“I returned from my sister’s brick-kiln a fortnight ago,” she commenced, while the sorceress leaned her deaf ear nearer to her lips.

“During my absence something—­I know not what it was—­had saddened the cheerful spirits of my young sister Taus.  At the recent festival of Astarte she regained them, and obtained some beautiful bright flowers to make wreaths for herself and me.  So we joined the procession of the Tennis maidens and, as the fairest, they placed us directly behind the daughters of Hiram.

“When we were about to go home after the sacrifice, two young Greeks approached us and greeted Hiram’s daughters and my sister also.

“One was a quiet young man, with narrow shoulders and light, curling hair; the other towered above him in stature.  His powerful figure was magnificently formed, and he carried his head with its splendid black beard proudly.

“Since the gods snatched Abus from me, though so many men had wooed me, I had cared for no one; but the fair-haired Greek with the sparkling light in his blue eyes and the faint flush on his cheeks pleased me, and his name, ‘Myrtilus,’ fell upon my ear like music.  I was glad when he joined me and asked, as simply as though he were merely inquiring the way, why he had never seen me, the loveliest among the beauties in the temple, in Tennis.

“I scarcely noticed the other.  Besides, he seemed to have eyes only for Taus and the daughters of Hiram.  He played all sorts of pranks with them, and they laughed so heartily that, fearing the strangers, of whom there was no lack, might class them with the Hieroduli who followed the sailors and young men in the temple grottoes, I motioned to Taus to restrain herself.

“Hermon—­this was the name of the tall, bearded man—­noticed it and turned toward me.  In doing so his eyes met mine, and it seemed as though sweet wine flowed through my veins, for I perceived that my appearance paralyzed his reckless tongue.  Yet he did not accost me; but Myrtilus, the fair one, entreated me not to lessen for the beautiful children the pleasure to which we are all born.

“I thought this remark foolish—­how much sorrow and how little pleasure I had experienced from childhood!—­so I only shrugged my shoulders disdainfully.

“Then the black-bearded man asked if, young and beautiful as I was, I had forgotten to believe in mirth and joy.  My reply was intended to tell him that, though this was not the case, I did not belong to those who spent their lives in loud laughing and extravagant jests.

“The answer was aimed at the black-bearded man’s reckless conduct; but the fair-haired one parried the attack in his stead, and retorted that I seemed to misunderstand his friend.  Pleasure belonged to a festival, as light belonged to the sun; but usually Hermon laboured earnestly, and only a short time before he had saved the little daughter of Gula, the sailor’s wife, from a burning house.