"All the more pleasant will be the retrospect," rejoined Hanno; "and when we come to recline upon our costly couches it will be a double joy to dwell upon our adventures, and relate them to our listening guests."
Conversation of this character engaged us till we reached the cypress-grove, from which the temple of Ashtoreth upreared its silver-plated roof. The setting sun was all aglow, and cast its slanting rays upon the fabric, illuminating alike the heavy gilding and the radiant colours of the supporting pillars. Flocks of consecrated doves fluttered in the sacred grove, alighting ever and again upon the gilded rods that connected one pillar with another. Groups of girls were frequently met, dressed in white, embroidered with purple and silver, either hastening, pomegranates in their hands, to make a votive offering at the shrine, or sauntering leisurely in the sacred gardens. Ever and again, as the temple-doors were opened, there was caught the distant melody of the sistra, flutes, and tambourines, upon which the priests and priestesses were celebrating the honour of their goddess. Such were the sounds, the modulated measures of the music mingled with the soft cooings of the doves and the joyous laughter of the heedless maidens, that combined to make a mysterious murmur that could not fail to impress the minds of such as us, rough mariners unaccustomed to anything more harmonious than the groanings of the waves, the creaking of our ships, and the howling of the wind.
I went with Himilco to consult the tariff of the sacrifices, which was exhibited, engraven on a tablet and affixed to the feet of a huge marble dove at the right-hand entrance to the precincts of the temple. As my own offering, I selected some fruit and cakes, the value of which did not exceed a shekel, and was just turning back to call Hanno, when I encountered a man in a dirty and threadbare sailor's coat, who was hurrying along, muttering bitter curses as he went.
"Help me, Baal Chamaim, Lord of the heavens!" I involuntarily exclaimed; "is not this Bodmilcar, the Tyrian?"
The man paused, and recognised me in a moment; and we exchanged the warmest greetings.
Bodmilcar, whom I had thus unexpectedly met, had been one of my oldest associates. Many a time, alike in expeditions of war and commerce, he had commanded a vessel by my side. He was likewise already acquainted with Himilco, who consequently shared my surprise and regret at meeting him in so miserable a plight.
"What ill fate has brought you to this?" was my impatient inquiry. "At Tyre you used to be the owner of a couple of gaouls[10] and four good galleys; what has happened? What has brought it about that you should be here in nothing better than a ragged kitonet?"[11]
"Moloch's[12] heaviest curses be upon the Chaldeans!" ejaculated Bodmilcar. "May their cock-head Nergal[13] torture and burn and roast them all! My story is soon told. I had a cargo of slaves. A finer cargo was never under weigh. The hold of my Tyrian gaoul carried Caucasian men as strong as oxen, and Grecian girls as lissome as reeds; there were Syrians who could cook, or play, or dress the hair; there were peasants from Judæa who could train the vine or cultivate the field. Their value was untold."
"And tell me, friend Bodmilcar," I inquired, "where are they now? Did they not yield you the countless shekels on which you reckoned?"