The monks, who had gathered outside the Xenodochium, glanced with scowling suspicion at the party, who could not recover the good spirits with which they had begun the day till they were fairly out of the narrow, gloomy alleys, reeking with tar and salt fish, that adjoined the harbor, and where they had to push their way through a dense throng.  The steward led the van with Herse, talking freely in reply to her enquiries.

His master, he said, was one of the great merchants of the city, whose wife had died twenty years since in giving birth to Gorgo.  His two sons were at present absent on their travels.  The old lady who had been so liberal in her treatment of the singers was Damia, the mother of Porphyrius.  She had a fine fortune of her own, and notwithstanding her great age was still respected as the soul of business in the household, and as a woman deeply versed in the mysterious sciences.  Mary, the pious Christian, who had founded the “House of the Holy Martyr,” was the widow of Apelles, the brother of Porphyrius, but she had ceased all intercourse with her husband’s family.  This was but natural, as she was at the head of the Christian women of Alexandria, while the household of Porphyrius—­ though the master himself had been baptized—­was as thoroughly heathen as any in Alexandria.

Karnis heard nothing of all this, for he came last of the party.  Orpheus and Agne followed next to Herse and the steward, and after them came two slaves, carrying the lutes and pipes.  Agne walked with downcast eyes, as if she desired to avoid seeing all that surrounded her, though when Orpheus addressed her she shyly glanced up at him and answered briefly and timidly.  They presently came out of an obscure alley by the canal connecting Kibotus with Lake Mareotis where the Nile-boats lay at anchor.  Karnis drew a deeper breath, for here the air was clear and balmy; a light northerly breeze brought the refreshing fragrance of the sea, and the slender palm-trees that bordered the canal threw long shadows mingling with the massive shade of the sycamores.  The road was astir with busy groups, birds sang in the trees, and the old musician drank in the exciting and aromatic atmosphere of the Egyptian Spring with keen enjoyment.

As they reached the middle of the steep bridge across the canal he involuntarily stood still, riveted by the view of the southwest.  In his excitement he threw up his arms, his eyes glistened with moisture and with the enthusiasm of youth, and, as was always the case when his emotions were stirred by some glorious work of God or man, an image rose to his mind, all unbidden—­the image of his eldest son, now dead, but in life his closest and most sympathetic comrade.  He felt as though his hand could grasp the shoulder of that son, too early snatched away, whose gifts had far transcended those of the surviving Orpheus—­as though he too could gaze with him on the grand scene that lay before him.