“But it was not seen....”
“You saw nothing distinctly,” interrupted Olbasanus. “Unperceived by you, a curtain of thin Coan gauze shut off the niche, thus rendering the illusion less difficult. A similar effect was afterwards produced outside in the grounds by the interlaced network of the branches behind which the fire-showering Hecate passed across the sky.”
“Explain this flaming Hecate!”
The Chaldean laughed heartily, then said in a tone of strange sarcasm:
“Pardon me; but it is a singular fatality that my most effective masterpiece always arouses my laughter. I have seen hundreds of credulous folk prostrate themselves on the circle of turf in my grounds and, covering their faces, moan and groan aloud as the horrible phenomenon rose in the dark sky. And yet—or perhaps it is for that very reason—the contrast is too sharp. This Hecate, who apparently passes with frantic haste across the firmament, is nothing but a poor kite wrapped in blazing tow. One of my assistants looses the unfortunate creature,—which is prevented from screaming by a tightly-drawn leather strap,—through a huge pipe, twenty ells long. The tortured bird thus keeps the direction it has taken. Before the tow goes out, the kite has reached the place where it ceases to be visible. Deceived by the branches of the numerous trees, the awed beholders imagine the fiery image is far away in the realms of air and attribute to it gigantic size and supernatural speed—just as the eye, when gazing into vacancy, mistakes a fly buzzing close by for the dimly-seen shadow of a huge bird. This, oh! Bononius, is Hecate, the Ruler of us all, the Princess of Darkness, the horrible tyrant of the Nether World.”
“Enough,” said Caius Bononius. “I now see that we all have some trace of the mighty demon that is your most powerful ally—the fiend called superstition and human folly. I, too, confess myself guilty, under the impressions you conjured up before us, of having been led astray from the convictions obtained by long years of arduous labor. I am a human being and may say with the poet; I consider nothing strange that is human, not even mortal weaknesses and errors. But you, Olbasanus, ought to fear the awakening tortures of your conscience! Summoned by virtue of your unmistakable penetration to be a guide to erring humanity, to lighten the darkness of its errors, and bring it to the truth, you do not disdain to profit by its weaknesses, like the miserable robber who plunders a sick and defenceless man. Leave us—or I shall be seized with loathing and forget my promise. Other feelings ought to rule my soul now—above all, joy at the happy turn in the fate of your deceived victims.”
“I will go,” replied Olbasanus. “It is cheap and convenient to accuse me of crime. But I ask one question, Caius Bononius: how many of the countless throng that follow me along the road of error would be my companions, if I attempted to lead them with earnestness and zeal into the domain of truth? One in a thousand! Delusion is brilliant and magnificent; its sultry breezes intoxicate; the air on the heights of truth blows keen and cold, and humanity is a poor, freezing beggar.”
Caius Bononius unceremoniously turned his back upon the speaker, and Olbasanus, holding his head proudly erect, left the exedra.
Six weeks later, early in the month of December, Heliodorus’ house glittered in the splendor of festal array. Garlands of leaves and flowers twined around the Corinthian pillars; countless lamps adorned the wide halls of the atrium and peristyle. A select company attired in fashionable costume, ladies in gaily-flowered pallas, with glittering diadems and gold pins among their curls, senators in purple-bordered holiday robes, rich merchants in Tyrian syntheses, and laurel-crowned poets, thronged the gleaming colonnades. Heliodorus was celebrating the marriage of his daughter Hero to Lucius Rutilius. The worthy Bononius, who had not shrunk from taking the long journey to distant Massilia to bring his friend back to the scene of his newly-restored happiness, was treated by the bride with almost greater attention than she bestowed upon the bridegroom—an incomprehensible enigma—and Lucius Rutilius, far from being seized with jealousy at this apparent neglect, also strove to show the young philosopher every token of the most cordial affection. Caius Bononius was evidently absent-minded. His heart had for some time been divided between satisfaction at the successful breaking of the spell which had weighed upon Hero and Rutilius, and another feeling that had ripened during the few days of his intercourse with Lydia. How it happened was doubtless known to Eros, the sole enchanter in whose omnipotence the sceptical Bononius found himself henceforth compelled to believe. In short, the young man desired nothing better than to gaze into Lydia’s deep, dark eyes, listen to her voice, or brush against her flowing stola while walking through the colonnades of the peristyle. Considering his past, it was extremely unphilosophical—but the fact could not be denied.