Crispin, nothing loath, did so; and the Greeks, attracted by the beautiful air, crowded round to listen. The darkness was falling fast, for the long day was nearly at an end, and through the still night sounded the liquid notes of a cock nightingale calling to his mate; but higher than the voice of the bird arose that tender old melody, which brings tears to the eyes of those absent from their own fireside. Justinian, leaning his white head on his hand, listened intently; and when the song was ended, Maurice could have sworn in the dim light that a sudden tear flashed like a jewel down his withered cheek. It was extraordinary to see this man of iron, astute, keen ruler as he was, so touched by the simple little song, which he had heard perchance at his mother’s knee; and from that moment Maurice always believed in Justinian, whom he was certain must have a good heart, when so affected by that pleading air.
Torches were now brought, the wild music burst out anew, and the revellers prepared to escort their Demarch back to the Acropolis. Caliphronas, apparently as merry as ever, made his appearance in new clothes, and resumed his sceptre and vineleaf crown. Along the street danced the procession, with clash of cymbal and throb of drum; torches flaring in the windless air on the excited faces of their bearers; and it was like a confused dream, with the flash of white robes, the tossing red lights, the barbaric pomp, and the swaying, restless, dancing crowd.
At the foot of the grand staircase Maurice burst out laughing.
“What is the matter?” asked Crispin, who walked near him.
“I am thinking of Caliphronas, whom I flung into one of the hot springs.”
“The deuce you did! It’s a pity he was not drowned.”
“He is not born to be drowned,” retorted Roylands sardonically; “he is born to be hanged.”
At the Acropolis the Bacchanalians left them; and they saw the long procession stream like a serpent of light along the road, down the staircase, with glimmer of white robes and distant sounds of mirth. A last flash of innumerable torches, a last burst of frenzied mirth, then darkness and quiet—the Dionysia was ended.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THESPIAN.
The silvery smoothness of sweet Sophocles,