As the second century of the exile dawned upon the little Roman Kingdom, far away beneath the Southern skies, at the very moment when the colony was waxing strong and vigorous a strange and mysterious thing happened to the dwellers in this island home of sweet content.
No more male children were born!
The seven sculptors, now bent with age, and their faces hollowed by the sharp chisels of remorse, went, one after the other to the dark realm of Death.
Their sons, too, came into ripe manhood. And their sons grew up, happy in the possession of that glorious talent which had peopled the isle with such matchless forms of beauty.
But now the race had reached the end of its long reign in the world of art.
Decade after decade slipped away, and still there came not one male child to gladden a sculptor’s home.
A sort of blank despair sank upon the colony.
The elder sculptors laid their chisels down in utter hopelessness.
Even the younger wrought less and less.
Still there came no boy to wake the old-time song and laughter of that once joyous island home.