"Rise again, O king of the earth! Answer the summons of thy coming Judge, the King of kings!"
XXIII
Not far from Succi, a mountainous defile in the Hæmus range[8] between Mœsia and Thrace, two men were making their way along a narrow path, at night, through a forest of beeches. They were the Emperor Julian and Maximus the enchanter. The full moon was shining in a clear sky, and strangely illuminating the gold and purple of autumn foliage. From time to time a wan yellow leaf would fall swirling with a slight rustle. The air was full of moisture and the musty smell of a tardy autumn—that soft, chill melancholy odour which puts men in mind of death. The soft masses of leaves made a brushing sound under the feet of the travellers, and round them in the silent woods burned the magnificent obsequies of the departing year.
"Master," asked Julian, "why is not that divine lightness mine, that gaiety which used to make so splendid the men of Hellas?"
"You are not a man of Hellas."
Julian sighed—
"Alas, our ancestors were barbarians, Medes; and the sluggish blood of the North flows in my veins. It is true, I am no son of the Hellenes!"
"My friend, Hellas has never existed," murmured Maximus, with his old bewitching smile.
"What do you mean?" asked Julian.