She threw herself down, and buried her beautiful face, sighing as if her heart would rend in twain. She was a woman, not a goddess—a woman with sympathies keen enough to feel for others, even to the binding up of the broken-hearted and offering forgiveness to her most violent foe.
A mysterious link had suddenly snapped in her chain of destiny. What it was she could not divine.
The death of Nika moved her in a peculiar manner, such as nothing else had done since the deep of her being was broken up by the call of the great spirit to follow the goddess.
It was a dark chapter in her life's history, and she earnestly desired to know its hidden meaning; she would wait patiently until the time came when all should be revealed.
She arose, looked towards the sea, and saw in vision the white sails of the fleet of Lucius bringing him to port.
A storm crossed her face, as when the icy winds of winter furrow the waves and clouds swoop down to wed the foaming main. Her whole nature trembled like the shaken hull of a tempest-haunted ship. The spirit of Hecate was on her, and the voice of the terrible goddess rang out in her soul:
'Tell him the curse hath killed her! Say the gods are avenged!'
When the evening had come, Saronia retired and lay on a couch of black marble. The windows of the room were thrown open to admit what little breeze there was; the honeysuckle and jasmine climbed the walls like rival lovers, and breathed their perfume on the priestess.