Antinous paid the lad, sent him away, and with a beating heart went from one house to another.  Each looked neat and clean, and was surrounded by trees and shrubs, but though the smoke curled up from several of the roofs every house seemed to have been deserted.  At last he heard the sound of voices.  Guided by these he went through a lane to an open place where hundreds of people, men, women and children, were assembled in front of a small building which stood in the midst of a palm grove.

He asked where dame Hannah lived, and an old man silently pointed to the little house on which the attention of the Christians seemed to be concentrated.  The lad’s heart throbbed wildly and yet he felt anxious and embarrassed, and he asked himself whether he had not better turn back and return next morning when he might hope to find Selene alone.

But no!  Perhaps he might even now be allowed to see her.

He modestly made his way through the throng, which had set up a song in which he could not determine whether it was intended to express feelings of sadness or of triumph.  Now he was standing at the gate of the garden and saw Mary the deformed girl.  She was kneeling by a covered bier and weeping bitterly.  Was dame Hannah dead?  No, she was alive, for at this moment she came out of her house, leaning on an old man, pale, calm and tearless.  Both came forward, the old man uttered a short prayer and then stooping down, lifted the sheet which covered the dead.

Antinous pushed a step forward but instantly drew two steps back—­then covering his eyes with his hand he stood as if rooted to the spot.

There was no vehement lamentation.  The old man began a discourse.  All around were sounds of suppressed weeping, singing and praying but Antinous saw and heard nothing.  He had dropped his hand and never took his eyes off the white face of the dead till Hannah once more covered it with the sheet.  Even then he did not stir.

It was not till six young girls lifted Selene’s modest bier and four matrons took up that of little Helios on their shoulders and the whole assembly moved away after them, that he too turned and followed the mourning procession.  He looked on from a distance while the larger and the smaller coffins were carried into a rocktomb, while the entrance was carefully closed, and the procession dispersed some here and some there.

At last he found himself alone and in front of the door of the vault.  The sun went down, and darkness spread rapidly over hill and vale.  When no one was to be seen who could observe him, he threw up his arms, clasped the pillar at the entrance of the tomb, pressed his lips against the rough wooden door and struck his forehead against it while his whole body trembled with the tearless anguish of his spirit.

For some minutes he stood so and did not hear a light step which came up behind him.  It was Mary, who had come once more to pray by the grave of her beloved friend.  She at once recognized the youth and softly called him by his name.