“On the farm belonging to my father, who is a land-owner,” replied the pleasant young priest, smiling mischievously. “I am a land-owner’s son; and, when Apis was born in our stables, my father dedicated me to Osiris, that I might take care of the god. I came here with him; I have been here hardly a month; I came with him.”
And he smiled, glad, young and happy; his fresh, young cheeks were still bronzed with the sun and his arms and hands were sturdy as those of a young peasant and shepherd.
The singing priests drew themselves up before a secos, a square plot of grass surrounded by columns.
“My lords,” said the pleasant-looking priest, “this is the secos of the mother of Apis and we are going to show her to you.”
“So she also comes from your father’s farm?” asked Uncle Catullus.
“Most certainly, my lord,” replied the priest, roguishly.
“That of course goes without saying,” commented Uncle Catullus.
The young priest opened the gate of the secos. At the far end was the sacred stall, like the wide interior of a temple. The priest, vanished in the shadow.
And, when he reappeared, he was leading, merely by pressing his hand against her snow-white flank, a handsome, sleek cow.
He led her to the strangers. She shone, well-tended and well-fed. She had placid eyes of bluish gold, beautiful, large, soft and womanly, the eyes of Hera herself. Her horns were gilded and her hoofs were painted red.