The procession streamed to the temple. Along the road, the hierodules, the priestesses, danced to a monotonous chant, hand in hand, in a long row. They threw a laugh to the numberless strangers who had come to Sais, for that night. The strangers laughed back and picked out the priestesses; and they withdrew together, first to the temple, then farther away.
Three hierodules laughed to Lucius. They danced round him. He did not wish to seem uncivil; also he felt very forlorn. He just laughed back, wearily and kindly.
“Shall we come with you?” asked one of the hierodules.
“As you please,” said Lucius. “Are you going to the temple?”
“If you wish.”
They walked in front of him and beside him. They wore white, close-fitting robes, with lotus-flowers and ears of wheat in their hair. They were gentle and civil and obliging and young, like three young children.
The white multitude streamed along the streets. The obelisks of the dromos came into view. The temple rose gigantic and mysterious, with numbers of square buildings and terraces stacked one above the other. There were rows of gigantic pylons, which lost themselves in the moonlit night. The monotonous melody of the sistra rattled on every side; on every side the lamps twinkled. Lucius felt within him an immeasurable melancholy, because of life and because of death, because of people and because of himself.
The hierodules led the way. They were kind and courteous, glad at meeting this amiable stranger, to whom they would be obliging, as their duty prescribed that night.
They entered the pronaos and secos. In the immensity of the pillared spaces the countless sistra rattled eerily, producing a vibration which was no longer music: it was as though the pylons and pillars themselves were rattling, as though the very earth were rattling.
Suddenly Lucius felt a cold shiver pass through him. In the holy of holies rose the veiled Isis. It was an immense statue, five fathoms high and surrounded entirely with a silvery film, seamed with hieroglyphics. Above the image, on the architrave, was written:
I Am Who Have Been,
Who Am
And Who Shall Be;
And No One Has Lifted My Veil.
Around the image shone thousands of burning vessels, of glowing lamps. There was a mist of light and a smoke of incense. And round about the image there was the incessant dance of the hierodules and the worship of the sacrificing priests, all the night through. And ever, like an obsession, there was the rattle of the sistra, as though the whole immense temple were rattling.
Lucius, led by the three women, offered his sacrifice at one of the numberless altars. The priest pronounced the sacred words and Lucius poured forth the libation and paid his gold coin.
He felt desperately unhappy.
“Sir,” asked one of the women, “do you wish us all three to accompany you to one of the temple-chambers? Or would you have two of us go away?”
He laughed softly at their polite manners, like those of young and well-brought-up children. He gave a melancholy glance:
“I am unwell, I am very unwell,” he said. “I think I will go home alone.”
“Your eyes are full of pain, sir,” said one of the hierodules.
And one of the others said:
“Cannot we comfort you and cure you?”
Lucius shook his head.
“Then let us lead you home,” said the third.
They left the temple.
“I live on the river,” said Lucius. “I came in a thalamegus.”
They walked beside him, like shades. When they reached the barge, Lucius said:
“I am at home here. Let me thank you and pay you. May holy Isis protect you!”
“May holy Isis cure you, sir!” said the hierodules.
He gave them a gold coin apiece. They disappeared in the night, like shades. But under the palm-trees was another shade. It was Cora.
“I am not well,” said Lucius. “I came back.”
“Do you wish to go to bed, my lord?” asked Cora.
“No, I should not be able to sleep,” replied Lucius. “This night is strange and unreal. I will lie here under the trees.”
“I will leave you, my lord.”
“No, stay,” he said. “I am ill and I feel lonely. Stay.”
“Suffer me to fetch you a cloak and a pillow, my lord.”
“I thank you.”
She disappeared into the barge and returned with the pillow and cloak. She covered him up and pushed the pillow under his head.
“The night is strange,” he repeated, “and unreal. It is like a white day. There is no dew falling. I shall remain here till Thrasyllus comes. But do you stay. I feel ill and lonely.”
“What can I do, my lord? I may not sing: only the sistrum may sound tonight.”
“Dance to me; move in the moonlight. Can you dance without accompaniment?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Cora.
He lay under the palms. Cora danced in the open moonlight, near the tall river-reeds. She twisted and turned like a white water-nymph that had risen from the stream. She stood still, in attitudes of rapture. She adored Isis, her hands uplifted to the moon. She was very lithe and slender, very white, with white flowers and ears of wheat around her temples.
He lay without moving, watching her. And he thought his only thought: where could Ilia be? For there had not been more than one pirate. …
When, late in the night, Thrasyllus returned, he found Lucius asleep under the palms with Cora keeping vigil beside him.
“My lord is asleep,” said Cora. And she asked, “Tell me, Thrasyllus: what did Nemu-Pha say?”
The old tutor looked gloomy. And he said:
“The wise ages have been drowned in the night of time. Egypt is Egypt no longer. Sais is Sais no longer. If wisdom still tarries here and is still to be found, I shall find it not by the sea, not in the Delta. This is the granary and the emporium of the
