ords that
flashed from side to side. The cups were all of glass; some were of deep
green, of the color of the sea near the land, flawed and specked with the
bubbles of the furnace. Others were of brilliant scarlet, streaked with
irregular bands of white, and having the appearance of white globules in
the molded stem. There were cups of dark glowing blue, deeper and more
shining than the blue of the sky, and running through the substance of
the glass were veins of rich gamboge yellow, twining from the brim to the
foot. Some cups were of a troubled and clotted red, with alternating
blotches of dark and light, some were variegated with white and yellow
stains, some wore a film of rainbow colours, some glittered, shot with
gold threads through the clear crystal, some were as if sapphires hung
suspended in running water, some sparkled with the glint of stars, some
were black and golden like tortoiseshell.

A strange feature was the constant and fluttering motion of hands and
arms. Gesture made a constant commentary on speech; white fingers, whiter
arms, and sleeves of all colours, hovered restlessly, appeared and
disappeared with an effect of threads crossing and re-crossing on the
loom. And the odor of the place was both curious and memorable; something
of the damp cold breath of the cave meeting the hot blast of summer,
the strangely mingled aromas of rare wines as they fell plashing and
ringing into the cups, the drugged vapor of the East that the priests of
Mithras and Isis bore from their steaming temples; these were always
strong and dominant. And the women were scented, sometimes with unctuous
and overpowering perfumes, and to the artist the experiences of those
present were hinted in subtle and delicate _nuances_ of odor.

They drank their wine and caressed all day in the tavern. The women threw
their round white arms about their lover's necks, they intoxicated them
with the scent of their hair, the priests muttered their fantastic
jargon of Theurgy. And through the sonorous clash of voices there always
seemed the ring of the cry:

"Look for the jar marked _Faunus_; you will be glad."

Outside, the vine tendrils shook on the white walls glaring in the
sunshine; the breeze swept up from the yellow river, pungent with the
salt sea savor.

These tavern scenes were often the subject of Lucian's meditation as he
sat amongst the cushions on the marble seat. The rich sound of the voices
impressed him above all things,