Had Lucius slept? Had he dreamed? Had the fragrant cloud drugged his senses? Had a strange mystic power spread over him? Had Serapis descended upon him? Had the dreams surrounded him?

It seemed to him that a golden thunder roused him from his heavy, motionless lethargy. The gong-strokes rolled through the temple and far away into the starry night. Harp-chords sounded, a hymn was intoned. He felt his veil wet with thick-rising dew....

Round and round the terraces, singing, moved the long procession of the priests. It was still night. Everywhere around Lucius the dreamers arose, drunk with sleep and dreaming. In the reflections of the lamps and torches their faces were ghostly, spiritualized as after a long prayer, after protracted adoration and ecstasy, wherein their thoughts, desires and souls had been refined.

On the topmost terrace, round which the whole city shimmered visibly with light—on the one side the nocturnal blue of the sea, on the other the silvery forking of the Nile’s mouths through the Delta—the learned hierogrammats, the keepers of the sacred writings, sat each on his throne. In their hands they held unrolled the sacred scrolls, whose hieroglyphics gave answer to all things. Temple-slaves behind them lifted high the coloured lanterns. In front of them the multitudinous dreamers thronged.

Great was the thronging. The dreamers wanted to know the interpretation of their dreams. But those who had dreamed were so many that the priests did not answer save with a few words full of dark meaning.

Many, disappointed, went down the terraces. Orgy awaited them in the taverns and brothels along the canal....

Lucius had risen, in the midst of all his followers. He stood stiff, motionless, veiled in the gold net, like a god entranced.

“Lucius,” Thrasyllus asked, “my dear child and master, tell me: have you dreamed?”

“Yes,” replied Lucius, in a trance.

“I too,” said Uncle Catullus. “It was a nightmare, most unpleasant! I had dined too heavily. My stomach was overloaded. And I am now shivering with this chilly dew. Egypt is most interesting, but Egypt will positively be the death of me!”

Caleb had approached:

“My gracious lord,” said Caleb, “your SabÆan amulets have no doubt inspired you with a favourable dream. You must have your dream expounded. But not by the hierogrammats.... Look, the dreamers are crowding in front of them. There is no reaching them. You must have your dream expounded by a most holy prophet, by Amphris, the centenarian.... Come with me, let me lead you to him....” He took Lucius by the hand. “It costs half a talent, no less,” said Caleb. “Thirty minÆ, my lord. But then Amphris will expound your dreams for you, Amphris, the holy Amphris. The hierogrammats charge ten or twenty drachmÆ. But they can never tell it as the holy Amphris, the prophet does. This is where he sits enthroned, my lord.”

They were standing in front of a small pyramid, on one of the upper terraces. Two sphinxes beside the narrow door lay like mysterious stone sentinels. Temple-keepers guarded the gate.

“The most holy Amphris?” Caleb asked.

“Forty minÆ,” said one of the priests.

“Why not a talent right away?” grumbled Caleb.

“Forty minÆ,” repeated the priest.

Caleb took the gold coins from the long purse at his girdle and slipped them into the priest’s hand:

“Enter, my lord,” he said, pointing to the open door.

Lucius entered. Seated on a throne was an old man who looked like a god of age and wisdom. Lucius himself was as beautiful as a young god. A strange light, as of soft moons, shone from blue globes. Lucius bowed to the ground, fell upon his knees and kissed the floor. He remained in this position.

“Did Serapis pass over you, my son?”

“Yes, holy father.”

“What did he make you see, in your dreams?”

“The woman whom I love....”

The prophet had laid his long, thin, transparent hand on the dreamer’s head:

“But who did not love you,” he said, gently and quietly.

“How do you know, holy father?... I saw the pirates who kidnapped her....”

“But by whom she was not kidnapped....”

“How do you know, holy father?”

“And by whom she was not sold as a slave.”

“Where is she then, O father?”

“What did Serapis make you see in the dream?”

Lucius sobbed:

“I do not know, father.... I saw her and ... those who kidnapped her.”

“How many were they?”

“Many.”

“Old and young?”

“No, they resembled one another like brothers, like doubles.”

“Because they were not many.”

“Not many?”

“No.”

“How many were they, father?”

“They were ... one.”

“Not more?”

“They were one,” repeated the prophet. “My son, your soul is sick. It is sick with sorrow and love. Love is strong, but wisdom is stronger. Gather wisdom, my son. My child, I can see into your soul. I see it lying tortured and trembling.”

“There is no comfort if I do not find her!”

“There is comfort. Isis seeking for Osiris recovered all the pieces of his body except that piece which fructified her. And yet she found comfort, in the end.”

“Give me comfort, holy father.”

“I am wisdom, child, and you are young. Serve wisdom, but honour love.”

“Father, why did the pirates resemble one another?”

“Because they were one.”

“One pirate?”

“One pirate.”

“Where is Ilia, father?”

“My son, even my wisdom does not tell me that whereof you have not dreamed. You dreamed of many pirates, who resembled one another like doubles. There was one pirate, my child.”

“Who was he?”

“Did Serapis conjure up his image before you?”

“I no longer see it.”

“Then go in peace. And let love and wisdom comfort you.”

Lucius went. On the threshold of the pyramid he met an hetaira. She glittered like an idol in her ceremonial garb, sewn with jewels, and looked at him with painted eyes.

“It’s Tamyris, my lord,” said Caleb. “She is going to consult Amphris. She has paid a talent! Has Amphris interpreted your dream? The door-keeper, who also is wise, has interpreted mine for me! And for only five drachmÆ.”

“One pirate! One pirate!” murmured Lucius.

And he clenched his fists, impotently....

The multitude streamed away along the terraces. The barges glided back on the canal, in the night.

And constantly, near the pleasure-houses and taverns, the vessels stopped and the dreamers alighted.

Here mead flowed and foaming golden beer and heavy Mareotis wines and the intoxicating liqueurs of Napata. Here the naked women, who beckoned with lotus-stalks, twisted in the dance.

“Back!” cried Lucius. “Back to Alexandria!”

The barge stopped at no pleasure-houses, at no taverns. The master sobbed, his head wrapped in his golden dreaming-veil. There was no music. Only the plaintive song of the rowers made itself heard from below.

Behind, in the east, the dawn paled in one long, rosy line, above the sea ... while the festal lamps flickered out and died....