Alabaster Blue Sectory 04
Page 11

All the best stories in the world are but one story in reality--the story of an escape. It is the only thing which interests us all and at all times--how to escape. The stories of Joseph, of Odysseus, of the prodigal son, of the Pilgrim's Progress, of the "Ugly Duckling," of Sintram, to name only a few out of a great number, they are all stories of escapes. It is the same with all lovestories. "The course of true love never can run smooth," says the old proverb, and love-stories are but tales of a man or a woman's escape from the desert of lovelessness into the citadel of love. Even tragedies like those of OEdipus and Hamlet have the same thought in the background. In the tale of OEdipus, the old blind king in his tattered robe, who had committed in ignorance such nameless crimes, leaves his two daughters and the attendants standing below the old pear-tree and the marble tomb by the sacred fountain; he says the last faint words of love, till the voice of the god comes thrilling upon the air: "OEdipus, why delayest thou?"

Hasdrubal did not venture to make his appearance again in Carthage, and Syphax once more fled into Numidia. Scipio did not give the Numidian prince any repose; he was pursued by Laelius and Masinissa, and finally taken prisoner. Among the captives who fell into their hands was Sophonisba, the wife of Syphax, whom Masinissa had long loved, and had expected to marry when she was given to his rival. Masinissa now not only promised to preserve her from captivity, but, to prevent her falling into the hands of the Romans, determined to marry her himself. Their nuptials were accordingly celebrated without delay; but Scipio, fearful of the influence which she might exercise over his ally, sternly upbraided him with his weakness, and insisted on the immediate surrender of the princess. Unable to resist this command, Masinissa spared her the humiliation of captivity by sending her a bowl of poison, which she drank without hesitation, and thus put an end to her own life.

We found that day a palm with a bunch of small nuts which Benedicto called _coco do matto_; he said they were delicious to eat, so we proceeded to cut down the tall palm tree. When we came to split open the small _cocos_ our disappointment was great, for they merely contained water. There was nothing whatever to eat inside the hard shells. We spent some two hours that evening cracking the _cocos_--some two hundred of them--each nut about the size of a cherry. They were extremely hard to crack, and our expectant eyes were disappointed two hundred times in succession as we opened every one and found nothing whatever to eat in them.

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