Night had fallen over the city, a dark, starless night. To escape attention, Lucius and Caleb mounted a small, inconspicuous litter at the back of the diversorium. Caleb sat at Lucius’ feet with his legs dangling out of the litter, which was lifted by four powerful Libyans, in preparation for departing at a trot.

“Have you your dagger, my lord?” asked Caleb.

Yes, Lucius had a dagger in his girdle.

“And are you wearing your SabÆan amulets?”

Yes, Lucius had hung the amulets which he had bought round his neck, for Caleb was full of confidence in these talismans of his country: the amulets warded off all ill-luck; Caleb himself wore amulets everywhere, on his chest and round his waist and even on a narrow gold bangle round his ankle.

The bearers scurried through Bruchium and past the Gymnasium and the Museum, as though they had an enemy at their heels. They came to a square that lay higher than the Great Harbour; and Lucius looked out across the quays at the different harbours. Red and green and yellow lights and signals shone over a variegated, patched throng of ships and boats and swarming people. But the wonder to Lucius’ eyes was the light-house of Pharos. The nine storeys of the tall marble monument, stacked one on top of the other like so many cubes, each cube smaller than the one below, ended in a sort of cupola, where a heap of burning coal gleamed from immense mirrors and reflectors, which turned and turned continually, sending bright, broad rays from the summit of the tower upon the harbours, which they lit up each time, before stretching into the dark night. Sometimes the wide sheaves of light struck the high marble bridge of the Heptastadium, which led to the light-house itself and which at this hour was crowded with women and idlers.

“My lord,” whispered Caleb, “would you not like to get out ... and walk ... there? The loveliest women in Alexandria are strolling yonder ... and you can take your choice.”

Lucius shook his head:

“I want to go to the sibyl,” he said.

“Your lordship is sick,” said Caleb. “Your lordship is sick with longing and useless pining. The lovely women of Alexandria would cure your lordship. They have often cured me, my lord, when I was sick with longing and pining.”

“Longing and pining for what, Caleb?”

“For my country, for Saba, my lord, for Saba, the fairest and dearest country in the world, my lord, which I have had to leave ... for the sake of business, my lord, for the sake of business. For we do no business in Saba.”

The four bearers trotted on. They were now trotting past the immemorial temple of Serapis, the Serapeum: sombre and grey it lay with its terraces below the Acropolis; and numbers of other shrines, also sombre, grey and mysterious, were ranged, with the needles of their obelisks, around the vast temple.

“These shrines are deserted, my lord,” said Caleb, “and no longer find worshippers. Even the Serapeum is deserted ... for the temple of Serapis at Canopus. And the modern Alexandrians hold all this sacred quarter in but slight esteem since the quinquennial games were instituted at Nicopolis. All those who wish to do honour to Serapis repair to Nicopolis and Canopus. We will go there too, my lord, and you shall dream dreams full of import high up, on the roof of the temple.... Look, my lord, here we are, at Rhacotis....”

The trotting bearers had left the aristocratic quarters. They were now hurrying through a narrower, sombre street.

“We had better get out here, my lord, and walk,” said Caleb. “We shall find our litter here when we return.”

Lucius and Caleb alighted. The sombre street was hardly lit, but was nevertheless swarming with people, including drunken sailors and fighting beldames.

“It’s very different here, my lord, from the Heptastadium and Lake Mareotis. Here the people, soldiers and sailors take their pleasure. Here a dagger is drawn as quick as thought. Here is nothing but kennels and taverns. But every traveller who wants to know Alexandria comes here.... Look, my lord, here it is,” said Caleb, “here!”

They had gone through a network of little lanes and alleys and come to a square. At one corner an old, ragged philosopher stood arguing and expounding. Around him soldiers, sailors and wenches gathered, listening attentively to what he said of true wisdom. When he put out his hand for alms, two soldiers gave him some coppers, but the others laughed and pelted him with rotten vegetables. He fled and disappeared, pursued by yelping dogs that bit him in the skirt of his torn toga.

“Will you not see the Syrian boys dance, my lord?” asked Caleb. “They dance so beautifully.”

“No, I want to go to the sibyl,” Lucius answered, impatiently.

“We are close to her dwelling, my lord,” Caleb declared.

