Part 10

“There was no lighthouse even in my time, little child. It was not till I had been dead twenty years and more that the beacon tower was built.”

Rachel glanced at him. “After you had—gone on? Gone into another life, you mean?” she said.

Dinocrates smiled kindly at her.

“That is a better way of saying the same thing, little maid,” he agreed.

“But you promised you would tell us about the lighthouse,” began Diana, after a moment. “_Do_ tell us, please,” she urged.

Again Dinocrates smiled.

“I am coming to it, impatient one,” he began, when Rachel interrupted.

“I want to know all sorts of other things first,” she declared. “Did Alexander live here after the town was built?”

“Nay, and he never saw more of the city than its beginning. He was marching always from country to country, conquering the world, and had no time to return to the place which bears his name. Though, after all, I am wrong. He _did_ come back. But when he came, Death, not he, was the conqueror. He died in Babylon, but they brought him hither, to the city built at his command, and here he was buried.”

“Was his lovely horse dead by that time?” asked Diana. “I hope so. Because he would have missed his master.”

“Why, yes,” put in Rachel. “Don’t you remember that Alexander buried him and named a town after him?”

“Of course! How silly of me....” Diana turned expectantly to Dinocrates.

“And about the lighthouse?” she persisted.

“Our ship is about to enter the harbour,” said their companion. “We will land, and go to the spot where the lighthouse finally arose. There I may best tell you its story.”

In a few moments the little vessel on the deck of which they stood, had been safely steered into the harbour between the island of Pharos and the city. At a quay running alongside of the island, they stepped off the ship, and “Dinocrates” led the way to a rock jutting out into the sea. It was a position from which there was a view of the busy harbour, and of the long bridge joining the island to the city, over which passed continually a gaily coloured crowd. Mules with gaudy trappings were driven by shouting boys. Ladies in silken litters were borne along by dark-skinned slaves. Men dressed in tunics like the one worn by “Dinocrates” sauntered by, and from the city itself came a confused hum of voices.

By turning their backs to the bridge the children found the blue sea almost at their feet, stretching away to the distant horizon.

Dinocrates began to speak again, and the water lapping against the rocks close at hand murmured between the pauses of his story.

“There lies the city I began to build while Alexander was yet alive,” he said, pointing backwards over his shoulder. “I was a famous architect in those days, and rich men sent me their sons to learn from me. But among all my pupils the best, the most brilliant, was Sostratus. He came to me when he was but a lad, and I early foretold for him a great career. I loved him dearly, and he was to me like a son. His native land was Greece, and, though he spent some years with me during the building of Alexandria, he returned more than once to his home, and on one of these visits fell deeply in love with a beautiful Grecian maiden.

“Never shall I forget the happiness of Sostratus, when he told me that the maiden, with her parents, was coming to Alexandria, where the marriage was to be celebrated. All was prepared for the bride, and on the appointed day, she set sail to cross the stretch of sea between Greece and Alexandria. But, alas, the weather, till then calm and peaceful, suddenly changed. A great storm arose, and the ship, when it came into sight, though it held bravely on, was tossed like a cockle-shell upon the waters.

“Now this bay of Alexandria is difficult of navigation, and in the darkness, full of danger. Night came on; there was no friendly beacon fire to show the way, and presently we, who were gathered here on this very spot, heard the shouts and cries of drowning men. Powerless to help, we waited in despair for daybreak, only to see the waters strewn with wreckage. Close to land, the good ship, with all on board, had gone down for lack of a light to show the captain where lay the treacherous rocks.

“Sostratus was wild with grief, from which, as time went on, I strove in vain to rouse him. Nothing I could say or do would comfort him, till at last, when I was ill and near to death, I called him to my bedside and urged him not to waste his life in useless idle despair.

“‘Build something,’ said I, ‘which shall be at once a monument to the memory of your bride, and of use to the living. So shall you not have passed through this your present life in vain.’

“‘What if I should build a light-tower?’ he asked presently. ‘Something that shall serve as a beacon and a warning to sailors? Already has the thought of such a tower begun to take shape in my mind, and now, O master, I swear to thee that I will not rest till such a building arises, for by such means, grief such as I have endured may be spared to others.’

