Thou, who dost madden the gods with desire,
Thou, who fulfillest men’s hearts with thy fire,
All but the heart of my lord that I crave,
Hark to thy slave!”
Cora’s song rang through the falling night. Her clear voice, tinkling as though with little golden bells, at first soft and hushed, rose throbbing in passion and then broke like a crystal ray and melted in mournfulness and plaintive prayer.
The shadows lay heaped under the palm-trees. Outside the doors of their apartments, in the galleries of the diversorium, sat the travelling merchants, squatting or lying on mat or rug, listening. Uncle Catullus lay in a hammock and Thrasyllus sat beside him and looked up at the stars, which were beginning to show like silver daisies in wide, blue meadows.
“You have sung beautifully, Cora,” said Uncle Catullus to the slave, who was sitting on the ground with the four-stringed harp before her.
“Thank you, my lord,” said the slave.
“Why not call me uncle?” said Catullus, good-naturedly.