“You speak wisely,” replied Paphnutius; “woman is our worst enemy.  She gives us pleasure, and is to be feared on that account.”

“By the immovable gods,” cried Dorion, “it is not pleasure that woman gives to man, but sadness, trouble, and black cares.  Love is the cause of our most biting evils.  Listen, stranger.  When I was a young man I visited Troezene, in Argolis, and I saw there a myrtle of a most prodigious size, the leaves of which were covered with innumerable pinholes.  And this is what the Troezenians say about that myrtle.  Queen Phaedra, when she was in love with Hippolytos, used to recline idly all day long under this same tree.  To beguile the tedium of her weary life she used to draw out the golden pin which held her fair locks, and pierce with it the leaves of the sweet-scented bush.  All the leaves were riddled with holes.  After she had ruined the poor young man whom she pursued with her incestuous love, Phaedra, as you know, perished miserably.  She locked herself up in her bridal chamber, and hanged herself by her golden girdle from an ivory peg.  The gods willed that the myrtle, the witness of her bitter misery, should continue to bear, in its fresh leaves, the marks of the pin-holes.  I picked one of these leaves, and placed it at the head of my bed, that by the sight of it I might take warning against the folly of love, and conform to the doctrine of the divine Epicurus, my master, who taught that all lust is to be feared.  But, properly speaking, love is a disease of the liver, and one is never sure of not catching the malady.”

Paphnutius asked—­

“Dorion, what are your pleasures?”

Dorion replied sadly—­

“I have only one pleasure, and, it must be confessed, that it is not a very exciting one; it is meditation.  When a man has a bad digestion, he must not look for any others.”

Taking advantage of these words, Paphnutius proceeded to initiate the Epicurean into those spiritual joys which the contemplation of God procures.  He began—­

“Hear the truth, Dorion, and receive the light.”

But he saw then that all heads were turned towards him, and everybody was making signs for him to be quiet.  Dead silence prevailed in the theatre, broken at last by the strains of heroic music.

The play began.  The soldiers left their tents, and were preparing to depart, when a prodigy occurred—­a cloud covered the summit of the funeral pile.  Then the cloud rolled away, and the ghost of Achilles appeared, clad in golden armour.  Extending his arms towards the warriors, he seemed to say to them, “What! do you depart, children of Danaos? do you return to the land I shall never behold again, and leave my tomb without any offerings?” Already the principal Greek chieftains pressed to the foot of the pile.  Acamas, the son of Theseus, old Nestor, Agamemnon, bearing a sceptre and with a fillet on his brow, gazed at the prodigy.  Pyrrhus, the young son of Achilles, was prostrate in the dust.  Ulysses, recognisable by the cap which covered his curly hair, showed by his gestures that he acquiesced in the demand of the hero’s shade.  He argued with Agamemnon, and their words might be easily guessed—­