Polykarp had been up the mountain, and Dorothea was quite satisfied when he related what had led him thither. He had long since planned the execution of a statue of Moses, and when his father had left him, he could not get the tall and dignified figure of the old man out of his mind. He felt that he had found the right model for his work. He must, he would forget—and he knew, that he could only succeed if he found a task which might promise to give some new occupation to his bereaved soul. Still, he had seen the form of the mighty man of God which he proposed to model, only in vague outline before his mind’s eye, and he had been prompted to go to a spot whither many pilgrims resorted, and which was known as the Place of Communion, because it was there that the Lord had spoken to Moses. There Polykarp had spent some time, for there, if anywhere—there, where the Law-giver himself had stood, must he find right inspiration.
“And you have accomplished your end?” asked his father.
Polykarp shook his head.
“If you go often enough to the sacred spot, it will come to you,” said Dorothea. “The beginning is always the chief difficulty; only begin at once to model your father’s head.”
“I have already begun it,” replied Polykarp, “but I am still tired from last night.”
“You look pale, and have dark lines under your eyes,” said Dorothea anxiously. “Go up stairs and he down to rest. I will follow you and bring you a beaker of old wine.”
“That will not hurt him,” said Petrus, thinking as he spoke—“A draught of Lethe would serve him even better.”
When, an hour later, the senator sought his son in his work-room, he found him sleeping, and the wine stood untouched on the table. Petrus softly laid his hand on his son’s forehead and found it cool and free from fever. Then he went quietly up to the portrait of Sirona, raised the cloth with which it was covered, and stood before it a long time sunk in thought. At last he drew back, covered it up again, and examined the models which stood on a shelf fastened to the wall.
A small female figure particularly fixed his attention, and he was taking it admiringly in his band when Polykarp awoke.
“That is the image of the goddess of fate—that is a Tyche,” said Petrus.