"I followed up my words by many entreaties, invoking Jove the hospitable, and reminding Menelaus of our having eaten at the same board[29] and suffered the same perils of shipwreck. The worthy and true hearted man replied, 'The undertaking is arduous, but one ought to be prepared to die in the sake of a friend,[30] and death in such a cause is sweet.' I then expressed my belief that Clitopho was still alive, for the maiden had mentioned to me his being left behind, among the other prisoners, in addition to which the buccaneers who had fled, brought word to their captain, that all the captives had contrived to escape into the enemy's ranks during the engagement. 'You will therefore,' I added, 'be doing him a very great kindness and will also be the means of delivering this unhappy maiden out of her misfortunes.' I succeeded in persuading him, and Fortune favoured us in our undertaking. While I was busied in preparing what was needed for our contrivance, Menelaus proceeded to the buccaneers to make the proposal already mentioned. The chief, by a lucky chance, anticipated him, and said, 'We have a law, that new comers[31] amongst us, should first begin the sacrifice, especially when a human victim is to be offered; be ready therefore against to-morrow; your slave also must take part in the solemnity.'—'We will endeavour,' replied Menelaus, 'to show ourselves not inferior to any among yourselves.'—'Remember,' added the pirate-chief, 'that it will be for you to dress and arrange the maiden in the best manner for consummating the sacrifice.'[32] Afterwards, when alone, we took the opportunity of fitting out Leucippe in the manner before related, bidding her have no fear, and carefully instructing her what to do, enjoining her to remain quiet in the coffin, if necessary, the whole day, but when an opportunity offered to seek safety by flying to the encampment; having given her these directions we led her to the altar: what afterwards occurred you already know."
While listening to this narrative, I was overwhelmed by a variety of feelings, and did not know how sufficiently to express my deep gratitude to Menelaus; I however adopted the most common method, and throwing myself at his feet, I embraced his knees and worshipped him as a god, my heart thrilling with delight. Being now easy concerning Leucippe, "What," I inquired, "has become of Clinias?" "The last time I saw him," replied Menelaus, "was when he was clinging to the yard after the shipwreck; what afterwards became of him I cannot tell."
Upon hearing this, I could not repress a cry of grief in the midst of my joy; no doubt some malignant genius envied me the possession of pure and unalloyed happiness; for this cause doubtless, he whom next to Leucippe I most valued, was especially selected as a victim by the sea, that not only his soul might perish,[33] but that he might lose the rights of sepulture. Oh, ruthless ocean, thus to curtail the full measure of thy mercy towards us!
There being nothing to detain us longer, we all repaired to the encampment, and passed the rest of the night in my tent; nor was it long before the adventure became known. At daybreak, conducting Menelaus to the commander, I related every particular; Charmides was highly pleased, and expressed himself in the most friendly terms towards him. He next inquired what the strength of the enemy amounted to. Menelaus replied, "That the whole place was full of desperate men, and that the buccaneers numbered perhaps ten thousand men."
"Our five thousand," said Charmides, "will be a match for twenty thousand such as they are: besides which two thousand men will shortly arrive from the troops who garrison the Delta and Heliopolis." While he was still speaking, a boy came in and said that an express had come from the camp in the Delta, to announce that the expected reinforcement would not arrive for five days; the incursions of the buccaneers in that quarter had been repressed indeed, but when the troops were on the point of marching, the sacred[34] bird, bearing the sepulchre of his father, had appeared among them, and on this account the march must be delayed during the period mentioned.
"And pray," inquired I, "what bird is this which is treated with such respect? What sepulchre is it which he carries with him?"—"He is called the Phœnix," was the reply; "and is a native of Ethiopia; he is about the size of the peacock, but superior to him in beauty; his plumage is bedropt with gold and purple,[35] and he boasts of being descended from the sun, a claim which is borne out by the appearance of his head, which is crowned by a splendid circle, the very image of that orb.[36] The hues are mingled rose and azure, and the disposition of the feathers represent the rays. He belongs to the Ethiopians during his life, but the Egyptians possess him after he is dead. He is very long lived,[37] and upon his decease; his son bears him to the Nile, having first prepared his sepulchre in the following manner. Taking a mass of the most fragrant myrrh, sufficient for the purpose, he excavates the centre with his beak, and the hollow becomes a receptacle for the dead; then closing up the aperture with earth, he soars aloft and carries this fruit of his pious labour to the Nile. A flight of other birds attends him,[38] as a guard of honour, and he resembles a monarch making a progress. He never deviates from the place of his destination, the city of the sun, which is the resting-place of the departed bird; upon arriving there he stations himself upon an elevated spot, and awaits the arrival of the minister of religion. Presently an Egyptian priest comes forth from the sanctuary, bearing a book containing a picture of the bird, in order that he may judge whether it be genuine. The phœnix, aware of this, opens the receptacle, and exhibiting the body, makes intercession for its interment;[39] after which it is received by the sons of the priest and buried; thus, as I have already observed, this bird is an Ethiopian during his lifetime, but makes his grave with the Egyptians."
[1] περιάγειν τὴν κεραίαν. Two ropes hung from the horns of the antenna or yard, the use of which was to turn it round as the wind veered, so as to keep the sail opposite the wind. See a cut at p. 52 of the Greek and Rom. Antiq.
"Cornua velatarum obvertimus antennarum."—Æn. iii. 549.
"At sunset they began to take in sail,
For the sky showed it would come on to blow,
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so."—Byron.