“I paid for it in gold in the oasis. But what does that matter, Thrasyllus? The word gave me strength and pride.”
“O my son, if you could be cured of your sorrow, of your grief!”
“They are no longer in me. I no longer have any grief, no longer any sorrow. I am a god unto myself.”
“The gods suffer. Isis suffered because of Osiris. All the gods suffer.”
“I suffer no longer. My grief has departed from me. The world and life are beautiful. See, the colours and the light are beautiful. The sky is softly blue, like dark byssus; the water ripples like blue silk; and the moon is like a great, overripe fruit which bursts in the sky and whose juice trickles over the Nile. To-morrow the day will bring another beauty. In these successive beauties, Thrasyllus, I will be a god unto myself.”
“O my son, though I did not tell you the word myself, I am so happy that you yourself found the word!”
In the night there sounded the high, rising tones of a harp, followed by Cora’s crystal-clear voice, which was accompanied by other harps and other voices.
“The word of pride, the word of strength, Thrasyllus,” said Lucius, calmly; and the old tutor saw a tranquil smile on his young master’s face as he added, “The word that almost makes me happy.”