“In this life,—­life and beauty;
    beyond,—­Death, the enigmatical”—­

thought he, and there is no better thing for a man to do than to delight in life and in the beauty of all things living.  He had even a vainglorious desire to convince Lazarus of the truth of his own view and restore his soul to life, as his body had been restored.  This seemed so much easier because the rumors, shy and strange, did not render the whole truth about Lazarus and but vaguely warned against something frightful.

Lazarus had just risen from the stone in order to follow the sun which was setting in the desert, when a rich Roman attended by an armed slave, approached him and addressed him in a sonorous tone of voice: 

“Lazarus!”

And Lazarus beheld a superb face, lit with glory, and arrayed in fine clothes, and precious stones sparkling in the sun.  The red light lent to the Roman’s face and head the appearance of gleaming bronze—­that also Lazarus noticed.  He resumed obediently his place and lowered his weary eyes.

“Yes, thou art ugly, my poor Lazarus,”—­quietly said the Roman, playing with his golden chain; “thou art even horrible, my poor friend; and Death was not lazy that day when thou didst fall so heedlessly into his hands.  But thou art stout, and, as the great Caesar used to say, fat people are not ill-tempered; to tell the truth, I don’t understand why men fear thee.  Permit me to spend the night in thy house; the hour is late, and I have no shelter.”

Never had anyone asked Lazarus’ hospitality.

“I have no bed,” said he.

“I am somewhat of a soldier and I can sleep sitting,” the Roman answered.  “We shall build a fire.”

“I have no fire.”

“Then we shall have our talk in the darkness, like two friends.  I think thou wilt find a bottle of wine.”

“I have no wine.”

The Roman laughed.

“Now I see why thou art so somber and dislikest thy second life.  No wine!  Why, then we shall do without it:  there are words that make the head go round better than the Falernian.”

By a sign he dismissed the slave, and they remained all alone.  And again the sculptor started speaking, but it was as if, together with the setting sun, life had left his words; and they grew pale and hollow, as if they staggered on unsteady feet, as if they slipped and fell down, drunk with the heavy lees of weariness and despair.  And black chasms grew up between the words—­like far-off hints of the great void and the great darkness.

“Now I am thy guest, and thou wilt not be unkind to me, Lazarus!”—­said he.  “Hospitality is the duty even of those who for three days were dead.  Three days, I was told, thou didst rest in the grave.  There it must be cold ... and that is whence comes thy ill habit of going without fire and wine.  As to me, I like fire; it grows dark here so rapidly....  The lines of thy eyebrows and forehead are quite, quite interesting:  they are like ruins of strange palaces, buried in ashes after an earthquake.  But why dost thou wear such ugly and queer garments?  I have seen bridegrooms in thy country, and they wear such clothes—­are they not funny—­and terrible....  But art thou a bridegroom?”