The deaf-mute remained motionless, and a great black velvety butterfly alighted on his head. He neither saw it, nor stirred. Like a malign shadow the butterfly opened and shut its wings, while the Tears of the Sun dropped, one by one, into the hand of Hepherion. Louder and louder in the distance rose funereal psalms.
Suddenly from behind the cypresses came the sound of voices disputing—
"Augustus is there."
"Why should he go alone to Daphne?"
"Why not? to-day is the great festival of Apollo. See, there he is ... Julian, we have sought you since the morning!"
They were Greek sophists, men of science and rhetoricians, habitual companions of the Emperor, and with them the Neo-Platonist Priscus of Epirus, the bilious sceptic Julius Mauricus, the wise Sallustius Secundus, and the celebrated orator Libanius.
Julian vouchsafed them not the least attention.
"What's the matter?" murmured Julius to Priscus.
"He must be displeased that there has been no preparation for the feast! We have not sent a single offering...."
Julian addressed the former Christian rhetorician, now the high-priest of Astarte, Hekobolis—