Diodoros whispered his suspicion to his companion, clasping his hand on
an amulet in the semblance of an eye, which his Egyptian nurse had
fastened round his neck long ago with an Anubic thread, to protect him
against the evil-eye and magic spells.

But Melissa was listening with such devout attention to the chant that
she did not hear him. The fatigue which had reached such a painful
climax had, during this peaceful rest, given way to a blissful
unconsciousness of self. It was a kind of happiness to feel no longer
the burden of exhaustion, and the song of the wanderers was like a
cradle-song, lulling her to sweet dreams. It filled her with gladness,
and yet it was not glad, not even cheerful. It went to her heart, and
yet it was not mournful-not in the least like the passionate lament of
Isis for Osiris, or that of Demeter bewailing her daughter. The emotion
it aroused in her was a sweetly sorrowful compassion, which included
herself, her brothers, her father, her lover, all who were doomed to
suffering and death, even the utter stranger, for whom she had hitherto
felt no sympathy.

And the compassion bore within it a sense of comfort which she could not
explain, or perhaps would not inquire into. It struck her, too, now and
then, that the strain had a ring as of thanksgiving. It was, no doubt,
addressed to the gods, and for that reason it appealed to her, and she
would gladly have joined in it, for she, too, was grateful to the
immortals, and above all to Eros, for the love which had been born in her
heart and had found such an ardent return. She sighed as she listened to
every note of the chant, and it worked upon her like a healing draught.

The struggle of her will against bodily fatigue, and finally against the
mental exhaustion of so much bliss, the conviction that her heavy, weary