"Freedom! By the gods, 'tis a delusive word embodying a vain idea! Where is there any freedom in life? All of us are bound in chains and restricted in one way or the other,--the man who deems himself politically free is a slave to the multitude and his own ambition --while he who shakes himself loose from the trammels of custom and creed, becomes the tortured bondsman of desire, tied fast with bruising cords to the rack of his own unbridled sense and appetite. There is no such thing as freedom, my friend, unless haply it may be found in death! Come,--let us in to supper,--the hour grows late, and my heart aches with an unsought heaviness,--I must cheer me with a cup of wine, or my songs to-night will sadden rather than rouse the King. Come,--and thou shalt speak to me again of the life that is to be lived hereafter,"--and he smiled with certain pathos in his smile,--"for there are times, believe me, when in spite of all my fame and the sweetness of existence, I weary of earth's days and nights, and find them far too brief and mean to satisfy my longings. Not the world,--but worlds--should be the Poet's heritage."
Theos looked at him, with a feeling of unutterable yearning affection, and regret, but said nothing, . . and together they ascended the steps of the stately marble terrace and paced slowly across it, keeping as near to each other as shadow to substance, and thus reentered the palace, where the sound of a distant harp alone penetrated the perfumed stillness. It must be Niphrata who was playing, thought Theos, ... and what strange and plaintive chords she swept from the vibrating strings! ... They seemed laden with the tears of broken-hearted women dead and buried ages upon ages ago!