“Let her go down into the pit of despair, because I shall one day find her.”

Again the flame fell, and again she covered her eyes with her hands.

“It is of no use—­no use,” she wailed; “who can reach those who sleep?  Not even I can reach them.”

Then once more she began her unholy rites.

“Curse her when she shall be born again.  Let her be born accursed.

“Let her be utterly accused from the hour of her birth until sleep finds her.

“Yea, then, let her be accursed; for then shall I overtake her with my vengeance, and utterly destroy her.”

And so on.  The flame rose and fell, reflecting itself in her agonised eyes; the hissing sound of her terrible maledictions, and no words of mine can convey how terrible they were, ran round the walls and died away in little echoes, and the fierce light and deep gloom alternated themselves on the white and dreadful form stretched upon that bier of stone.

But at length she seemed to wear herself out and cease.  She sat herself down upon the rocky floor, shook the dense cloud of her beautiful hair over her face and breast, and began to sob terribly in the torture of a heartrending despair.

“Two thousand years,” she moaned—­“two thousand years have I wanted and endured; but though century doth still creep on to century, and time give place to time, the sting of memory hath not lessened, the light of hope doth not shine more bright.  Oh! to have lived two thousand years, with all my passion eating out my heart, and with my sin ever before me.  Oh, that for me life cannot bring forgetfulness!  Oh, for the weary years that have been and are yet to come, and evermore to come, endless and without end!

“My love! my love! my love!  Why did that stranger bring thee back to me after this sort?  For five hundred years I have not suffered thus.  Oh, if I sinned against thee, have I not wiped away the sin?  When wilt thou come back to me who have all, and yet without thee have naught?  What is there that I can do?  What?  What?  What?  And perchance she—­perchance that Egyptian doth abide with thee where thou art, and mock my memory.  Oh, why could I not die with thee, I who slew thee?  Alas, that I cannot die!  Alas!  Alas!” and she flung herself prone upon the ground, and sobbed and wept till I thought her heart must burst.

Suddenly she ceased, raised herself to her feet, rearranged her robe, and, tossing back her long locks impatiently, swept across to where the figure lay upon the stone.

“Oh Kallikrates,” she cried, and I trembled at the name, “I must look upon thy face again, though it be agony.  It is a generation since I looked upon thee whom I slew—­slew with mine own hand,” and with trembling fingers she seized the corner of the sheet-like wrapping that covered the form upon the stone bier, and then paused.  When she spoke again, it was in a kind of awed whisper, as though her idea were terrible even to herself.