And Myrto, dragging her to the side of the dead woman, said in a low voice:
“Kiss her.”
They both bent down, and placed their hands upon the bed, as, with fresh sobs, they touched the icy forehead with their lips.
And Myrto took the head between her two hands, buried them in the hair, and spoke to her thus:
“Chrysis, my Chrysis, you who were the most beautiful and the most adored of women, who were so like the goddess that the people took you for her, where are you now, what have they done with you? You lived to impart beneficent joy. No fruit was ever sweeter than your mouth, no light brighter than your eyes; your skin was a glorious robe that you would not veil; voluptuousness floated upon it like a perpetual odour; and when you unclasped your hair, all desires flowed from it; and when you clasped your naked arms, one implored the gods for permission to die.”
Rhodis sat huddled up on the ground, sobbing.
“Chrysis, my Chrysis.” pursued Myrtocleia, “but yesterday you were living, and young, and hoping for length of days, and now you are dead, and no power on earth can induce you to speak a word to us. You have closed your eyes, and we were not there. You have suffered and you did not know that we wept for you behind the walls. Your dying eyes looked for someone and did not meet our eyes stricken with sorrow and pity.”