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ARIADNE. 251■over the marble floor;Ilooked up, and it woulclnot have seemed to me strange to have seen thegods arise, asIhad seen them in my dream. Ilooked up,andIsaw Hilarion.How canIteU whatIfelt ?Iput out my hands and thrust at themere air,as onimpulse one would do seeing some deadlyshape in the darkness. He stood between meand the bronze Ariadne.The strange colours of the light, yellow andgrey and weird, seU upon his face:Iraised myvoice to curse him, to curse him in his uprising-andhis downlying,inhis present and his future,in hfe and in death, as men of oldcursed whattheyabhorred. Butsomethingin his face stoppedme, and froze the torrent on my lips:it was theface of a manon whom every curse of God andmenhadalready fallen. Itwas the face of one whohad killed his best friend: those who have lookedon the Uke can understand — no other can.Hestood erect,and his old proud grace wasunchanged,becauseit was in him as it was in thestatuesaround,buthis beauty waslike thebraised,faded, worn beauty of a marble that has been