tification. Now
the festivities were nearly over; already some of the lords had gone.
Among them was Count Pomponius, with his Wardens of the Eastern Marches,
for it was reported that Saxons were again harrying and burning along
the coast.

In the mellow light of the bronze lamps the face of Eudemius showed
softer, less inscrutable, with eyes more kindly. On it was great
weariness, but also a great content. He put forth a hand and touched the
bell on the stand beside his couch. The strain under which he had
labored was lifting; he could afford to relax. The silvery tinkle of
sound had scarcely fallen into the quiet of the room when Mycon, chief
of the eunuchs, entered, parting the curtains, with his arms crossed
before his face.

"Bid Cyrrus bring hither his lyre," said Eudemius.

Many and many a day had gone since their dark lord had given such
command; the cries and groans of his slaves had been music enough for
him. Mycon bowed in silence and went. Before five minutes had fled, word
of the miracle had gone from end to end of the ranks of those whose duty
it was to watch the house by night; and weary men and women smiled and
blessed their little lady, who perhaps had bought for them the dawn of a
happier day.

Cyrrus the musician entered, a slender Greek boy; and the low light was
caught by the silver frame of the lyre he bore, and rippled on its
strings. He put himself where he should not be too much under his lord's
eyes, and played; and as though the instinct of his art had taught him
what to do, the music he played was plaintive and low and soothing.
Eudemius lay with arms behind his head and stared at the painted ceiling
where naked nereids sported. By slow degrees, still more his hard face
softened; under the spell of the music and of his thoughts his thin lips
parted to a smile. Slow and soft the melody rippled into the quiet room,
singing of placid waters smiling in the sun, with lilies floating on
their bosom, of young fleecy clouds and tender shadows. Again it
changed, with dropping notes like tears, and whispered of the yearning
hopes of men, of world pain and heart's peace, of longings unfulfilled
and prayers unanswered. Two tears, the slow and difficult tears of age,
stole down Eudemius's gray furrowed cheeks and lost themselves in his
silken pillow.

"My child!" he whispered. "My little, little child!"

In that moment the pathetic unloved beauty of her came nearer to
touching him than ever before