“Apollo unwittingly caused the death of a beautiful youth, the friend of his heart, whose name was Hyacinthus. So says tradition, and it’s so charming, I more than half believe it! Apollo, in loyal love, made a flower grow from the grave of his friend. This is it! See; here’s the color of the dead youth’s blood. This blossom is the flower of deathless friendship and I love it.”
“A touching story, I’ll remember it; but it seems to me the flower says, ‘Bozrah,’ my father.”
“Take this leaf, girl; here.”
“And what of this?”
“There, on that leaf, behold those signs, ‘Ai’ ‘Ai’.”
“I think some markings are there like what you say, though never ’till now did I so trace them.”
“That’s the Greek cry of woe. The perfumes of these flowers, in every field of Gerash, remind me of my duty. I must go to the tomb of the man that died in my defense.”
“A pious sentiment; but duty to the living can not be pushed aside by such a call. You have other and living friends?”
“Yes, thou art my friend, lover, angel; but I’ll keep thee with me, my lamb.”
“Rizpah and your sons!”