to you more
beautiful than--"

"Astarte is right," shouted Thrasabad, madly. "She is right! What use
is a stone Aphrodite? A lifeless, marble-cold goddess of love! She
clasps her arms forever across her bosom; she cannot open them for a
blissful embrace. And what a stern dignity of expression, as though
love were the most serious, deadly-earnest, sacred thing. No, marble
statue, you are _not_ the fairest woman! The fairest woman--far more
beautiful than you--is my Aphrodite here. The fairest woman in the
world is mine. You shall acknowledge it with envy! I will, I will be
envied for her! You shall all confess it!"

And with surprising strength he dragged the Greek, who resisted with
all her power, up beside him, swung her upon the broad pedestal of the
statue, and tore wildly at the white silk coverlet which, while on the
ship, Glauke had thrown over her shoulders, and the transparent Coan
robe.

"Stop! Stop, beloved! Do not dishonor me before all eyes!" pleaded the
girl, struggling in despair. "Stop--or by the Most High--"

But the Vandal, who had lost all self-control, laughed loudly. "Away
with the envious veil!"

Once more he pulled down the coverlet and the robe. Steel flashed in
the light (the Ionian had snatched the knife from the pedestal), a warm
red stream sprinkled Thrasabad's face, and the slight figure, already
crimsoned with blood, sank at the feet of the marble statue.

"Glauke!" cried the Vandal, suddenly sobered by the shock.

But at the same moment, outside the Amphitheatre rose in a note
of menace a brazen, warlike blare, dominating the loudest swell
of the music,--for the dance of Satyrs and Bacchantes was still
continuing,--the blast of the Vandal horns. And from the doors, as well
as from the highest seats, which afforded a view of the grove, a cry of
terror from thousands of voices filled the spacious building: "The
_King_! King Gelimer!"

The spectators, seized with fear, poured out of all the exits.

Thrasaric drew himself up to his full height, lifted the trembling
Eugenia on his strong arm, and forced his way through the throng. The
voice of the director of the festival was no longer heard. Thrasabad
lay prostrate at the feet of the silent marble goddess, clasping in his
arms the beautiful Glauke--lifeless.

Soon he was alone with her in the vast deserted building.

Outside--far away--rose the uproar of voices in dispute, but the
silence of death reigned in the Amphitheatre; even