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ARIADNE. 249my tired forehead on my hands, and wished thatIhad never wakened from my sleep that summermorning when the gods had spokeninmy dream.The place was solitary, and not a soul wasnear; the clay was waning;through theiron barsof the casements the turf, burnt yeUow by thesun,looked full of glare against the black denseshadows of the ilex leaves; the insects hootinginthe branches sounded like the mocking of thefates;thebloated bestial emperors seemed to leerlike living things. Ithought the imperial wantoninher high chamber up above wassurelylaughing.Aye,indeed, it must seem strange to harlotsthat a womancan so love that death is sweetertoher than fame orgold or homage, or the worldof men, or any consolations of the senses andthe vanities of hfe;it must seem strange, forwhat should faithless womenknow of Love, theywho worship those poor base gods, Apate andPhilotes ?Ileaned my head upon my hands, and shutout from my sight the grey and sickly day;pestilence was abroad in all those amber andbrown glades of the scorched woods, and all