They entered the great door of the building, followed by the awestruck Gurt, who was too much astonished to speak, and advanced along a lofty hall towards an archway draped with heavy blue curtains. Drawing these aside, they entered into an open court, bordered by ranges of white marble columns, for the temple was hypæthral in character, and the sun shone brightly through the opening of the roof. Between these snow-white pillars hung heavy curtains of azure tint, embroidered with bizarre figures in yellow silk. The pavement was of smooth white marble, and there was a small fountain in the middle, splashing musically into a broad pool which brimmed nearly to the verge of its marble marge. A number of Turkish mats, comfortable-looking cane chairs, silk-covered cushions, and dainty bamboo tables were scattered about, and finally, the whole court was one mass of flowers. Slender palms, bowing their feathery fronds, stood in huge red jars, which added a bright touch of color to the general whiteness; while there were oblong boxes filled with heterogeneous masses of violets, pansies, golden crocus, anemones, gladioli, and cyclamen, all glowing in one dazzling blaze of color. There were also cytisus trees with their bright yellow blossoms, great bushes of roses red with flowers, delicate white lilies springing virgin-like from amid their green leaves, and the pink buds of the gum cistus with its aromatic odors, while between stood the myrtles, sacred to love. All this gorgeous mass of colors was blended skilfully with a prevailing tint of green foliage, and what with the blue curtains, the dazzling white of the pillars and pavement, even under the hot southern sun it did not pain the artistic eye with a sense of incongruous hues, but rather pleased and satisfied it by its bright beauty and variety of hue. “What flowers! what flowers!” cried Maurice, with genuine admiration. “Why, this is finer even than the Rector’s rose-garden.” “These are Helena’s flowers,” said Crispin, smiling; “she is so fond of them that she ought to be called Chloris. Hush! here is Justinian.” There was a grating sound of rings being drawn along a rod, and Maurice turned to the left, to see the blue draperies held to one side by an exceptionally tall man, with a long gray beard and keen black eyes, who was dressed in a graceful robe of soft white wool, falling in classic folds to his feet. Maurice himself was over the ordinary height, but this ancient, holding himself erect as a dart, seemed to tower above him, and, as he moved towards Maurice with outstretched hand, the Englishman involuntarily thought of the Homeric description of Nestor. “Mr. Roylands,” said Justinian, taking the young man’s hand, and looking keenly at him, “you are welcome to my island. I am the Demarch of Melnos.”