“With that he began to discuss with me how such a tower, the first of its kind, could be constructed so that a light should stream constantly from its summit during the darkness of the night. And I, seeing him roused from his grief and ready for a new interest, passed some days later, happily from that life. All that follows, I learnt long afterwards when once more I returned to this earth.

“Even before my own death, Alexander the Great had passed away, and the world he had conquered was being divided amongst the generals who had fought under his command. This land of Egypt, with Alexandria as its port, fell to one of them—a man whose name was Ptolemy. (He it was who helped the Rhodians against Demetrius in the famous siege),” he added, turning with a smile to Rachel.

“And you were _Cleon_ then—not Dinocrates,” she exclaimed quickly. “You remember I told you about that siege, Diana?”

Diana nodded. “But do go on about Sostratus,” she begged, turning to Dinocrates. “Ptolemy let him build the lighthouse, I suppose?”

“After my death,” continued their friend, “my pupil went to King Ptolemy with his plans, and he was ordered not only to set about the building of the tower, but to spare no expense and to make it the most beautiful monument he could possibly accomplish. So Sostratus worked and thought and invented, and in time, on the very spot where now we are seated, there rose the tower you beheld a short while ago. Four hundred feet high it towered above this rock, built of white marble, slender as a lily, yet strong as steel. And in the cup-like hollow at the top, was sunk a brazier, that is, a huge basket of iron in which a fire was kept always burning. The men who from the gallery around this hollow tended the fire and fed the flames, were the first lighthouse-keepers, and the tower itself, being the first lighthouse, was the model for others all over the world. The lighthouse on the spur of land at St. Mary’s Bay, little maids, owes its existence to the marble tower of Sostratus, as in like fashion do all the other famous lighthouses of modern days, such as Eddystone, the North Foreland, and the rest. No longer, it is true, do naked flames stream upwards into the darkness from these modern towers—for, in two thousand years other light has been invented, as well as shielding panes of glass. Nowadays, strong electric globes shoot forth their gleams over the sea at night. But the tower of Sostratus was not only the first of these friendly beacons but also the most beautiful as a monument. So beautiful, indeed, and in those early days so strange to the sight, that it was named amongst the Seven Wonders of the World.”

“Was it called the Tower of Sostratus?” asked Rachel.

Dinocrates smiled and shook his head.

“Nay,” he returned, “though that was the wish of Sostratus himself. It was called the _Pharos_ Tower—after the name of this island upon which it stood.”

“Why,” exclaimed Diana suddenly, “_phare_ is the French word for lighthouse. Is that because of the Pharos tower?”

Diana had a French governess, and to Rachel’s wonder and admiration, spoke French, if not as well, at least as quickly as she talked in English.

“Yes,” answered Dinocrates. “Every time French sailors use that word, even though they have no knowledge of its meaning, the work of Sostratus is mentioned by men who live to-day. His work is remembered, his _name_ forgotten, even though he strove hard that this should not be the case.

“Listen, and I will tell you what chanced. When the tower was at length finished and stood gleaming white on this headland, the time had come for an inscription to be placed upon it, and Ptolemy, King of Egypt, ordered Sostratus to engrave these words upon the marble: _King Ptolemy to the gods, the saviours, for the benefit of sailors_.

“Now Sostratus, to whom the lighthouse represented all that he now cared for in life, was determined that his own name should be read, if not at the moment, at least in time to come. Yet he dared not disobey the King’s command. This, then, was the device by which he tried to ensure remembrance.

“Deep in the marble he first engraved:

“‘_Sostratus, son of Dexiphanes_, to the gods, the saviours, for the benefit of sailors.’

“Having thus placed his own, instead of the King’s name upon the tower, he then covered up the whole inscription with mortar, and on the top of it engraved the inscription commanded by Ptolemy. Well he knew, that in the course of years, the mortar would decay and his own name become visible.... Rise, make seven obeisances towards the sea, and you shall behold, if it please you, the lighthouse as it appeared a hundred years after Sostratus and King Ptolemy alike had left this world.”

