“And then,” added Daphne, gazing sometimes upward to the firmament strewn with shining stars, sometimes across the broad, rippling expanse of the water, in which the reflection of the heavenly bodies shimmered in glittering, silvery radiance, “yes, Hermon, who would not be glad to exchange with you then?  You may shake your head, but I would take your place quickly and with joyous courage.  There is a proof of the existence of the gods, which so exactly suits the hour when you will again see, enjoy, admire what this dreary darkness now hides from you.  It was a philosopher who used it; I no longer know which one.  How often I have thought of it since this cruel misfortune befell you!  And now—­”

“Go on,” Hermon interrupted with a smile of superiority.  “You are thinking of Aristotle’s man who grew up in a dark cave.  The conditions which must precede the devout astonishment of the liberated youth when he first emerged into the light and the verdant world would certainly exist in me.”

“Oh, not in that way,” pleaded the wounded girl; and Thyone exclaimed:  “What is the story of the man you mention?  We don’t talk about Aristotle and such subjects in Pelusium.”

“Perhaps they are only too much discussed in Alexandria,” said the blind artist.  “The Stagirite, as you have just heard, seeks to prove the existence of the gods by the man of whom I spoke.”

“No, he does prove it,” protested Daphne.  “Just listen, Mother Thyone.  A little boy grows up from earliest childhood into a youth in a dark cave.  Then suddenly its doors are opened to him.  For the first time he sees the sun, moon, and stars, flowers and trees, perhaps even a beautiful human face.  But at the moment when all these things rush upon him like so many incomprehensible marvels, must he not ask himself who created all this magnificence?  And the answer which comes to him—­”

“There is only one,” cried the matron; “the omnipotent gods.  Do you shrug your shoulders at that, son of the pious Erigone?  Why, of course!  The child who still feels the blows probably rebels against his earthly father.  But if I see aright, the resentment will not last when you, like the man, go out of the cave and your darkness also passes away.  Then the power from which you turned defiantly will force itself upon you, and you will raise your hands in grateful prayer to the rescuing divinity.  As to us women, we need not be drawn out of a cave to recognise it.  A mother who reared three stalwart sons—­I will say nothing of the daughters—­can not live without them.  Why are they so necessary to her?  Because we love our children twice as much as ourselves, and the danger which threatens them alarms the poor mother’s heart thrice as much as her own.  Then it needs the helping powers.  Even though they often refuse their aid, we may still be grateful for the expectation of relief.  I have poured forth many prayers for the three, I assure you, and after doing so with my