He fell silent for a moment, his agony descending in tears and rising in sighs. Then he resumed his plea, “My dreams lie in ruins, O holy Astarte, the spark of my life has faded, my heart has perished within me, and my eyes are aflame with burning tears. Revive me with thy tenderness and spare my beloved for me.”

Suddenly, one of his slaves entered and slowly approached, whispering in his ear: “She opened her eyes, my lord, and glanced around her couch. When she did not see you, she called out your name insistently, so I came to summon you.”

Nathan rose and strode rapidly, his slave following behind. When he reached his mansion he entered the patient’s chamber and leaned over her bed, taking her slender hand, kissing her lips repeatedly as though attempting to inspire her ailing body with new life from his own. Her head sunk in silk pillows, she turned her face toward him and opened her lids slightly, then on her lips a phantom smile appeared, the remnant of life in her delicate frame, the last ray of her reposited soul, the echo from the cry of a heart hastening toward its own demise.

She spoke in a broken voice that recalled the gasps of a poor, hungry child: “The gods have sent for me, betrothed of my soul, and death has come to separate me from you. Do not sorrow, for the will of the gods is sacred and the demands of death are just. I am going now, for we no longer grasp the chalices of love and youth in our hands, and the splendid byways of life no longer stretch before us. I depart, darling, to the mead of souls, and shall come back to this world, for mighty Astarte returns to life the spirits of lovers⁴ who vanish into eternity without partaking in the bliss of love and the delights of youth. We shall meet, Nathan, and drink together the dew of morning from narcissus blossoms, and bask with the birds of the fields in the sunbeams. Until we meet again, my beloved.”

Her voice trailed off, her lips trembling like a wilting flower shaken by dawn gales. Her lover gathered her up in his arms and his tears moistened her neck. When his lips approached her mouth, he found it ice cold, and he wailed in terror, ripping his tunic and flinging himself upon her lifeless body, his own anguished soul vacillating between the depths of life and the abyss of death.

In the quiet of that night, the eyelids of sleepers fluttered, the women of the quarter grew anxious, and children’s minds were frightened when the garment of night was rent by excruciating shrieks and bitter weeping issuing from the mansion of the priest of Astarte.

When came the morn, the people sought out Nathan to solace and console him in his calamity, but they could discover him nowhere.