so it would be labour lost not to have at least a nice little row.
Gryphus, therefore, on seeing that Cornelius did not stir, tried to attract his attention by a loud—
“Umph, umph.”
Cornelius was humming between his teeth the “Hymn of Flowers,” a sad, but very charming song.
“We are the daughters of the secret fire,
Of the fire which circulates through the veins of the earth;
We are the daughters of Aurora, and of the morning dew;
We are the daughters of the air;
We are the daughters of the water;
But we are, above all, the daughters of heaven.”
This song, the placid melancholy of which was still heightened by its calm and sweet melody, exasperated Gryphus.
He struck his stick on the stone pavement of the cell, and called out,—
“Halloa! my warbling gentleman, don’t you hear me?”
Cornelius turned round, merely saying,—
“Good morning,” and then began his song again.
“Men defile us, and kill us while loving us,
We hang to the earth by a thread;
This thread is our root, that is to say, our life,
But we raise on high our arms towards heaven.”
“Ah, you accursed sorcerer! you are making game of me, I believe,” roared Gryphus.
Cornelius continued:—
“For heaven is our home,
Our true home, as from thence comes our soul,
As thither our soul returns,
Our soul, that is to say, our perfume.”
Gryphus went up to the prisoner, and said,—
