out his hand. Herse pressed it to her lips, weeping bitterly; but he
smiled up at her, nodding his head and repeating again and again the line
from Lucian: "Be comforted: you, too, must soon follow."

"Yes, yes--I shall follow soon," she repeated with sobs. "Without you,
without either of you, without the gods--what would become of me here."

And she turned to her son who, fully conscious, had followed every word
and every gesture of his parents and tried himself to say something. But
the arrow in his neck choked his breath, and it was such agony to speak
that he could only say hoarsely: "Father mother!" But these poor words
were full of deep love and gratitude, and Karnis and Herse understood all
he longed to express.

Tears choked the poor woman's utterance so that neither of the three
could say another word, but they were at any rate close together, and
could look lovingly in each other's eyes. Thus passed some few minutes
of peace for them, in spite of the blare of trumpets, and shrieks and
butchery; but Herse's kerchief was dyed and soaked with her husband's
blood, and the old man's eyes were glazed and staring as they wandered
feebly on the scene, as though to get a last general picture of the world
in which they had always sought to see only what was fair. Suddenly they
remained fixed on the face of a statue of Apollo, which had been flung on
to the barricade; and the longer they dwelt on the beautiful countenance
of the god the more they sparkled with a clear transfigured gleam. Once
more, with a final effort, he raised his heavy hand and pointed to the
sun-crowned head of the immortal youth while he softly murmured:

"He--he--all that was fair in existence--Orpheus, Herse--we owe it all to
him. He dies with us.--They--the enemy--in conquering us conquer thee!