hing that Asclepiodorus--as
you yourself told me quite lately, not more than a week ago I am
sure--reminded you how often those condemned to forced labor in the
mines had their relations sent after them. Ah! child, the words of
Asclepiodorus have a sinister meaning. The calmness and pride, with
which you look at me make me fear for you, and yet, as you know, I am
not one of the timid and tremulous. Certainly what they propose to you
is repulsive enough, but submit to it; it is to be hoped it will not be
for long. Do it for my sake and for that of poor Irene, for though you
might know how to assert your dignity and take care of yourself outside
these walls in the rough and greedy world, little Irene never could. And
besides, Klea, my sweetheart, we have now found some one, who makes
your concerns his, and who is great and powerful--but oh! what are
three clays? To think of seeing you turned out--and then that you may be
driven with a dissolute herd in a filthy boat down to the burning south,
and dragged to work which kills first the soul and then the body! No, it
is not possible! You will never let this happen to me--and to yourself
and Irene; no, my darling, no, my pet, my sweetheart, you cannot, you
will not do so. Are you not my children, my daughters, my only joy? and
you, would you go away, and leave me alone in my cage, all because you
are so proud!"

The strong man's voice failed him, and heavy drops fell from his eyes
one after another down his beard, and on to Klea's arm, which he had
grasped with both hands.

The girl's eyes too were dim with a mist of warm tears when she saw her
rough friend weeping, but she remained firm and said, as she tried to
free her hand from his:

"You know very well, father Serapion, that there is much to tie me to
this temple; my sister, and you, and the door-keeper's child, little
Philo. It would be cruel, dreadful to have to leave you; but I would
rather endure that and every other grief than allow Irene to take the
place of Arsinoe or the black Doris as wailing woman. Think of that
bright child, painted and kneeling at the foot of a bier and groaning
and wailing in mock sorrow! She would become a living lie in human form,
an object of loathing to herself, and to me--who stand in the place of a
mother to her--from morning till night a martyrizing reproach! But what
do I care about myself--I would disguise myself as the goddess without
even making a wry face, and be led to the bi