“We had given doves,” said the little flute-player; “will the goddess remember? The goddess must be very angry. And you, my poor Chryse! you who were to be very happy to-day or very powerful . . .”
“All is accomplished,” said the courtesan.
“What do you mean?”
Chrysis took two steps backwards and lifted her right hand to her mouth.
“Look well, Rhodis; look, Myrtocleia. Human eyes have never beheld what you are to behold to-day, since the day, when the goddess descended upon Ida. And such a sight will never be seen again upon the earth.”
The two friends, believing her to be mad, recoiled in stupefaction. But Chrysis, lost in her dream, walked to the monstrous Pharos, a mountain of gleaming marble in eight hexagonal tiers. Taking advantage of the public inattention, she pushed open the bronze door and closed it on the inside by letting drop the sonorous bars.
A few minutes elapsed.
The crowd surged perpetually. The living tide added its clamour to the regular upheavals of the waters.
Suddenly a cry arose upon the air, repeated by a hundred thousand voices.
“Aphrodite!”