The passing of Nika spoke strongly to Saronia. She had lived with her, served with her, felt the keen injustice of her nature, and now the end had come.

Had it been woman against woman, she would not have crushed the Roman; but it was not so. It was a woman in conflict with the goddess. Saronia had been powerless to help, and dared not question the vengeance of Hecate.

She sympathized with Lucius, her old master, always kind; pictured him returning to Ephesus, hastening to his home on the Coressian hill, expecting loving greeting, hearing the dreadful death of his only child from a broken-hearted wife. She saw the tears streaming down the face of the weather-beaten mariner, and watched the wrecked soul as it looked out through the lustreless eyes.

It was horrible to think of all this, and to dwell on the thought that question after question would arise in his mind why the Fates did not sooner bring him home that he might have saved her—fought for her, if need be; and, above all, why did not Saronia protect her against the power of the Roman, Proconsul though he was? He would revert back to the time when he saw her at the altar steps looking sweetly on him and his sailors when they came to pray.

All the agony of Lucius came before her, and her spirit was clouded with gloom.

She threw herself down, and buried her beautiful face, sighing as if her heart would rend in twain. She was a woman, not a goddess—a woman with sympathies keen enough to feel for others, even to the binding up of the broken-hearted and offering forgiveness to her most violent foe.

A mysterious link had suddenly snapped in her chain of destiny. What it was she could not divine.

The death of Nika moved her in a peculiar manner, such as nothing else had done since the deep of her being was broken up by the call of the great spirit to follow the goddess.

It was a dark chapter in her life's history, and she earnestly desired to know its hidden meaning; she would wait patiently until the time came when all should be revealed.

She arose, looked towards the sea, and saw in vision the white sails of the fleet of Lucius bringing him to port.

A storm crossed her face, as when the icy winds of winter furrow the waves and clouds swoop down to wed the foaming main. Her whole nature trembled like the shaken hull of a tempest-haunted ship. The spirit of Hecate was on her, and the voice of the terrible goddess rang out in her soul:

'Tell him the curse hath killed her! Say the gods are avenged!'

When the evening had come, Saronia retired and lay on a couch of black marble. The windows of the room were thrown open to admit what little breeze there was; the honeysuckle and jasmine climbed the walls like rival lovers, and breathed their perfume on the priestess.

She looked towards the Temple; the sun threw rays aslant the roof and pillars, and it shone resplendent in the dying day.

In the rear of it sprang up against the sky tall trees of cluster-pine and ash, further away rose the great mountains, and behind them the golden gates of the setting sun, and beyond all, soft clouds cradled in light floated like temple domes of a great spiritual city.

The soul of the priestess was drawn away towards the glorious vision, and for a while she had forgotten herself. Darkness had changed to light, and she longed to be beyond all the uncertainty of this troubled existence, and move into a sphere where hope might be lost in love—where she would see things as they are, see them with the truth of a risen soul, not as she now saw them, with a soul straining to gaze at spiritual beauty through a mass of corruption, a shroud of earthly mould.

Her spirit struggled to free itself, to spread out its pinions and soar into an element of its own; but the time had not yet arrived for the prisoner to be free—her prison was bolted with bars of brass.

As the shadows deepened on the floor of that sacred room, and the last flickering light of day played between her tresses, turning her silvery robes to gray, it was evident her mind was much agitated—influenced in a marked degree.

She took from her bosom the parchment Chios had given—the manuscript which taught the Christian creed—and, grasping it firmly with her right hand, walked towards the window, looking lovingly and long at the great Temple. She moved away, murmuring:

'I will see Chios. I will see him, and know more of his faith.'

Thus was this magnificent spirit besieged by contending forces. She stood like a mountain peak encircled with storm, like a beacon on a rock lashed by the fury of the maddening seas, like a ship in a valley of waves, rudderless, shroudless, with creaking timbers and sailless yards.

Her first thought was, under the cover of night, to fly to the studio of Chios. No, he would not be there. A better way suggested itself.

She stood erect, with face towards where the city lay, and, stretching out both hands, she threw a wave of will forward in search of Endora. It reached her at her mountain home.

The witch sprang to her feet, and the command of Saronia came to her: 'Come to the Temple to-morrow morn. Bring me a gift of roses.'

That night the priestess rested, slumbering till the sun arose and the mists on the mountains had cleared away. Then she awoke, and went forth to the morning service. As she passed by, many beasts were being sacrificed at the altar in front of the Temple, portions of the flesh and basins of blood were being carried within.

She stood beside the sacrifice in the midst of the Temple, heard the crackling wood as it slowly burned up the pieces, watched the smoke until it ascended, freely passing out through the aperture in the roof; then she knew the sacrifice was accepted of the goddess.

The omen at one time would have been to her one of great joy. Now another voice was echoing: 'Sacrifices and burnt-offerings I have no pleasure in. The true sacrifice is a broken and a contrite heart.'

As soon as she could, she turned from the Temple and sought the quiet of her room, sitting by the window where the sunlight kissed the roses and the breezes fanned her cheeks.