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230 ARIADNE.could neverlook upon her face and think of him,and holdmy silence — andsurely to know the truthwouldkill her.Icould not tell what to do.It seemed to me as if the earth could neverhold so much woe and still go on, through theair,round the sun, and bring the seasons onebyone, and the birth of the children.On the third day they brought his dead bodyhome to Rome. Great artists came with it.They laid the bier down in the north room:they laidit beneath the Apollo Cithæradus." A great man is dead," they said, " and thereare nonehvingdhat are Idee tohim."It was serenemidsummer weatherOutside, under the arbutus and laurel, hisnightingales were still flooding the evening airwith their music; his roses were blooming, hiscloves were sleeping under the leaves, his aloeswere unsheathing fresh blades in the light; thesunrays and the moonrays wandered by turnacross the marble floor, aU night long the birdssang — the birds he had loved to hear, — and helay dead there in his leaden shroud: under theApollo of the Lute.

ARIADNE. 231The people came there and stood there inlargeqidet crowds, at thnes weeping and waihng,foraU Rome had honoured him.His charities had been liberal as the fragranceof the summer, and the young and the oldmourned one with another, saying, ' to be inneed was to be his friend: ' but neither thelamentation of the people nor the song of thenightingales could reach the ear that was deaf forthe first time to then- sorrow and to then- song.He was dead: and HUarion had killed him.Isaid it over and over to myself, again andagain and again, kneelingon the thresholdof theroom by the side of Giulio: and stiUit seemedto meimpossible ; stUl it seemed to me that,ifindeed it were so, the earth must stand stUl, andthe sun cease to rise.The hghts burnedaround thebier; the shutterswere closed; the nightingales — sang without, wecould hear them; in her own chamber his—mother sat and told her beads and said"Dead? Nay, never! God is too good forthat."Idid not know how time went.Iseemed to

ARIADNE. 231<strong>The</strong> people came there and stood there inlargeqidet crowds, at thnes weeping and waihng,foraU Rome had honoured him.His charities had been liberal as the fragranceof the summer, and the young and the oldmourned one with another, saying, ' to be inneed was to be his friend: ' but neither thelamentation of the people nor the song of thenightingales could reach the ear that was deaf forthe first time to then- sorrow and to then- song.He was dead: and HUarion had killed him.Isaid it over and over to myself, again andagain and again, kneelingon the thresholdof theroom by the side of Giulio: and stiUit seemedto meimpossible ; stUl it seemed to me that,ifindeed it were so, the earth must stand stUl, andthe sun cease to rise.<strong>The</strong> hghts burnedaround thebier; the shutterswere closed; the nightingales — sang without, wecould hear them; in her own chamber his—mother sat and told her beads and said"Dead? Nay, never! God is too good forthat."Idid not know how time went.Iseemed to

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