“It is true,” said Chrysis, disappointed. “I forgot to wish. I certainly had something in my mind, but I said nothing. Does that count all the same?” “I think not; you must begin again.” Chrysis cast the bones again. ill-036 “The Midas throw, this time. What do you think of that?” “One cannot tell. Good or bad. It is a throw which is interpreted by the next one. Now start with a single bone.” Chrysis consulted the game a third time; but as soon as the bone fell, she stammered: “The . . . the Chian ace!” And she burst into sobs. Djala too was uneasy, and said nothing. Chrysis wept upon the bed, with her hair lying in confusion about her head. At last she turned round angrily. “Why did you make me begin again? I am sure the first throw counted.” “If you wished, yes. If not, no. You alone know,” said Djala. “Besides, the bones prove nothing. It is a Greek game. I don’t believe in it. I shall try something else.” She dried her tears and crossed the room. She took a box of white counters from a shelf, counted out twenty-two, then with the point of a pearl clasp, engraved in succession the twenty-two letters of the Hebrew alphabet. They were the arcana of the Cabbala she had learnt in Galilee. “I have confidence in this. This does not deceive”, she said. “Lift up the skirt of your robe; I will use it as a bag.” She cast the twenty-two counters into the slave’s tunic, repeating mentally: “Shall I wear Aphrodite’s necklace? Shall I wear Aphrodite’s necklace? Shall I wear Aphrodite’s necklace?” And she drew the tenth arcanam, and this signified plainly: “Yes.” ill-037 _An old white-bearded priest preceded the youthful band._ VI CHRYSIS’S ROSE It was a procession, white and blue and yellow and pink and green. Thirty courtesans advanced, bearing baskets of flowers, snow-white doves with red feet, veils of the most fragile azure, and precious ornaments. An old white-bearded priest, swathed to the head in stiff unbleached cloth, preceded the youthful band and guided the line of bending worshippers to the altar of stone. They sang, and their song languished like the sea, sighed like a southern breeze, panted like an amorous mouth. The first two carried harps which they rested upon the hollow of their left hand and which curved forward like sickles of slender wood. One of them advanced and said: “Tryphera, O beloved Cypris, offers thee this blue veil which she has woven herself, that thou mayest continue to deal gently with her.” Another: “Mousarion places at thy feet, O goddess of the beautiful coronal, these wreaths of wall-flowers and this bouquet of drooping daffodils. She has borne them in the orgie and has invoked thy name in the wild ecstasy of their perfumes, O! victorious one! have respect to these spoils of love.” Yet another: