They dream of a Paradise beyond death; but where thou reignest, O
Phoebus, there is bliss even on earth! They boast that they love death
and hate life; and when they are the victors they will destroy lute and
pipe, nay, if they could, would exterminate beauty and extinguish the
sun. This beautiful happy world they would have dark, gloomy,
melancholy, hideous; thy kingdom, great Phoebus, is sunny, joyful and
bright...!" Here his strength failed him; but presently he rallied once
more and went on, with eager eyes: "We crave for light, for music, lutes
and pipes--for perfumed flowers on careless brows--we--hold me up Herse--
and thou, heal me, O Phoebus Apollo!--Hail, all hail! I thank thee--thou
hast accepted much from me and hast given me all! Come, thou joy of my
soul! Come in thy glorious chariot, attended by Muses and Hours! See,
Orpheus, Herse--do you see Him coming?"

He pointed with a confident gesture to the distance; and his anxious eyes
followed the indication of his hand; he raised himself a little by a last
supreme effort; but instantly fell back; his head sank on the bosom of
his faithful partner and a stream of blood flowed from his quivering
lips. The votary of the Muses was dead; and a few minutes after Orpheus,
too, fell senseless.

War-cries and trumpet-calls rang and echoed through the Serapeum. The
battle was now a hand-to-hand fight; the besiegers had surmounted the
barricade and stood face to face with the heathen. Herse saw them
coming; she snatched the dart from her husband's wound, and fired by
hatred and a wild thirst for vengeance, she rushed upon the besiegers
with frantic and helpless fury, cursing them loudly. She met the death
she craved; a javelin struck her and she fell close to her husband and
son. Her death struggle was a short one; she had only time and strength
to extend a hand to lay on each before she herself was a corpse.