legs were encased in hose of gold tissue; about his head was an Egyptian coif, like that of a sphinx, with broad, projecting, striped bands, which fell to his shoulders; he glittered with strange jewels and was wrapped from head to foot in fine gold net like a transparent cloak, like an immaterial shroud. And he approached with a smile, brilliantly, superhumanly beautiful.
”Great sacred G.o.ds! Great sacred G.o.ds!” exclaimed Uncle Catullus.