The rich, emotional voice ceased suddenly like the flood tide of Northern seas.  Paulus was not prepared for the swift transformation of ardent speaker into observant host as Atticus turned with a whispered order to the slave who stood behind him.  He was shocked, too, failing to perceive its note of defiant bitterness, by a laugh from Lucian and his careless, “My felicitations, Atticus, on your welding of dirge and exhortation into one epideictic oration!  Aulus,” he added, looking across the table, “don’t forget to make a note of the prepositions the master used in burying Greece.”

The sneer fortunately was almost on the instant covered up by Ptolemy, who, as if awakened from a revery, turned toward his host.  “Atticus,” he said, “you have convinced me that I am right.  Pedigree, wealth and art, nations and civilisations and the destiny of men bring you no happiness.  I find myself at peace in the heavens.  While you were speaking I rivalled Alpheus here and beat out an epigram: 

  That I am mortal and a day my span
    I know and own,
  Yet when the circling ebb and flow I scan
    Of stars thick-strewn,
  No longer brush the earth my feet,
    And I abide,
  While God’s own food ambrosial doth replete,
    By Zeus’s side.”

Like a gust of wind, the unexpected poet might have swept the conversation into his own ether, if at this juncture the doors had not opened to admit a group of well known actors.  There was a general exclamation of surprise, special entertainments being almost unknown at Atticus’s dinners.  The host turned smiling to his guests.  “My friends,” he said, “I know you share my pride in the rare event of Apuleius’s presence.  He is not as accustomed as we are to the grey monotone of our own thoughts.  Shall he go back to Carthage or Rome to laugh at our village banquets?  Ptolemy, you know Menander shared your regard for—­

        these majestic sights—­the common sun,
  Water and clouds, the stars and fire.

Let him take you off now among our country folk out here near Parnes.  We still have the human comedy, played out under sun and stars.  Love and deceit, troubles and rewards are as ageless as the heavens.  Gentlemen, this distinguished company has consented to give us to-night a presentation of The Arbitrants equal to the famous one of the last Dionysia.”

Apuleius’s handsome face lit up with gaiety and good will.  “I thank you, O wise host,” he called out.

  To-day’s my joy and sorrow,
  Who knows what comes to-morrow?

Let us spend the moment we have in the merry company of a wise poet.”

The play began.  Moods of tragedy were forgotten.  Only Paulus found himself unable to listen.  His host’s appeal, made apparently with such ready emotion, and so easily forgotten by the other men—­he was the youngest of the company—­had shaken his soul as a young tree on a mountain is shaken by the night wind.  The comedy went on, punctuated by applause.  In his mind met and struggled high desires.  When Atticus had talked of Athens and of Rome he had remembered Virgil’s great defence of his own people, the weapon of all patriots after him: