Hania

THE vision did not appear the next day. The sick woman was unusually animated, for Timon had come from Cæsarea. Alarmed for the life of his daughter and frightened by Cinna's letters, he had left Alexandria a few days earlier to look once again on his only child before her parting. At Cinna's heart hope began to knock again, as if to give notice to receive it. But he had not courage to open the door to that guest; he did not dare to harbor hope.

In the visions which had been killing Antea, there had been intervals, it is true, not of two days, but of one in Alexandria, and in the desert. The present relief Cinna attributed to Timon's arrival, and her impressions at the cross, which so filled the sick woman's soul that she could talk of nothing else, even with her father.

Timon listened with attention; he did not contradict; he meditated and merely inquired carefully about the doctrine of the Nazarene, of which Antea knew, for that matter, only what the procurator had told her.

In general she felt healthier and somewhat stronger; and when midday had passed and gone, real solace shone in her eyes. She repeated that that was a favorable day, and begged her husband to make note of it.

The day was really sad and gloomy. Rain had begun in the early morning, at first very heavy, then fine and cutting, from low clouds which extended monotonously. Only in the evening did the sky break through, and the great fiery globe of the sun look out of the mists, paint in purple and gold the gray rocks, the white marble porticoes of the villas, and descend with endless gleams toward the Mediterranean.

The next morning was wonderfully beautiful. The weather promised to be warm, but the morning was fresh, the sky without a spot, and the earth so sunk in a blue bath that all objects seemed blue. Antea had given directions to bear her out and place her under the favorite pistachio-tree, so that from the elevation on which the tree stood she might delight herself with the view of the blue and gladsome distance.

Cinna and Timon did not move a step from the litter, and watched the face of the sick woman carefully. There was in it a certain alarm of expectation, but it was not that mortal fear which used to seize her at the approach of midday. Her eyes cast a more lively light, and her cheeks bloomed with a slight flush. Cinna thought indeed at moments that Antea might recover; and at this thought he wanted to throw himself on the ground, to sob from delight, and bless the gods. Then again he feared that that was perhaps the last gleam of the dying lamp. Wishing to gain hope from some source, he glanced every little while at Timon; but similar thoughts must have been passing through his head, for he avoided Cinna's glances. None of the three mentioned by a word that midday was near. But Cinna, casting his eyes every moment at the shadows, saw with beating heart that they were growing shorter and shorter.

And he sat as if sunk in thought. Perhaps the least alarmed was Antea herself. Lying in the open litter, her head rested on a purple pillow; she breathed with delight that pure air which the breeze brought from the west, from the distant sea. But before midday the breeze had ceased to blow. The heat increased; warmed by the sun, the pepperwort of the cliffs and the thickets of nard began to give out a strong and intoxicating odor. Bright butterflies balanced themselves over bunches of anemones. From the crevices of the rocks little lizards, already accustomed to that litter and those people, sprang out, one after the other, confident as usual, and also cautious in every movement. The whole world was enjoying that serene peace, that warmth, that calm sweetness and azure drowsiness.

Timon and Cinna seemed also to dissolve in that sunny rest. The sick woman closed her eyes as if a light sleep had seized her; and nothing interrupted that silence except sighs, which from time to time raised her breast.

Meanwhile Cinna noticed that his shadow had lost its lengthened form and was lying there under his feet.

It was midday.

All at once Antea opened her eyes and called out in a kind of strange voice, —

"Caius, give me thy hand."

He sprang up, and all the blood was stiffened to ice in his heart. The hour of terrible visions had come.

Her eyes opened wider and wider.

"Dost thou see," said she, "how light collects there and binds the air; how it trembles, glitters, and approaches me?"

"Antea, look not in that direction!" cried Cinna.

But, oh, wonder! there was no fear on her face. Her lips were parted; her eyes were gazing, and opening wider and wider; a certain immeasurable delight began to brighten her face.

"The pillar of light approaches me," said she. "See! that is he; that is the Nazarene! – he is smiling. O Mild! O Merciful! The transfixed hands he stretches out like a mother to me. Caius, he brings me health, salvation, and calls me to himself."

Cinna grew very pale, and said, —

"Whithersoever he calls us, let us follow him."

A moment later, on the other side, on the stony path leading to the city, appeared Pontius Pilate. Before he had come near, it was evident from his face that he was bringing news, which, as a man of judgment, he considered a fresh, absurd invention of the ignorant and credulous rabble. In fact, while still at some distance, he began to call, wiping perspiration from his brow, —

"Imagine to thyself, they declare that he has risen from the dead!"

BE THOU BLESSED

ONCE on a bright moonlight night the wise and mighty Krishna fell into deep meditation, and said, —

"I thought man the most beautiful creation on earth; but I was mistaken. Here I see the lotus, rocked by the night breeze. Oh, how much more beautiful it is than any living being; its leaves have just opened to the silver light of the moon, and I cannot wrest my eyes from it!

"Among men there is nothing to compare with it," repeated he, sighing.

But after a while he thought, —

"Why should I, a god, not create, by the power of my word, a being who would be among men what the lotus is among flowers? Let it be then to the delight of man and the earth. Lotus, change thou into a living maiden and stand before me."

The water trembled slightly, as if touched by the wings of a swallow; the night grew bright; the moon shone with more power in the sky; the night thrushes sang more distinctly, then stopped on a sudden, and the charm was accomplished: before Krishna stood the lotus in human shape.

The god himself was astonished.

"Thou wert a flower of the lake," said he; "henceforth be the flower of my thought, and speak."

The maiden began to whisper in a voice as low as the sound made by the white leaves of the lotus when kissed by a summer breeze, —

"Lord, thou hast changed me into a living being; where now dost thou command me to dwell? Remember, lord, that when I was a flower I trembled and drew in my leaves at every breath of the wind. I feared heavy rain; I feared storms; I feared thunder and lightning; I feared even the burning rays of the sun. Thou hast commanded me to be the incarnation of the lotus; hence I have kept my former nature, and now I fear the earth and all that is on it. Where dost thou command me to dwell?"

Krishna raised his wise eyes to the stars, meditated a while, and then asked, —

"Dost thou wish to live on the summits of mountains?"

"Snow and cold are there, lord, I am afraid."

"Well, I will build thee a palace of crystal at the bottom of the lake."

"In the depths of the waters move serpents and other monsters; I am afraid, lord."

"Dost thou prefer the boundless steppes?"

"Whirlwinds and tempests rush over the steppes like wild herds."

"What is to be done with thee, incarnate flower? Ha! In the caves of Ellora live holy hermits. Wilt thou dwell far away from the world, in those caves?"

"It is dark there, lord; I am afraid."

Krishna sat on a stone, and rested his head on his hand. The maiden stood before him, trembling and timid.

Meanwhile the dawn began to brighten the sky on the east. The surface of the lake, the palms, and the bamboos were gilded. At the water, rosy herons, blue storks, in the forest, peacocks and bengalee were heard, and these were accompanied by distant sounds of strings stretched over pearl shells, and by words of human song. Krishna awoke from meditation and said, —

"That is Valmiki, the poet, saluting the rising sun."

After a while the curtain of purple flowers covering the climbing plants was pushed aside, and Valmiki appeared at the lake.

When he saw the incarnate lotus the poet ceased to play, the pearl shell fell from his grasp to the earth, his arms dropped at his sides, and he stood dumb, as if the mighty Krishna had made him a tree at the edge of the water.

The god was delighted with this wonder at his work, and said, —

"Awake, Valmiki, and speak."