The children lost no time in obeying, and when they opened their eyes they found themselves, to their delight, standing at the foot of the beautiful white tower. Dinocrates, smiling, stood beside them, and pointed to some lettering upon the tower at a little height above his own head. The inscription was cracked and defaced, and as the words were in Greek, they could not read them, but in a hollow, where the mortar had broken away at the beginning of the sentence, they saw a name which Dinocrates pronounced aloud—the name of Sostratus, now at last plainly to be seen.

The children gazed with interest upon the splendid graceful tower springing high above their heads, and then looked from it across the bridge to the city.

“Why, the town is ever so much bigger. Twice, three times as big,” cried Rachel, as she saw the clustering houses and let her eyes wander over the new domes and colonnades, courtyards and gardens visible on the other side of the harbour.

“A hundred years have passed between the opening and shutting of your eyes,” said the voice of Dinocrates. “The city founded by Alexander and built by me has had time to grow and to become one of the most famous homes of learning in the world. There great men have lived and died, and been forgotten, even as Sostratus, despite this inscription made in vanity, is forgotten. But Alexandria still lives, though the Pharos Tower, the Wonder of the World, is no more. And there, to-day, men who have fought in this last great war are planning to dig for buried treasures under modern houses and squares. Time goes on and men are forgotten, but the work of their brains lasts longer, and sometimes bears fruit centuries after they themselves have departed.... Here, for instance, we stand in this modern lighthouse....”

* * * * *

It was Mr. Sheston (no longer in the guise of Dinocrates) who uttered the last words. Dinocrates, the Pharos Tower, the City of Alexandria had vanished, and a moment later Rachel and Diana were listening to the sailor-man.

“I don’t know who invented them,” he was saying, as though in answer to a question, “but, whoever it was, he did a good piece of work. There’s too many wrecks as it is, but there’d be a considerable number more if it wasn’t for these ’ere light-’ouses.”

“_We_ know who invented them,” whispered Diana to Rachel, as they clattered down the winding stairs of the tower.

“Didn’t I tell you that being away from London wouldn’t make any difference?” demanded Rachel, triumphantly. “Sheshà can do _anything_!”

“Hush! Here comes Mr. Sheston,” Diana warned her in a low voice. “And I suppose we mustn’t say anything. But _he_ knows that _we_ know he’s Sheshà and Dinocrates—”

“And Cleon—and all the rest,” put in Rachel. “Isn’t it wonderful and—and _fun_, you know?”

Mr. Sheston, who had lingered in talk with the old sailor upstairs, now joined them, and all the way home the children chattered demurely about the St. Mary’s Bay lighthouse. There was no mention of the Pharos at Alexandria.

SEVENTH WONDER

Both the children were back again in London a few days later, sadly missing the sea and the freedom of St. Mary’s Bay, of course, but consoled by the knowledge that Mr. Sheston had also come back to town.

One afternoon, soon after their return, Rachel met Diana with a radiant face.

“Dad and Mother are coming back,” she exclaimed joyfully. “They’re on their way now. And Mother is ever so much better, Dad says. And this day week I shall see them, and go home with them. Isn’t it perfectly lovely?” But there were sudden tears in Diana’s eyes, and, in the midst of her excited talk, Rachel paused. “You’re to come and stay with me, of course,” she declared hastily. “Do you think I should be so glad if I had to say good-bye to you? Mother says she’s writing to _your_ mother to ask her to let you stay for a month. And she will, won’t she?”

This announcement had the effect of making Diana’s face almost as joyful as Rachel’s, and during their walk that afternoon their chattering tongues never ceased. There was so much to talk about.

When Rachel had described all the delights of her country home, the farm, the garden, the river with its punt, the woods in which they could build huts of branches—the conversation turned, as usual, upon the “adventures” in which Mr. Sheston was concerned.

“There’s still another one to come, you know,” Rachel presently declared. “At least I expect so. I’ve been here six weeks now, and every seventh day it’s—_happened_. And there’ll be another seventh day on Wednesday.”

