“Please translate that for me,” cried Rudolph excitedly. Gustav extended his hand for the paper, glanced at it carelessly, and read half-finished verses in classical Greek, which baldly translated read something like this:—
“O let me not in this grief fail.
Dear Gods, upon me glance!
For hearts with troubles slowly veil
Hope in remembrance.
“I would not that thy life were sad
Because of our drear fate,
Nor would I have thee wholly glad
While I am forced to wait.”
The lines ended here, and Gustav read them over again, a dim presentiment quickening his pulses. Selaka had shown him Inarime’s writing, beautiful, finished, like those delicate manuscripts which we have inherited from the old days of cloistered leisure. Surely this was the work of the same hand, and the quiet sadness of the verses swept him like a message from the dead.