“Chrysis, thy hair is like a swarm of bees hanging on a tree. The hot wind of the south penetrates it with the dew of love-battles and the wet perfume of night-flowers.” The young woman alternated, in a softer, lower voice: “My hair is like an endless river in the plain when the flame-lit evening fades.” And they sang, one after the other: “Thine eyes are like blue water-lilies without stalks, motionless upon the pools.” “Mine eyes rest in the shadow of my lashes like deep lakes under dark branches.” “Thy lips are two delicate flowers stained with the blood of a roe.” “My lips are the edges of a burning wound.” “Thy tongue is the bloody dagger that has made the wound of thy mouth.” “My tongue is inlaid with precious stones. It is red with the sheen of my lips.” “Thine arms are tapering as two ivory tusks, and thy armpits are two mouths.” “Mine arms are tapering as two lily-stalks and my fingers hang therefrom like five petals.” “Thy thighs are two white elephants’ trunks. They bear thy feet like two red flowers.” “My feet are two nenuphar-leaves upon the water: My thighs are two bursting nenuphar buds.” “Thy breasts are two silver bucklers with cusps steeped in blood.” “My breasts are the moon and the reflection of the moon and the water.” ill-004 _Huddled against the wall, Djala bethought herself of the love-songs of India._ “Thy navel is a deep pit in a desert of red sand, and thy belly a young kid lying on its mother’s breast.” “My navel is a round pearl on an inverted cup, and the curve of my belly is the clear crescent of Phœbe in the forests.” There was a silence. The slave raised her hands and bowed to the ground. The courtesan proceeded: “It is like a purple flower, full of perfumes and honey.” “It is like a sea-serpent, soft and living, open at night.” “It is the humid grotto, the ever-warm lodging, the Refuge where man reposes from his march to death.” The prostrate one murmured very low: “It is appalling. It is the face of Medusa.” Chrysis planted her foot upon the slave’s neck and said with trembling: “Djala.” The night had come on little by little, but the moon was so luminous that the room was filled with blue light. Chrysis looked at the motionless reflections of her naked body where the shadows fell very black. She rose brusquely: “Djala, what are we thinking of? It is night, and I have not yet gone out. There will be nothing left upon the heptastadion but sleeping sailors. Tell me, Djala, I am beautiful? “Tell me, Djala, I am more beautiful than ever to-night? I am the most beautiful of the Alexandrian women, and you know it? Will not he who shall presently pass within the sidelong glance of my eyes follow me like a dog? Shall I not perform my pleasure upon him, and make a slave of him according to my whim, and can I not expect the most abject obedience from the first man whom I shall meet? Dress me, Djala.”