'Kiss me, dearest one. It is well that Chios should have left first. We cannot remain apart; the great circle of our affinity will soon be completed. Watch over Saronia. It will soon end.'
The mighty fleet prepared to leave the port of Ephesus. One by one they left the harbour, entered the canal which led to the sea, and, as they cleared the harbour mouth, ranged into two squadrons, one on either side of the entrance; and when the last came out, which bore the flag of Lucius, they formed into two great lines, with the flagship in the rear.
A light breeze sprang up from the north-east, the braces were hauled in, and the ships danced merrily over the deep blue waters of the Ægean Sea windward of Samos, and Scios and Mount Coressus on the starboard hand. The wind was so favourable that the oars were little needed, save that some on the leeside kept stroke that the ships might make good weathering. Behind them rose the hills and mountains which guarded Ephesus, and the villas on their sides shone like spots of crystal; but the sun struck fiercely on the great white Temple of Diana, until it looked like molten silver. Away they sailed towards the Icarian Sea.
On a couch inlaid with gold reclined Saronia, and the rich curtains of her cabin were thrown back to allow the sweet, fresh salt air, impregnated with the perfume of roses and myrtle-blossoms, to fan her pale, sad cheeks. The soft eyes were filled with a far-away lustre, as if she saw visions of the future which none else could see. She was looking out upon the setting sun, which cast its golden light along the waves. Suddenly she seemed to grow cheerful, and said:
'Father, art thou here? Let me take thine hand. Where is Chios? He is not here. Is he dead? Thou art silent. He is gone, and I cannot stay. Come nearer to me, father. My bridal day is at hand. Bury me in the sea. Let no eye rest upon my grave. Let the ocean be my sepulchre, and the winds sing my requiem. This is happiness; this is joy! The eternal gates are uplifting. Farewell!'
And the spirit of Saronia had fled.
THE END
Elliot Stock, 62, Paternoster Row. London