Before the great temple of Ceres in the southeast quarter of the
city, the crier stood on the steps of the portico, and proclaimed
his invitation: "All ye who are clean of hands and pure of heart,
come to the sacrifice! All ye who are guiltless in thought and deed,
come to the sacrifice!"

Among the passing people, the lad Heraklas shrank back. When the
sacred basket of Ceres had met him, he had bent his eyes downward,
deeming himself unworthy of the sight. And now, as the crier's
invitation rang from the portico, "All ye who are guiltless in
thought and deed, come to the sacrifice!" Heraklas trembled.

Swiftly he hurried away and passed down the broad street that led to
the Gate of the Moon on the south of Alexandria.

At length he reached the gate, but swiftly yet he pushed forward a
short distance along the vineyard-fringed banks of Lake Mareotis.
Heraklas lifted up his eyes, and marked how the vines by the lake's
side contrasted with the burning whiteness of the desert beyond. The
glaring sand shimmered in the heat of the flaming Egyptian sun. A
thin, vapory mist seemed to move above the heated, barren surface of
the grim sea of sand. Heraklas stretched out his hands in agony
toward the desert, and cried aloud, "O my brother, my brother
Timokles! How shall I live without thee?"

The soft ripple of the lake beside him seemed like mockery. The
tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, as he looked toward the
pitilessly unresponsive desert of the west and southwest. Then
Heraklas, helpless in his misery, raised his hands with the palms