Now the god Bacchus sat there smiling, rocked by the tenderest hopes, and waited for Ariadne.

The sun rose, the morning breeze freshened.  He abandoned himself to smiling dreams.  He would know well how to console the forsaken one; he, the god Bacchus himself.

Then she came.  She walked out of the grotto with a beaming smile.  Her eyes sought Theseus, they wandered farther away to the anchoring-place of the ship, to the sea—­to the black sails.

And then with a piercing scream, without consideration, without hesitation, down into the waves, down to death and oblivion.

And there sat the god Bacchus, the consoler.

So it was.  Thus had it actually happened.  Uncle Theodore remembers that Noesselt adds in a few words that sympathetic poets affirm that Ariadne let herself be consoled by Bacchus.  But the sympathizers were certainly wrong.  Ariadne would not be consoled.

Good God, because she is good and sweet, so that he must love her, shall she for that reason be made unhappy!

As a reward for the sweet little smiles she had given him; because her soft little hand had lain so trustingly in his; because she had not been angry when he jested, shall she lose her betrothed and be made unhappy?

For which of all her misdemeanors shall she be condemned?  Because she has shown him a room in his innermost soul, which seems to have stood fine and clean and unoccupied all these years awaiting just such a tender and motherly little woman; or because she has already such power over him that he hardly dares to swear lest she hear it; or for what shall she be condemned?

Oh, poor Bacchus, poor Uncle Theodore!  It is not easy to have to do with such delicate, light bits of down.—­They leap into the sea when they see the black sails.

Uncle Theodore swears softly because Downie has not black hair, red cheeks, coarse limbs.

Then another flake falls and it begins to speak:  “It is I who would have followed you all your days.  I would have whispered a warning in your ear at the card-table.  I would have moved away the wineglass.  You would have borne it from me.”  “I would,” he whispers, “I would.”

Another comes and speaks too:  “It is I who would have reigned over your big house and made it cheery and warm.  It is I who would have followed you through the desert of old age.  I would have lighted your fire, have been your eyes and your staff.  Should I have been fit for that?” “Sweet little Downie,” he answers, “you would.”

Again a flake comes and says:  “I am so to be pitied.  To-morrow my betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell.  To-morrow I shall weep, weep all day long, for I shall feel the shame of not being good enough for Maurits.  And when I come home—­I do not know how I shall be able to come home; how I can cross my father’s threshold after this.  The whole street will be full of whispering and gossip when I show myself.  Every one will wonder what evil thing I have done, to be so badly treated.  Is it my fault that you love me?” He answers with a sob in his throat:  “Do not speak so, little Downie!  It is too soon to speak so.”