This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
By Georg Ebers
The green screen slowly rose, covering the lower portion of the broadstudio window where Heron, the gem-cutter, was at work. It was Melissa,the artist's daughter, who had pulled it up, with bended knees andoutstretched arms, panting for breath.
"That is enough!" cried her father's impatient voice. He glanced up atthe flood of light which the blinding sun of Alexandria was pouring intothe room, as it did every autumn afternoon; but as soon as the shadowfell on his work-table the old man's busy fingers were at work again, andhe heeded his daughter no more.
An hour later Melissa again, and without any bidding, pulled up thescreen as before, but it was so much too heavy for her that the effortbrought the blood into her calm, fair face, as the deep, rough "That isenough" was again heard from the work-table.
Then silence reigned once more. Only the artist's low whistling as heworked, or the patter and pipe of the birds in their cages by the window,broke the stillness of the spacious room, till the voice and step of aman were presently heard in the anteroom.
Heron laid by his graver and Melissa her gold embroidery, and the eyesof father and daughter met for the first time for some hours. The verybirds seemed excited, and a starling, which had sat moping since thescreen had shut the sun out, now cried out, "Olympias!" Melissa rose, andafter a swift glance round the room she went to the door, come who might.
Ay, even if the brother she was expecting should bring a companion,or a patron of art who desired her father's work, the room need not feara critical eye; and she was so well assured of the faultless neatness ofher own person, that she only passed a hand over her brown hair, and withan involuntary movement pulled her simple white robe more tightly throughher girdle.
Heron's studio was as clean and as simple as his daughter's attire,though it seemed larger than enough for the purpose it served, for only avery small part of it was occupied by the artist, who sat as if in exilebehind the work-table on which his belongings were laid out: a set ofsmall instruments in a case, a tray filled with shells and bits of onyxand other agates, a yellow ball of Cyrenian modeling-wax, pumice-stone,bottles, boxes, and bowls.
Melissa had no sooner crossed the threshold, than the sculptor drew uphis broad shoulders and brawny person, and raised his hand to fling awaythe slender stylus he had been using; however, he thought better of it,and laid it carefully aside with the other tools. But this act of self-control must have cost the hot-headed, powerful man a great effort; forhe shot a fierce look at the instrument which had had so narrow anescape, and gave it a push of vexation with the back of his hand.
Then he turned towards the door, his sunburnt face looking surly enough,in its frame of tangled gray hair and beard; and, as he waited for thevisitor whom Melissa was greeting outside, he tossed back his big head,and threw out his broad, deep chest, as though preparing to wrestle.
Melissa presently returned, and the youth whose hand she still held was,as might be seen in every feature, none other than the sculptor's son.Both were dark-eyed, with nobl