Still, after all complaisance to the perhaps somewhat crude tastes of
the emperor's son, it was felt that with a guest like Apuleius whom
they had come prepared to entertain as veritable connoisseurs, the
conversation should be learned and superior, and the host at last
deftly led his company round to literature, by the way of bindings.
Elegant rolls of manuscript from his fine library of ancient Greek
books passed from hand to hand about the table. It was a sign for
the visitors themselves to draw their own choicest literary
curiosities from their bags, as their contribution to the banquet;
and one of them, a [81] famous reader, choosing his lucky moment,
delivered in tenor voice the piece which follows, with a preliminary
query as to whether it could indeed be the composition of Lucian of
Samosata,+ understood to be the great mocker of that day:--

"What sound was that, Socrates?" asked Chaerephon. "It came from the
beach under the cliff yonder, and seemed a long way off.--And how
melodious it was! Was it a bird, I wonder. I thought all sea-birds
were songless."

"Aye! a sea-bird," answered Socrates, "a bird called the Halcyon, and
has a note full of plaining and tears. There is an old story people
tell of it. It was a mortal woman once, daughter of Aeolus, god of
the winds. Ceyx, the son of the morning-star, wedded her in her
early maidenhood. The son was not less fair than the father; and
when it came to pass that he died, the crying of the girl as she
lamented his sweet usage, was, Just that! And some while after, as
Heaven willed, she was changed into a bird. Floating now on bird's
wings over the sea she seeks her lost Ceyx there; since she was not
able to find him after long wandering over the land."