For the woman stands erect now in all the firm magnificence of her young limbs, presses her clenched fists against her forehead and stares down at me with glowing eyes.
And suddenly she hurls the flutes from her in a long curve and cries with piercing voice: "No more … I will play no more!" It is the voice of a slave at the moment of liberation.
"For heaven's sake, woman!" I cry. "What are you doing? You will be slain; you will be thrown to the wild beasts!"
She points about her with a gesture that is full of disgust and contempt.
Then I see what she means. All that company has fallen asleep. The men lie back with open mouths, the goblets still in their hands. Golden cascades of wine fall glittering upon the marble. The women writhe in these pools of wine. But even in the intoxication of their dreams they try to guard their elaborate hair dress. The whole mad band, musicians and animals, lies there with limbs dissolved, panting for air, overwhelmed by heavy sleep.
"The way is free!" cries the flute player jubilantly and buries her twitching fingers into the flesh of her breasts. "What is there to hinder my flight?"
"Whither do you flee, mad woman?" I ask.
A gleam of dreamy ecstasy glides over her grief-worn face which seems to flush and grow softer of outline.
"Home—to freedom," she whispers down to me and her eyes burn.
"Where is your home?"