There were broad glens of wild narcissus, many lilies, and even butterflies. But these were dark-winged and not gay-coloured, for the sun-rays filtered through the thick laurel became almost lunar-pale, and pensive as if fallen through the smoke of a funeral torch. It was as though Phoebus had grown faint and inconsolable after the final loss of Daphne. And she, remaining, overcast and shadowy under the most burning kisses of the god, here kept impenetrable coolness and bloom under her branches for ever. Everywhere in that wood reigned the abandonment, the tender melancholy of the god who loved in vain. Already in sight, and dazzling through the cypresses, shone the columns and pediments of the temple raised in the time of Seleucus Nicator. But not a worshipper yet had Julian encountered. At last he saw a child of twelve years old, on a path overgrown with wild hyacinth. His dark eyes shone strangely brilliant in his finely cut pale face. Golden hair fell in curls on his slender neck, and his blue-veined temples were transparent as the petals of a flower grown in the shade. "Do you know, child, where are the sacrificers and the people?" Julian asked. The child made no answer, as if he had not understood the question. "Listen, little one, can you not lead me to the priest of Apollo?" He shook his head, smiling. "Why will you not answer me?" Then the boy put a finger to his lips and then to both his ears, and shook his head gravely this time. Julian thought-- "This must be a deaf-mute." The child looked shyly askance at the Emperor, who grew almost fearful in the silent twilight of the deserted wood in the company of the elf, who stared at him fixedly and haughtily as a little god. Suddenly, he pointed out to Julian an old man, clothed in a patched and tattered tunic; Julian immediately recognised a temple priest. The weak and broken old man stumbled along in drunken fashion, laughing and mumbling to himself as he went. He was red-nosed and completely bald except for a fringe of downy grey hair. His watery and short-sighted eyes had an expression of childlike benevolence. He was carrying a large basket. "The priest of Apollo?" asked Julian. "I am he. I am called Gorgius. What do you want, good man?" "Can you direct me to the high-priest of this temple and the people worshipping here?" Gorgius made no answer at first, but put his panier on the ground. Then he rubbed his bald pate and, standing with arms akimbo, held his head on one side winking mischievously with his left eye. "And why am _I_ not the high-priest of Apollo?" he asked, "and what worshippers do you mean, my son?... May the Olympians protect you." He smelt strongly of wine. Julian thought his behaviour indecent and prepared to administer a rebuke-- "You seem to be drunk, old man." Gorgius, in no wise perturbed, continued to rub the back of his neck.