_Breast forward! Shout the cry_ _Of Joy, of Life, on high!_ _To sadness give the lie!_ _Ten-thousand spheres give voice_ _The rivers racing by—_ _The chorus join—Rejoice!_ _5_ _Mistake not carcass pains—_ _They are your growing gains_ _Of Soul on Self, ere wanes_ _The Sun; and through the lanes_ _Of the Far Golden West_ _You pass to your long rest,_ _O Warrior Soul; where shade_ _And dark by that sword blade_ _Of Light are cleft from you_ _And never more pursue:_ _The shadows cleft and reft_ _By Him_ _Who guards the Tree of Life_ _From snatching hands of strife_ _Elohim!_ _And you pass to your rest_ _In the all Golden West_ _Where Sun sinks never more_ _And Light far to the fore_ _Sings with ten-thousand spheres—_ _Give voice, Rejoice, Rejoice—_ _Again, I say, Rejoice!_ _A. C. L._ _The_ QUENCHLESS LIGHT CHAPTER I NEITHER BOND NOR FREE The old Idumean soldier of the Prætorian Guard sat on the stone bench in front of his prisoner’s hut on the canal road to Rome and listened to the drunken songs coming from the bargemen at the place called the Three Taverns. It was a fair evening in spring. Frogs piped from the marshes. Oleander and apricot bloom drugged the night with dreams. The sun hung over the far sea in a warrior shield, and the dust from the chariot wheels filtered the air with powdered gold. The Spring Festival was over. The corn ships from Egypt had come in to Naples on time for the free gifts to peasant and slave. All Rome seemed out in holiday attire, on foot, on barge, on horseback, or in chariot, either going home to the hill towns, or down to the villas by the sea. The plodding peasants and slaves had their little bags of free corn and goatskins of wine flung over their shoulders, and were followed by their wives and their children as they turned off up to the hills, where their bonfires were already aglow with flamy eyes in the blue shadows of the mountains, for all-night revels.