“I do wonder what it will be this time, don’t you?” said Diana. “It’s so exciting not knowing where it will begin. Perhaps in the British Museum again. I rather hope it will be there. It’s so jolly to go with ‘him’ just as other children go with grown-up people to the Museum, and yet to know all the time that something frightfully interesting is coming.”

“Yes, that’s just what _I_ feel is so jolly about it,” Rachel agreed. “You go through all those rooms and you see statues and tombs and stones and things, and they all look _dead_, and you can’t believe the people who saw them thousands of years ago were just as much alive as we are now. Every time I go to the Museum I feel like that at first. Don’t you? And then it _happens_, you know. Quite suddenly. And everything that looked all dull and dead comes to be _real_. I hope it will begin in the Museum this time.”

It did. But before it happened, and as a last treat for her niece, Aunt Hester took both children to the circus at Olympia.

“What is _Olympia_?” asked Diana, suddenly, when she and Rachel, full of anticipation, were walking with Aunt Hester to the omnibus.

“It’s where the circus is held,” said Aunt Hester. “It’s a good long ride, so we must make haste.”

“But I mean what _is_ it?” persisted Diana.

“Oh, it’s a great building. Big enough for all sorts of entertainments, as well as the circus, to go on inside it.”

“Why is it called Olympia?” asked Rachel. “It’s such a funny name for a place where there’s a circus.”

“You must ask Mr. Sheston,” returned Aunt Hester, vaguely. “He’ll tell you why, better than I can. By the way, he’s going to take you both to the Museum to-morrow. I had a note from him this morning. Come along,” she exclaimed, hurriedly, as they turned a corner, “there’s the omnibus just starting. We must run for it.”

Seated opposite to one another in the omnibus when rather breathlessly they had settled down, Rachel and Diana exchanged meaning glances.

“It _is_ going to begin there, you see,” whispered Rachel at the earliest opportunity, and Diana agreed with a nod and smile of secret delight.

They enjoyed the circus immensely, but beautiful as the horses were, and much as they admired them, both children thought of another and still more wonderful horse than any that appeared in the ring.

“But, then, Bucephalus was the loveliest and cleverest thing in the world,” observed Diana, in a low voice, after Rachel had murmured his name. “And I’m sure he would hate to do tricks in a circus. He was a _war_ horse.”

“And used to real battles,” agreed Rachel, in an answering whisper.

* * * * *

“Well,” said Mr. Sheston next day, when Miss Moore had left both the children with him at the entrance to the Museum. “Well, how did you like the circus at Olympia yesterday?”

“Oh, it was lovely!” they exclaimed together.

“Aunt Hester said we were to ask you why it’s called _Olympia_,” put in Rachel, as they began to walk slowly through a statue-lined room that had become familiar.

“We may find the answer this afternoon,” answered the old gentleman, turning into a room that Rachel knew already. It was the room containing the statues of the headless women clothed in beautiful drapery.

“These are Greek statues, aren’t they?” she began, pointing to the group in the middle of the room. “They were on the outside of a temple once, weren’t they? I forget what it was called.”

“The Parthenon in Athens,” Mr. Sheston told her. “There’s a model showing the temple as it stood in ancient days, over there in that glass case. We’ll go and examine it in a minute. But first look up and see those young men riding on horseback.”

He pointed to a frieze in marble which ran the length of the walls and represented a procession of youths mounted upon beautiful horses.

“Now let us have a look at this model which shows part of Athens as it appeared two thousand years or so ago,” he went on, after a moment. The children followed him to a stand upon which, modelled in plaster, was a rocky hill with various buildings like fair-sized toys scattered over its slope. The names of these buildings were written below them, on the white plaster hill, and Diana had just exclaimed, “_Here’s_ the Parthenon!” when a young voice, which neither of the children recognised, but which sounded close at hand, said:

“_Seven times with closed eyes shall you bow._”

“Diana!” cried Rachel, a few seconds later, “It’s Athens. _Real_ Athens, you know!”

There was no doubt about its reality, for they felt the warmth of the sun, saw the overarching blue sky, and gazed with wonder and delight upon a beautiful scene.

A hill-side stretched before them, no longer of plaster, but a _real_ hill-side, scattered over with marvellous buildings in white marble, with groves of trees, and stretches of gardens between them.

