over with tears of sympathy and regret, his heart melted to tenderness.  All the happiest hours of the life they had spent together crowded on his memory; he answered her glance with a loving and grateful gaze and painfully held out his hand.  Herse pressed it to her lips, weeping bitterly; but he smiled up at her, nodding his head and repeating again and again the line from Lucian:  “Be comforted:  you, too, must soon follow.”

“Yes, yes—­I shall follow soon,” she repeated with sobs.  “Without you, without either of you, without the gods—­what would become of me here.”

And she turned to her son who, fully conscious, had followed every word and every gesture of his parents and tried himself to say something.  But the arrow in his neck choked his breath, and it was such agony to speak that he could only say hoarsely:  “Father mother!” But these poor words were full of deep love and gratitude, and Karnis and Herse understood all he longed to express.

Tears choked the poor woman’s utterance so that neither of the three could say another word, but they were at any rate close together, and could look lovingly in each other’s eyes.  Thus passed some few minutes of peace for them, in spite of the blare of trumpets, and shrieks and butchery; but Herse’s kerchief was dyed and soaked with her husband’s blood, and the old man’s eyes were glazed and staring as they wandered feebly on the scene, as though to get a last general picture of the world in which they had always sought to see only what was fair.  Suddenly they remained fixed on the face of a statue of Apollo, which had been flung on to the barricade; and the longer they dwelt on the beautiful countenance of the god the more they sparkled with a clear transfigured gleam.  Once more, with a final effort, he raised his heavy hand and pointed to the sun-crowned head of the immortal youth while he softly murmured: 

“He—­he—­all that was fair in existence—­Orpheus, Herse—­we owe it all to him.  He dies with us.—­They—­the enemy—­in conquering us conquer thee!  They dream of a Paradise beyond death; but where thou reignest, O Phoebus, there is bliss even on earth!  They boast that they love death and hate life; and when they are the victors they will destroy lute and pipe, nay, if they could, would exterminate beauty and extinguish the sun.  This beautiful happy world they would have dark, gloomy, melancholy, hideous; thy kingdom, great Phoebus, is sunny, joyful and bright . . . !” Here his strength failed him; but presently he rallied once more and went on, with eager eyes:  “We crave for light, for music, lutes and pipes—­for perfumed flowers on careless brows—­we—­hold me up Herse—­and thou, heal me, O Phoebus Apollo!—­Hail, all hail!  I thank thee—­thou hast accepted much from me and hast given me all!  Come, thou joy of my soul!  Come in thy glorious chariot, attended by Muses and Hours!  See, Orpheus, Herse—­do you see Him coming?”

He pointed with a confident gesture to the distance; and his anxious eyes followed the indication of his hand; he raised himself a little by a last supreme effort; but instantly fell back; his head sank on the bosom of his faithful partner and a stream of blood flowed from his quivering lips.  The votary of the Muses was dead; and a few minutes after Orpheus, too, fell senseless.