"Whom does she receive to-day?" "No one at any time," answered the guide, offended. "Were the priestess of the fire not to observe her vow of chastity she would have to die." "A cruel law," observed Rameses. "Be pleased, lord, to wait at this bench," said the Phœnician priest, coldly; "but on hearing three blows against the bronze plate, go to the temple, ascend to the first platform, and thence to the purple story." "Alone?" "Yes." The prince sat down on the bench, in the shadow of an olive-tree, and heard the laughter of women in the villa. "Kama," thought he, "is a pretty name. She must be young, and perhaps beautiful, and those dull Phœnicians threaten her with death. Do they wish in this way to assure themselves even a few virgins in the whole country?" He laughed, but was sad. It was uncertain why he pitied that unknown woman for whom love would be a passage to the grave. "I can imagine to myself Tutmosis if he were appointed priestess of Astaroth," thought Rameses. "He would have to die, poor fellow, before he could light one lamp before the face of the goddess." At that moment; a flute was heard in the villa, and some one played a plaintive air, which was accompanied by female singers, "Áha-ā! áha-ā!" as in the lullaby of infants. The flute stopped, the women were silent, and a splendid male voice was heard, in the Greek language:-- "When thy robe gleams on the terrace, the stars pale and the nightingales cease to sing, but in my heart there is stillness like that which is on earth when the clear dawn salutes it--" "Áha-ā! áha-ā!" continued the women. The flute played again. "When thou goest to the temple, violets surround thee in a cloud of fragrance, butterflies circle near thy lips, palms bend their heads to thy beauty." "Áha-ā! áha-ā!--" "When thou art not before me, I look to the skies to recall the sweet calm of thy features. Vain labor! The heavens have no calm like thine, and their heat is cold when compared with the flame which is turning my heart into ashes." "Áha-ā! áha-ā!--" "One day I stood among roses, which the gleam of thy glances clothe in white, gold, and scarlet. Each leaf of them reminded me of one hour, each blossom of one month passed at thy feet. The drops of dew are my tears, which are drunk by the merciless wind of the desert. "Give a sign; I will seize thee, I will bear thee away to my birthplace, beloved. The sea will divide us from pursuers, myrtle groves will conceal our fondling, and gods, more compassionate toward lovers, will watch over our happiness." "Áha-ā! áha-ā!--" The prince dropped his eyelids and imagined. Through his drooping lashes he could not see the garden, he saw only the flood of moonlight in which were mingled shadows and the song of the unknown man to the unknown woman. At instants that song seized him to such a degree, and forced itself into his spirit so deeply, that Rameses wished to ask: "Am I not the singer myself? nay, am I not that love song?"