by the fire, even to its very soul.  Thanks be to Heaven, these tunics and veils, which have seen kisses more innumerable than the waves of the sea, will only feel now the lips and tongues of the flames.  Hasten, slaves!  More wood!  More links and torches!  And thou, woman, return to thy house, strip thyself of thy shameful robes, and ask of the most humble of thy slaves, as an undeserving favour, the tunic that she puts on when she scrubs the floors.”

Thais obeyed.  Whilst the Indians knelt down and blew the embers, the negroes threw on the pile coffers of ivory, ebony, or cedar, which broke open and let out wreaths, garlands, and necklaces.  The smoke rose in a dark column, as in the holocausts of the old religion.  Then the fire, which had been smouldering, burst out suddenly with a roar as of some monstrous animal, and the almost invisible flames began to devour their valuable prey.  The slaves worked more eagerly; they joyfully dragged out rich carpets, veils embroidered with silver, and flowered tapestry.  They staggered under the weight of tables, couches, thick cushions, and beds with gold nails.  Three strong Ethiopians came hugging the coloured statues of the nymphs, one of which had been loved as though it were a mortal; and they looked like huge apes carrying off women.  And when the beautiful naked forms fell from the arms of these monsters, and were broken on the stones, a deep groan was heard.

At that moment Thais appeared, her hair unloosed and streaming over her shoulders, barefooted, and clad in a clumsy coarse garment which seemed redolent with divine voluptuousness merely from having touched her body.  Behind her came a gardener, carrying, half hidden in his long beard, an ivory Eros.

She made a sign to the man to stop, and approaching Paphnutius, showed him the little god.

“My father,” she asked, “should this also be thrown into the flames?  It is of marvellous antique work, and is worth a hundred times its weight in gold.  Its loss would be irreparable, for there is not a sculptor in the world capable of making such a beautiful Eros.  Remember also, my father, that this child is Love, and he should not be harshly treated.  Believe me, Love is a virtue, and if I have sinned, it is not through him, my father, but against him.  Never shall I regret aught that he has caused me to do, and I deplore only those things I have done contrary to his commands.  He does not allow women to give themselves to those who do not come in his name.  For that reason he ought to be honoured.  Look, Paphnutius, how pretty this little Eros is!  With what grace he hides himself in the gardener’s beard!  One day Nicias, who loved me then, brought it to me and said, ‘It will remind you of me.’  But the roguish boy did not remind me of Nicias, but of a young man I knew at Antioch.  Enough riches have been destroyed upon this pile, my father!  Preserve this Eros, and place it in some monastery.  Those who see it will turn their hearts towards God, for love leads naturally to heavenly thoughts.”