it of the beloved dead to hover near her now as
a guardian genius.

Still, now and again the memory of something terrible passed over her
soul like a sweeping shadow; but what it was which threatened her and
those dear to her she did not see, and would not now inquire. What the
morrow might bring should not cloud the enchantment of this hour. For oh,
how fair the world was, and how blessed might mortals be!

"Iakchos! Iakchos!" the voices about her shouted, and it sounded as
gleeful as though the breasts of the revelers were overflowing with
gladness; and as the scented curls of Diodoros bent over her head, as his
hand closed on hers, and his whispered words of love were in her ear, she
murmured: "Alexander is right; the world is a banqueting-hall, and life
is fair."

"So fair!" echoed the youth, pensively. Then he shouted aloud to his
companions: "The world is a banqueting-hall! Bring roses, bring wine,
that we may sacrifice to Eros, and pour libations to Dionysus. Light the
flaming torches! Iakchos! come, Iakchos, and sanctify our glad festival!"

"Come, Iakchos, come!" cried one and another, and soon the enthusiastic
youth's cry was taken up on all sides. But wine-skin and jar were long
since emptied.

Hard by, below the cliff, and close to the sea, was a tavern, at the sign
of the Cock. Here cool drink was to be had; here the horses might
rest-for the drivers had been grumbling bitterly at the heavy load added
to the car over the deep sand--and here there was a level plot, under the
shade of a spreading sycamore, which had often before now served as a
floor for the choric dance.

The vehicle soon drew up in front of the whitewashed inn, surrounded on
three sides by a trellised arbor, overgrown with figs and vine. The young
couples sprang to the ground; and, while the host and his slave dragged
up a huge wine-jar with two ears, full of the red juice of the grape,
fresh torches were lighted and stuck on poles or fastened to the branches
of the sycamore, the youths took their places eager for the dance, and
suddenly the festal song went up from their clear throats unbidden, and
as though inspired by some mysterious power:

Iakchos, come! oh, come, Iakchos!
Hither come, to the scene of our revel,
The gladsome band of the faithful.
Shake the fragrant, berried garland,
Myrtle-twined, that crowns thy love-locks,
Shedding its odors!
Tread the measure, wit