'Your images, gods, that you have placed in the temple of my soul, I have not profaned; I have hung there my thoughts, as well as garlands, fillets, and wreaths. I have lived according to your providence. I have lived enough.'"
Thus speaking, he raised his arms to heaven, and he remained thoughtful a moment. Then he continued, with extreme joy —
"Separate thyself from life, Eucrites, like the ripe olive which falls; returning thanks to the tree which bore thee, and blessing the earth, thy nurse."
At these words, drawing from the folds of his robe a naked dagger, he plunged it into his breast.
Those who listened to him sprang forward to seize his hand, but the steel point had already penetrated the heart of the sage. Eucrites had already entered into his rest. Hermodorus and Nicias bore the pale and bleeding body to one of the couches, amidst the shrill shrieks of the women, the grunts of the guests disturbed in their sleep, and the heavy breathing of the couples hidden in the shadow of the tapestry. Cotta, an old soldier, who slept lightly, woke, approached the corpse, examined the wound, and cried —
"Call Aristæus, my physician!"
Nicias shook his head.
"Eucrites is no more," he said. "He wished to die as others wish to love. He has, like all of us,
