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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.