They almost fought their way through the crowd. The men cursed them because they pushed and the women flung themselves round their necks. Caleb drew his dagger and raised it threateningly. Other knives were drawn forthwith. There was a demoniacal yelling and din. But they succeeded in avoiding bloodshed.

“I want to go to the sibyl,” Lucius repeated, panting and with his clenched fists pushing away two women who were hanging on to his arms.

Lucius and Caleb now hurried through a reek of wine past the open brothels and reeking taverns. Caleb stopped in front of a small, narrow door and knocked. It was opened by a little Greek girl, pretty and delicate as a Tanagra figurine, with very large black eyes.

“Is Herophila within?” asked Caleb. “A distinguished foreigner wishes to consult her.”

“I will tell her,” said the girl.

They entered a very narrow little chamber. A woman came from behind a curtain. She was shrouded in a white veil, like a phantom; she carried an earthenware lamp; and it was not possible to see if she was young or old.

“Do you wish to know the future?” she asked, in a hollow voice.

“No,” said Lucius, “I want to know the past and the present. I want to know where a girl named Ilia is and how she vanished from my house. Here is the sandal which she left behind: the only trace of her. If she ... is dead, can you make her appear before me, so that I may ask her?”

“Yes,” said the sibyl, “I can. For I am descended from the witch of En-dor.”

“Who was she?” asked Lucius.

“The witch who made Samuel appear before Saul....”

“I never heard of them,” said Lucius.

“And another of my forbears was my honoured namesake, Herophila of ErythrÆ.”

“Who was she?” asked Lucius.

“She was the custodian of the shrine of Apollo Smintheus, the divine rat-killer. She prophesied to Hecuba the calamity which would cause the death of her son Paris, whom she was bearing in her womb.”

“I never heard of her before,” Lucius repeated. “Tell me if Ilia is dead.”

The sibyl pressed the blue-leather sandal to her head; and her other hand pressed Lucius’ forehead.

“She is not dead!” she cried, in a voice of rapture.

“She is not dead?”

“No, Ilia lives!”

“Where? Where is she?”

The sibyl, in a trance, muttered incomprehensible sounds:

“She appears ... she appears,” she stammered, at length.

Suddenly, behind her, the curtains parted. There was nothing there but a smoking tripod. Thick fumes filled the apartment and rolled on high like a heavy curtain.

“She appears ... she appears,” the sibyl went on stammering.

Lucius stared breathlessly.

Suddenly, in the fumes, a figure was vaguely outlined as of a dainty woman, flimsy and thin, a shade that moved to and fro.

“I see her!” cried Lucius. “Ilia, Ilia! Speak one word to me! Come back to me! I cannot live without you!”

The vision had vanished. The smoke clouded away. The curtains closed again.

“It is difficult,” said the sibyl, faintly, “to hold the astral bodies of living persons for more than a single moment. I can summon the dead for you for a longer time. But Ilia is not dead.”

“Then where is she?” cried Lucius.

The sibyl now pressed the sandal to her forehead and her other hand lay on Lucius’ head:

“I see her,” said the sibyl. “She is lying in a boat, swooning.... The sea is raging.... Now rough, bearded men are hurrying her away....”

“She is kidnapped!” cried Lucius. “By pirates?”

“Yes!” cried the sibyl and fell into a faint.

The pretty Greek girl appeared and said:

“The fee is half a ptolemy, in gold....”

Caleb paid.

Lucius looked down in despair upon the swooning sibyl.

“To-morrow night, my lord,” said the Greek girl, in a sing-song voice, “Herophila will be able to tell you more ... where Ilia was taken by the pirates.”

But Lucius clenched his fists; he foamed at the mouth with sudden anger and roared:

“She has merely read my own thoughts! No more! No more!”

He glared round him like a madman, drew his dagger and made as though to fling himself upon the sibyl’s swooning body.

“My lord! My lord!” shouted Caleb, holding him back and gripping him in his strong arms.

The Greek girl, standing in front of the fainting woman, spread wide her arms and cried:

“Do not murder a holy woman, my lord! Do not murder a poor, holy woman!”

And, as she stood thus, Lucius saw that she was like the shade of Ilia ... and he burst into sobs.