The former nun now wore the same robes as before her consecration. The noble and simple lines of the peplum restored her resemblance to some ancient Athenian vestal. But the stuff was sober in colour, and her splendid hair thickly veiled. A wisdom almost austere lay in those deep unsmiling eyes. Only the white arms of the artist, bare to the shoulder, relieved the sombre hues of her robe. She toiled impatiently, almost feverishly, moulding the soft wax; and her pale hands impressed Anatolius with a sense of extraordinary power. That evening the galley was coasting an islet of which none knew the name. Far off, it looked like an arid rock. In order to avoid dangerous reefs the trireme had to pass close in to shore. Under the steep cliff the sea-water lay so clear that sand and weed at the bottom could be clearly distinguished. Beyond the grim rocks could be seen green pastures, and sheep feeding round a plane-tree. Anatolius saw, seated at the foot of the tree, a lad and a young girl, probably children of poor shepherds. Behind them, among cypresses, was a small rough figure of Pan playing the flute. Anatolius turned towards Arsinoë to point out this remote and peaceful nook of a lost Hellas; but the words died on his lips. Wholly rapt, and with a look of strange gaiety, the artist was intent on her creation, the waxen statuette, with its face of haunting sadness, and proud Olympian attitude. Anatolius felt her mood like a rebuff. He asked Arsinoë in a harsh unsteady voice, pointing at the model-- "Why are you making that? What does the thing stand for?" Slowly and with effort, she raised her eyes to his; and he mused-- "The sibyls must have eyes like those!" and then aloud: "Arsinoë, do you think that this work of yours will be understood?" "What matters it, friend?" she answered, smiling gravely. Then she added in a lower tone, as if communing with herself: "He will stretch out His hands toward the world. He must be inexorable and terrible as Mithra-Dionysus in all his strength and beauty; yet merciful and humble...." "What do you mean? is not that an impossible contradiction?" "Who knows? For us, yes; but for the future...." The sun was descending lower. Above him, on the horizon westward, a storm-cloud was impending, and the last rays illumined the island with a soft, almost melancholy, glow. The shepherd lad and his companion approached Pan's altar to make their evening sacrifice. "Is it your belief, Arsinoë," continued Anatolius, "is it your faith that unknown brothers of ours shall pick up the threads of our existence, and, following the clue, go immeasurably farther than we? Do you believe that all shall not perish in the barbaric gloom which is sinking on Rome and Hellas? Ah, if that were so? If one could trust the future...."