Grief! Did he feel grief? Or had the mere thought that Ilia had proved unworthy of his great love already cured him of the disease that was grief? But was he cured and did he know?
He was approaching the hamlet of Troia. And he remembered reading in Thrasyllus’ notes that Menelaus had come past here with his band of Trojan captives and generously permitted them to settle here. They had founded their colony. Behind Troia stood a rocky mountain-range; and behold, there was the ancient quarry from which, years ago, the blocks of stone were hewn to build the pyramids, block upon block, without cement! And Lucius’ feet rattled through the curious fossils which strewed the ground like pebbles with the shapes of long lentils and pea-pods and which were thought to be the petrified remnants of the meals served to the many thousand slaves who had worked at the pyramids.
Suddenly he saw a woman. She was resting, sitting against the rocks and gazing at the rosy sky. He recognized his slave, the one with the beautiful voice, the singer, Cora.
She started when she saw him and rose and bowed low, with outstretched hands:
“Forgive me, my lord,” she stammered, “for straying so far from the barge.”
He reassured her: he was a master who did not grudge his slaves a liberty. And he asked her, in a kind voice:
“Why did you stray so far?”
“I strayed without intending it, my lord. My thoughts carried me along!”
“What were you thinking of?”
“I was thinking of Cos, my dear birthplace, and whether I should ever see it again.”