"That is no woman," said the Carthaginian, icily, scarcely parting her lips; "that is only a stone. Go there, kiss it, if it seems to you more beautiful than--"
"Astarte is right," shouted Thrasabad, madly. "She is right! What use is a stone Aphrodite? A lifeless, marble-cold goddess of love! She clasps her arms forever across her bosom; she cannot open them for a blissful embrace. And what a stern dignity of expression, as though love were the most serious, deadly-earnest, sacred thing. No, marble statue, you are not the fairest woman! The fairest woman--far more beautiful than you--is my Aphrodite here. The fairest woman in the world is mine. You shall acknowledge it with envy! I will, I will be envied for her! You shall all confess it!"
And with surprising strength he dragged the Greek, who resisted with all her power, up beside him, swung her upon the broad pedestal of the statue, and tore wildly at the white silk coverlet which, while on the ship, Glauke had thrown over her shoulders, and the transparent Coan robe.
"Stop! Stop, beloved! Do not dishonor me before all eyes!" pleaded the girl, struggling in despair. "Stop--or by the Most High--"
But the Vandal, who had lost all self-control, laughed loudly. "Away with the envious veil!"
Once more he pulled down the coverlet and the robe. Steel flashed in the light (the Ionian had snatched the knife from the pedestal), a warm red stream sprinkled Thrasabad's face, and the slight figure, already crimsoned with blood, sank at the feet of the marble statue.
"Glauke!" cried the Vandal, suddenly sobered by the shock.
But at the same moment, outside the Amphitheatre rose in a note of menace a brazen, warlike blare, dominating the loudest swell of the music,--for the dance of Satyrs and Bacchantes was still continuing,--the blast of the Vandal horns. And from the doors, as well as from the highest seats, which afforded a view of the grove, a cry of terror from thousands of voices filled the spacious building: "The King! King Gelimer!"
The spectators, seized with fear, poured out of all the exits.
Thrasaric drew himself up to his full height, lifted the trembling Eugenia on his strong arm, and forced his way through the throng. The voice of the director of the festival was no longer heard. Thrasabad lay prostrate at the feet of the silent marble goddess, clasping in his arms the beautiful Glauke--lifeless.