She folded her hands as though in prayer:
“My lord,” she begged, “suffer me to remain here, near the barge. I am afraid of liberty and of the big city.”
“Do as you please,” said Lucius.
He went on alone. Loneliness sent a shiver through him because of this strange night which was like day. A white melancholy emanated from his soul. He felt aimless. He would have preferred to accompany Thrasyllus. He would not have minded going to bed. He had almost invited Cora to accompany him to Sais, but did not think it suited to his dignity.
He went alone, in his white raiment, in the bountiful moonlight. How strange the night was, all white and trembling. He approached the town. There was nothing but the monotonous rattling of the sistra carried by the long-robed pilgrims who walked in procession to the temple. All the houses along the road were lit with the lamps burning at the doors and windows, vessels full of oil with burning wicks. It was a strange pale-yellow twinkling in the moonshine. It was like a funeral ceremony. For it commemorated the night on which Isis had collected the scattered limbs of her brother and husband Osiris, murdered and quartered by Typhon and scattered all over Egypt.
The procession streamed to the temple. Along the road, the hierodules, the priestesses, danced to a monotonous chant, hand in hand, in a long row. They threw a laugh to the numberless strangers who had come to Sais, for that night. The strangers laughed back and picked out the priestesses; and they withdrew together, first to the temple, then farther away.
Three hierodules laughed to Lucius. They danced round him. He did not wish to seem uncivil; also he felt very forlorn. He just laughed back, wearily and kindly.
“Shall we come with you?” asked one of the hierodules.
“As you please,” said Lucius. “Are you going to the temple?”
“If you wish.”