Then Thrasabad, still clasping Glauke, sprang from the drinking table to the altar. The Ionian had just taken a freshly filled goblet from his hand. The roars of applause which now burst forth fairly turned the vain youth's head; he staggered visibly as he stood on the highest step, dragging the struggling girl with him. "Look, brother," he called in an unsteady voice; "this is _my_ wedding gift. In the senator's villa at Cirta--what is his name? He was burned because he clung obstinately to the Catholic faith. Never mind. I bought the villa from the fiscus; it stands on the foundations of a very ancient one, adorned with imperial splendor, superb mosaics, hunting scenes, with stags, hounds, noble horses, beautiful women under palm-trees! In repairing the cellar this statue was dug out from beneath broken columns; it is said to be more than five hundred years old,--a gem of the best period of Greek art. So my freedman says, who understands such things, an Aphrodite. Show yourself, Queen of Paphos! I give her to you, brother." He seized a broad-bladed knife which lay on the pedestal, cut a cord, and dropped the knife again. The covers fell; a wonderfully beautiful Aphrodite, nobly modelled in white marble, appeared. The Loves knelt around the feet of the goddess, and twined garlands of flowers about her knees. At the same moment a dazzling white light fell from above upon the altar and the goddess, brilliantly irradiating the arena, which was usually not too brightly illumined by lamps. The acclamation of thousands of voices burst forth still more tumultuously, the dancers whirled in swifter circles, the drums and cymbals crashed louder than ever; but the sudden increase of uproar and the vivid, dazzling light also reached the open grating of the tiger's cage. He uttered a terrible roar and sprang with a mighty leap against the bars, one of which fell noiselessly out on the soft sand. No one noticed it, for another scene was taking place around the goddess on the high steps of the altar. "I thank you, brother," cried Thrasaric. "She is indeed the fairest woman that can be imagined." "Yes," replied Modigisel. "What do you mean, Astarte? Are you sneering? What fault can you find there?" "That is no woman," said the Carthaginian, icily, scarcely parting her lips; "that is only a stone. Go there, kiss it, if it seems to you more beautiful than--" "Astarte is right," shouted Thrasabad, madly. "She is right! What use is a stone Aphrodite? A lifeless, marble-cold goddess of love! She clasps her arms forever across her bosom; she cannot open them for a blissful embrace. And what a stern dignity of expression, as though love were the most serious, deadly-earnest, sacred thing. No, marble statue, you are _not_ the fairest woman! The fairest woman--far more beautiful than you--is my Aphrodite here. The fairest woman in the world is mine. You shall acknowledge it with envy! I will, I will be envied for her! You shall all confess it!"