Antony listens. The flame draws nearer.
And he sees approaching a woman who is weeping, resting on the shoulder of a man with a white beard. She is covered with a purple garment all in rags. He, like her, is bare-headed, with a tunic of the same colour, and carries a bronze vase, whence arises a small blue flame.
Antony is filled with fear,—and yet he would fain know who this woman is.
The stranger (Simon)—"This is a young girl, a poor child, whom I take everywhere with me."
He raises the bronze vase. Antony inspects her by the light of this flickering flame. She has on her face marks of bites, and traces of blows along her arms. Her scattered hair is entangled in the rents of her rags; her eyes appear insensible to the light.
Simon—"Sometimes she remains thus a long time without speaking or eating, and utters marvellous things."
Antony—"Really?"
Simon—"Eunoia! Eunoia! relate what you have to say!"
She turns around her eyeballs, as if awakening from a dream, passes her fingers slowly across her two lids, and in a mournful voice: