The Lost Word | Page 7

glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of the
well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at
once to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty
road. "This is your birthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by
the gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it
for a thought--a dream."

II
A CHRISTMAS LOSS

HERMAS found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no
sound in the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasing
each other through the laurel thickets, and the babble of innumerable
streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicate pleasure that the
grove had often seen still haunted the bewildered paths and broken

fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins of
Apollo's temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by fire just
after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermas sat down beside
a gushing spring, and gave himself up to sadness.
"How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in,
without religion. These questions about unseen things, perhaps about
unreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices--if I were only
free from them all, and could only forget them all, then I could live my
life as I pleased, and be happy."
"Why not?" said a quiet voice at his back.
He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbare
cloak (the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behind
him and smiling curiously.
"How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?" said
Hermas; "and who are you that honour me with your company?"
"Forgive the intrusion," answered the stranger; "it is not ill meant. A
friendly interest is as good as an introduction."
"But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?"
"To your face," said the old man, with a courteous inclination. "Perhaps
also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feel as if
all visitors were my guests, in a way"
"Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given up
your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?"
"Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I must confess.
I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. In fact, I am that
solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian found here when he
came to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty years ago. You
have heard of the incident?"

"Yes," said Hermas, beginning to be interested; "the whole city must
have heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a strange
sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of Apollo's
temple?"
"You mean the goose? Well, perhaps it was not precisely what the
emperor expected. But it was all that I had, and it seemed to me not
inappropriate. You will agree to that if you are a Christian, as I guess
from your dress."
"You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo."
"Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professional matter,
and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many altars do
you think there have been in this grove?"
"I do not know."
"Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose
ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do with
most of them in my time. They--are transitory. They give employment
to care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and the thing that
interests me, is the human life that plays around them. The game has
been going on for centuries. It still disports itself very pleasantly on
summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know.
Daphne and Apollo were shadows. But the flying maidens and the
pursuing lovers, the music and the dances, these are the realities. Life is
the game, and the world keeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad
countenance for one so young and so fair. Are you a loser in the
game?"
The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as a key fits the
lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the story of his
life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house; the irresistible spell
which compelled him to forsake it when he heard John's preaching of
the new religion; his lonely year with the anchorites among the
mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher's house at Antioch; his
weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his discontent with worship.

"And to-day," said he, "I have been