red separately over the open square as far as the
entrance to the street of Hermes. Here lay an old man with a thick
beard, probably a Syrian or a Jew; there, his dress betraying him,
a seaman; and farther on-no, she could not be mistaken--the youthful
corpse that lay so motionless just beneath the window was that of
Myrtilos, a friend of Philip, and, like him, a member of the Museum.

In a fresh fit of terror she was going to flee again into her dreadful
hiding-place, when she caught sight of a figure leaning against the
basin of the beautiful marble fountain just in front of the eastern
side-door of the Serapeum, and immediately below her. The figure moved,
and could therefore only be wounded, not dead; and round the head
was bound a white cloth, reminding her of her beloved, and thereby
attracting her attention. The youth moved again, turning his face
upward, and with a low cry she leaned farther forward and gazed and
gazed, unmindful of the danger of being seen and falling a victim to the
tyrant's fury. The wounded, living man-there, he had moved again--was no
other than Diodoros, her lover!

Till the last glimmer of light disappeared she stood at the window
with bated breath, and eyes fixed upon him. No faintest movement of his
escaped her, and at each one, trembling with awakening hope, she thanked
Heaven and prayed for his rescue. At length the growing darkness hid
him from her sight. With every instant the night deepened, and without
thinking, without stopping to reflect--driven on by one absorbing
thought--she felt her way back to her couch, beside which stood the lamp
and fire-stick, and lighted the wick; then, inspired with new courage
at the thought of rescuing her lover from death, she considered for a
moment what had best be done.

It was easy for her to get out. She had a little money with her; on her
peplos she wore a clasp that had once belonged to her mother, with
two gems in it from her father's hand, and on her rounded arm a golden
circlet. With these she could buy help. The only thing now was to
disguise herself.

On the great, smoke-blackened metal plate over which those mystics
passed who had to walk through fire, there lay plenty of charcoal, and
yonder hung robes of every description. The next moment she had thrown
off her own, in order to blacken her glistening white limbs and her face
with soot. Among the sewing materials which the lady Euryale had laid
beside the scrolls was a pair of sci