“Look! Look!” exclaimed Diana, recognising at least one of the buildings. “That’s the Parthenon. There are the great beautiful women up in that pointed place above the columns.”

“And they’re not broken!” cried Rachel, excitedly. “They’re quite perfect. Look at their faces, and their arms. They had no faces and no arms the last time we saw them.”

“And there’s the procession of boys on horseback!” cried Diana, pointing to the frieze....

* * * * *

“Will it please you to come with me, O maidens?” enquired a voice, so near that both the children started before they turned round.

Behind them stood a boy of perhaps eleven or twelve years old. He was dressed in a shirt or tunic of white wool, without sleeves, and over it a white purple-bordered cloak wrapped about him in such a way as to leave his right arm and shoulder free. His legs were bare, but on his feet were sandals fastened with slender cords of leather strapped about his ankles.

His head was covered only by its thick crop of red-gold hair which curled closely about his head, and was one of his many beauties. For he was an exceedingly handsome boy—slim, yet strongly built. He held his head and body well, and all his movements were quick and graceful.

“Who are you?” stammered Rachel, the first to recover from surprise.

“My name is Agis,” said the boy. “I am commanded by Sheshà, greatest of magicians, to be your guide through our city of Athens. Later, I understand, he himself will conduct you to the Olympian games.”

Again, as it had so often happened before, though the language spoken by the boy was not her own, Rachel understood him perfectly.

“I suppose it’s Greek he’s talking,” she thought hurriedly before she began to ask questions.

“That’s the Parthenon, isn’t it?” she asked, pointing to the gleaming temple. “We’ve seen those statues up there before. At least, we’ve seen——” She was going to say “bits of them,” but Diana pulled her sleeve, and she stopped just in time to remember that it was no use trying to explain to a boy who lived thousands of years ago, all about the British Museum!

“Will you tell us what god is worshipped here?” put in Diana, politely.

“No god, but a goddess, the great Pallas Athene,” returned the boy, glancing at her with his bright eyes.

“She’s the same as _Minerva_, you know,” whispered Diana quickly, having learnt this from her father.

“Within,” the boy went on, “stands the statue of the goddess made by Phidias, the wondrous sculptor.”

“Is he alive now?” enquired Rachel.

Agis laughed. “Nay. He has been dead two hundred years and more. You must have come from a very far country, O maidens, to be so ignorant!”

“We have,” said Rachel, smiling in her turn. If only the boy could have known. It was only two hundred years for _him_ since the sculptor Phidias died, while for her and for Diana it was considerably more than two _thousand_ years. “We don’t know anything about your country,” she continued, “so will you please explain everything.”

“That would take me far too long, because I must soon return to the gymnasium, whither you may accompany me. I have only brought you here for a moment that you may glance at the most famous of our temples and public buildings. The city itself lies down yonder.” He pointed to a sea of white flat-roofed houses below.

“What is that place, high up on the hill?” asked Diana.

“The citadel—our fort of defence which we call the Acropolis. Beneath it, as you see, and under its protection, as it were, are the other buildings, of which the most precious is the Parthenon.”

“Can’t we go in, and look at the statue of the goddess?” begged Rachel.

Agis shook his curly head.

“Time is lacking. But it may be that, some days hence, you will see another, and perhaps even more famous statue, carved also by Phidias. It stands in the temple of Zeus at Olympia.”

The children exchanged quick glances at the mention of the word.

“What _is_ Olympia?” asked Diana, and as she put the question she suddenly remembered asking it before. Yesterday, was it?... It seemed ages and ages ago, or like something in a dream. She and Rachel had been then on their way to the circus at _Olympia_, and she had asked Aunt Hester——

Her bewildering thoughts were interrupted by a long shrill whistle from Agis. It was so like the sort of whistle her brother Jack gave when he was teasing her, that Rachel laughed. After all, Agis was very much like an ordinary schoolboy, even though he did talk in what she called “an old-fashioned long-ago” style.

“You know not _Olympia_, maidens? What then have you to live for, if you know not the Olympic games?”