“Thou sayest well, Marcius. What the immortal gods send, let us receive with thanks, and let it be consecrated in the charmed halls of our temple of Eros.”
The two seated themselves, and in a little time each had drained a large amphora of wine—once repeated. Soon the blood shot like flashes of fire through their veins. At length Leander arose, and took from a vase a handful of rare flowers.
“I weave a chaplet for my Jewish maiden, and chant once more in her honor:—
‘We are fallen, but not forlorn,
If something is left to cherish;
As Love was the earliest born,
So Love is the last to perish.’”
With the continued draughts of wine, the Greek and the Roman grew more talkative and noisy.
“By Bacchus! Leander, did my ears deceive me? Didst thou say my Jewish maiden before thy song?”
“Gently, impetuous Roman. I drank to my Jewish maiden.”