A broad flight of fine-grained red limestone stairs led up to a lofty platform of the same material, this splendid ascent being bordered on both sides by masses of dark green laurel trees, which accentuated the roseate tint of the staircase. On the platform, some distance back, arose a large edifice, somewhat after the model of the Parthenon at Athens, with graceful slender pillars of white marble supporting the weighty entablature, the frieze of which was delicately carved with god-like forms of nude youths, white-draped maidens, severe-faced old men, rearing horses, and seated deities. Above this the pediment, in the centre of which was sculptured a life-sized figure of Hephaistos, with his anvil and raised hammer, while the bas-reliefs on either side represented long trains of unclothed men, with their faces turned to the god, coming towards him with supplicating hands, as if for the gift of fire. The Pentelican marble of this temple was now toned down by the weather to a delicate gray hue, which contrasted charmingly with the red staircase, the dark laurels, and the faint green of the foliage which clothed the mountain at the back of the building.
“Justinian never built this!” cried Maurice, transfixed in amazement at the suave beauty of the whole building; “no architects of to-day could have designed such perfection.”
“No,” replied Crispin, as they ascended the steps; “only this staircase and the platform are modern, for the temple is an old Greek one, built in Heaven knows what year of Hellenic art, and Justinian, finding it in a ruinous condition, restored it as you see. The front was fortunately intact, but he has arranged the interior as a dwelling-house. It is a shrine to Vulcan, and, I presume, was built here because this island is volcanic in character, though indeed it is far away from the Hephæstiades.”
“I do not wonder Justinian calls it the Acropolis, for it is a magnificent building, and worthy of the name. Oh, Crispin, look at that nude youth struggling with the rearing horse!”
“You can look at all that another time,” replied the poet, laughing at the sculptor’s enthusiasm; “meanwhile, Justinian is waiting us.”
They entered the great door of the building, followed by the awestruck Gurt, who was too much astonished to speak, and advanced along a lofty hall towards an archway draped with heavy blue curtains. Drawing these aside, they entered into an open court, bordered by ranges of white marble columns, for the temple was hypæthral in character, and the sun shone brightly through the opening of the roof. Between these snow-white pillars hung heavy curtains of azure tint, embroidered with bizarre figures in yellow silk. The pavement was of smooth white marble, and there was a small fountain in the middle, splashing musically into a broad pool which brimmed nearly to the verge of its marble marge. A number of Turkish mats, comfortable-looking cane chairs, silk-covered cushions, and dainty bamboo tables were scattered about, and finally, the whole court was one mass of flowers.
Slender palms, bowing their feathery fronds, stood in huge red jars, which added a bright touch of color to the general whiteness; while there were oblong boxes filled with heterogeneous masses of violets, pansies, golden crocus, anemones, gladioli, and cyclamen, all glowing in one dazzling blaze of color. There were also cytisus trees with their bright yellow blossoms, great bushes of roses red with flowers, delicate white lilies springing virgin-like from amid their green leaves, and the pink buds of the gum cistus with its aromatic odors, while between stood the myrtles, sacred to love. All this gorgeous mass of colors was blended skilfully with a prevailing tint of green foliage, and what with the blue curtains, the dazzling white of the pillars and pavement, even under the hot southern sun it did not pain the artistic eye with a sense of incongruous hues, but rather pleased and satisfied it by its bright beauty and variety of hue.
“What flowers! what flowers!” cried Maurice, with genuine admiration. “Why, this is finer even than the Rector’s rose-garden.”
“These are Helena’s flowers,” said Crispin, smiling; “she is so fond of them that she ought to be called Chloris. Hush! here is Justinian.”
There was a grating sound of rings being drawn along a rod, and Maurice turned to the left, to see the blue draperies held to one side by an exceptionally tall man, with a long gray beard and keen black eyes, who was dressed in a graceful robe of soft white wool, falling in classic folds to his feet. Maurice himself was over the ordinary height, but this ancient, holding himself erect as a dart, seemed to tower above him, and, as he moved towards Maurice with outstretched hand, the Englishman involuntarily thought of the Homeric description of Nestor.