“Aphrodite!!”
A thunder of cries burst forth. The joy, the enthusiasm of a whole people sang in an indescribable tumult of ecstasy at the walls of Pharos.
The rout that covered the quay surged violently forward into the island, took possession of the rocks, mounted on the houses, on the signal masts, on the fortified towers. The isle was full, more than full, and the crowd arrived ever more compact, like the onrush of a swollen river hurling long rows of human beings into the sea from the top of the precipitous cliff.
This flood of men was interminable. From the palace of the Ptolemies to the wall of the Canal, the banks of the Royal Port, of the Great Port, and of Euroste were alive with a dense mass of human beings that received continual reinforcements from the side streets. Above this ocean, agitated by immense eddies, a foaming mass of arms and faces, floated like a barque in peril the yellow sails of Queen Berenice’s litter. The tumult gathered force every moment and became formidable.
Neither Helen on the Scain Gates, nor Phryne in the waves of Eleusis, nor Thaïs setting fire to Persepolis have known what triumph means.
Chrysis had appeared by the western Gate, on the first terrace of the red monument.
She was naked like the goddess, she held in her two hands the ends of her scarlet veil which floated with the wind upon the evening sky, and in her right hand the mirror, in which was reflected the setting sun.
