A rose art thou, O goddess fair,
And bloom as men aspire,—
Red rose to those whom passions snare,
White rose to chaste desire;
Yet red rose wanes with pale despair,
And white rose burns as fire.
After all that he had come through, Maurice found no difficulty in inducing sleep to come to his pillow. The room he occupied was one of those built by Justinian when he renovated this antique fane, and the walls, floor, and ceiling were of that fine-grained red sandstone of which the staircase was built. The pavement was bare, save for Turkish rugs scattered here and there, which lack of carpeting made the apartment wonderfully cool and pleasant, but the walls were draped with a heavy kind of woollen tapestry similar to those in the court, saving that the color was a pale gray, and the embroideries terra-cotta color to match the floor. A wide window, shaded by Indian beadworked blinds, looked out on to a pleasant prospect of forest which clothed the side of the mountain, and the cool wind, heavy with aromatic scents, stole into the room. It was also furnished in a somewhat antique fashion, though here and there an anachronism betrayed the nineteenth century, but the couch whereon Maurice rested was purely Greek in design, and lying on this in his white robe, with a purple coverlet flung carelessly over his feet, he might have been taken for some dweller in ancient Athens. True, the mustache on his lip savored somewhat of the barbarian, but in all other respects the comparison was close enough, for if his features were not quite so classic in outline as those of Caliphronas, they were sufficiently so to pass muster in the carrying out of such fancy.
Lying there with his eyes half closed, the young Englishman in a drowsy fashion felt the balmy odors permeating the warm air, and saw as in a dream the antique room, the pleasant prospect beyond, which was but mistily seen through the veiling beadwork blind. He was puzzled over the kind reception accorded to him by this strange Justinian, who he had been led to believe was a kind of modern freebooter. No swarthy, fantastically-dressed, savage marauder was this island king, but a gracious, courteous gentleman, arrayed in the white robe of Socrates, with a winning smile on his face, and polite words on his lips. Crispin seemed to mistrust him indeed, but even Crispin seemed somewhat astonished at the suavity of his greeting, and now appeared inclined to recant his former dislike of the old man. Maurice longed to have a confidential chat with Crispin, and find out his feelings on the subject, as it was evident that, far from inclining to Caliphronas, their host seemed more disposed to side with them.
Again, Maurice found it difficult to account for the old man’s sudden liking for himself, for the satisfaction with which he had received the information that his daughter’s face had lured the young Englishman to his island retreat, and for many other things.
“Mystery, mystery, nothing but mystery!” said Maurice to himself, as he closed his aching eyes. “I cannot make these folks out; but, at all events, King Justinian does not seem to disapprove of my passion, and is inclined to give Crispin the information he desires, so I trust all will go well. Sooner or later I will solve all these problems which are now so tantalizing; but, come what may, one good thing is in store for me. I shall see Helena to-night!”