Egypt -- History -- 30 B.C.-640 A.D. -- Fiction; German fiction -- Translations into English
“If I can persuade her--she is a Christian,” said Karnis doubtfully.
“She must,” said the philosopher positively. “It will be a bad lookout
indeed for the logic and rhetoric of Alexandria if an old professor and
disputant cannot succeed in turning a young girl’s resolutions upside
down. Leave that to me. I shall find time for a chat with you by and
bye, friend Karnis. How in the world does it happen that you, who so
often have helped us with your father’s coin, have come down to be the
chief of a band of travelling musicians? You will have much to tell me,
my good friend; but even such important matters must give way to those
that are more pressing. One word with you, Porphyrius.”
Agne had been all this time awaiting Herse’s return in the colonnade
that ran along the garden-front of the house. She was glad to be alone,
and it was very comfortable to rest on the soft cushions under the
gilt-coffered ceiling of the arcade. At each end stood large shrubs
covered with bunches of violet-blue flowers and the spreading branches
cast a pleasant shade on the couch where she sat; the beautiful flowers,
which were strange to her, were delightfully fragrant, and from time
to time she helped herself to the refreshments which Gorgo herself had
brought out to her. All she saw, heard, and felt, was soothing to her
mind; never had she seen or tasted juicier peaches, richer bunches of
grapes, fresher almonds or more tempting cakes; on the shrubs in the
garden and on the grass-plots between the paths there was not a dead
leaf, not a dry stem, not the tiniest weed. The buds were swelling on
the tall trees, shrubs without end were covered with blossoms--white,
blue, yellow, and red--while, among the smooth, shining leaves of the
orange and lemon trees, gleamed the swelling fruit. On a round tank
close at hand some black swans were noiselessly tracing evanescent
circles and uttering their strange lament. The song of birds mingled
with the plash of fountains, and even the marble statues, for all that
they were dumb, seemed to be enjoying the sweet morning air and the stir
and voice of nature.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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