They were represented as divesting themselves of their garments, and about to bathe.  They anxiously turned their heads, fearing to be seen, and looked as though they were alive.  The only light which entered the building came, tempered and iridescent, through thin sheets of water.  All the walls were hung—­as in the sacred grottoes—­with wreaths, garlands, and votive pictures, in which the beauty of Thais was celebrated.  There were also tragic and comic masks, bright with colours; and paintings representing theatrical scenes or grotesque figures, or fabulous animals.  On a stele in the centre stood a little ivory Eros of wonderful antique workmanship.  It was a gift from Nicias.  In one of the bays was a figure of a goat in black marble, with shining agate eyes.  Six alabaster kids crowded round its teats; but, raising its cloven hoofs and its ugly head, it seemed impatient to climb the rocks.  The floor was covered with Byzantine carpets, pillows embroidered by the yellow men of Cathay, and the skins of Libyan lions.  Perfumed smoke arose from golden censers.  Flowering plants grew in large onyx vases.  And at the far end, in the purple shadow, gleamed the gold nails on the shell of a huge Indian tortoise turned upside down, which served as the bed of the actress.  It was here that every day, to the murmur of the water, and amid perfumes and flowers, Thais reclined softly, and conversed with her friends, while awaiting the hour of supper, or meditated in solitude on theatrical art, or on the flight of years.

On the afternoon after the games, Thais was reposing in the Grotto of Nymphs.  She had noticed in her mirror the first signs of the decay of her beauty, and she was frightened to think that white hair and wrinkles would at last come.  She vainly tried to comfort herself with the assurance that she could recover her fresh complexion by burning certain herbs and pronouncing a few magic words.  A pitiless voice cried, “You will grow old Thais; you will grow old.”  And a cold sweat of terror bedewed her forehead.  Then, on looking at herself again in the mirror with infinite tenderness, she found that she was still beautiful and worthy to be loved.  She smiled to herself, and murmured, “There is not a woman in Alexandria who can rival me in suppleness or grace or movement, or in splendour of arms, and the arms, my mirror, are the real chains of love!”

While she was thus thinking she saw an unknown man—­thin, with burning eyes and unkempt beard, and clad in a richly embroidered robe—­standing before her.  She let fall her mirror, and uttered a cry of fright.

Paphnutius stood motionless, and seeing how beautiful she was, he murmured this prayer from the bottom of his heart—­

“Grant, my God, that the face of this woman may not be a temptation, but may prove salutary to Thy servant.”

Then, forcing himself to speak, he said—­