Dense foliage grew close to the steep pathway, the ascent of which was facilitated by steps cut in the soil or formed naturally by the exposed roots of trees. Through the branches the newcomers could see the lights, twinkling as people passed to and fro—then the white columns and the pleasing proportions of the temple came into view.
Persephone, Ephialtes and Agne were the first arrivals of the first boat, and made their way unhindered to the temple which they entered, mingling with the delirious throng whose acclamations rang through the great hall. It seemed to the arrivals from Athens that every inhabitant of Naxos was here celebrating.
A great gong silenced the sound of talking and laughter after all the Athenians had arrived. A curtain at the end of thecelladropped revealing the image of the god of wine and revelry and immediately a hymn of praise was sung following which the sacrifice of a goat was consummated at the feet of the idol.
Night was turned into day, wine flowed freely and many a youth’s spirits rose in proportion to the amount of wine he imbibed. To all this revelry Persephone and Agne were horrified witnesses. They had heard that Dionysus was worshipped with much rejoicing, especially at his temple at Naxos, but they had not had occasion to realize to what depths his worshippers sometimes fell. The two women looked furtively about seeking some way in which they might escape unobserved to the boats where for a few drachmas a couple of rowers would take them back to the mainland. They crouched near a pillar watching with increasing terror, wine-filled creatures who caroused around them. Many a youth lounged upon a couch or the flower-strewn floor, his head in some fair one’s lap.
Ephialtes made his way with unsteady step to where the two women cowered. The Greek blood which ran in his veins preserved his grace even in drunkenness. Laughingly he held toward each a goblet of sparkling wine which they declined. In provocation he accidentally spilled the contents of the cup proffered to Persephone. For an instant he stood dismayed watching the blood-like liquid as it flowed over the marble floor, then with frenzied determination, he forced between the lips of Agne the wine contained in the other goblet, after which he stood swaying unsteadily with folded arms, a sinister smile curling his handsome lips. Persephone determined to flee but she did not want to leave Agne at the mercies of the drunken brutes around them.
“Come, come, Agne,” she whispered wildly, “You and I never dreamed what would be the nature of this celebration—oh, Agne!”
The older woman made an attempt to answer and even to rise to her feet, but in vain! In another instant she sank in a pitiful heap, apparently lifeless. Persephone’s temples throbbed with angry passion as she turned toward Ephialtes.
“There was a narcotic in that wine! I am glad mine was spilled.”
“There was no drug in yours, Persephone. I did not bring you here to put you to sleep. It is a living maiden I want!” cried the young Greek passionately.
He lurched toward her to take her in his arms, but she eluded his grasp and he found himself embracing the fluted pillar near which she had sat. A chance observer roared with laughter, and calling to his companions cried, “A king of revelers here, my friends. What say you to crowning him as Bacchus? Down with the god of stone and up with one of flesh and blood!”
So saying he and his male companions ran to the throne where the stone Dionysus sat. With unnatural strength due to the freeness of their imbibing, they tore the god from his throne and forced the half reluctant Ephialtes upon it. The wreath of grape leaves which had adorned the head of Dionysus, was rudely snatched from it and placed upon the young man’s curls.
After Ephialtes was ceremoniously enthroned, someone cried out, “where is Ariadne? Bacchus must have his Ariadne! Where did she go? Bring her back!”
This appeal was answered by a rapturous shout, and several youths started in pursuit, returning shortly, dragging Persephone with them.
“Bacchus shows good taste,” cried one. “She is surely a rival of the maiden whom Theseus deserted on these very shores!”
“Up with her,” cried another, “she must occupy the throne with him. She shall be his queen.”
“That she shall!” cried Ephialtes, his courage returning as he beheld the beautiful frightened face of the girl whom he loved.
He stooped from the throne and lifted in his arms the form of the now unconscious girl. Across her marble-white forehead strands of loosened hair streamed. The soft blue light from the circlet of sapphires which lay on her cold brow, contrasted strangely with the ruddy brilliance of a ruby clasp which adorned the hair of Ephialtes above his passion-flushed countenance. He received a goblet of wine which had been proffered to him and put it to the lips of the fainting maiden. The draught brought her back to consciousness, and she gazed dazedly about, then suddenly the horror of her situation came upon her. With an agonized cry she rose to flee but was seized roughly by Ephialtes who, impassioned, leaned over her, covering her face and throat with burning kisses.
“... Far in the eastThe Aegean twinkles, and its thousand islesHover in mist, and round the dun horizonAre many floating visions, clouds, or peaks,Tinted with rose!”James Gates Percival.
“... Far in the east
The Aegean twinkles, and its thousand isles
Hover in mist, and round the dun horizon
Are many floating visions, clouds, or peaks,
Tinted with rose!”
James Gates Percival.
The second day of the full moon arrived. All necessary preparations had been made for the marriage ceremony of Eumetis and Zopyrus which would take place on the following day.
Corinna approached her mother as the latter stood near the altar of Zeus, in conversation with the prospective bride and bridegroom.
“Mother,” said the girl. “I have just learned that my dear friend Gorgo is ill and wishes me to go immediately and spend the night with her. I will be back for the wedding tomorrow.”
Cleodice’s eyes shone with maternal approval as she surveyed the eager, youthful face so like her own.
“What will Polygnotus say?” asked Eumetis.
“Oh he will recover from the effects of one evening spent outside of my presence,” replied her sister indifferently.
Zopyrus stood silently by. He had been grievously disappointed and shocked at Corinna’s duplicity, and had hoped that before the fateful day arrived she would repent of her former decision and abandon the proposed trip to Naxos with the stranger. However her present conversation with Cleodice assured him that she hung tenaciously to her original purpose.
“By all means spend the night with your sick friend, Corinna,” said a voice from the entryway, and turning the four beheld the young artist who had heard the conversation unobserved by the others.
Zopyrus greeted Polygnotus heartily. He thought at first to apprise him secretly of Corinna’s proposed trip to Naxos, but upon second thought he decided that there might be a better way of preventing the girl from committing such a folly without grieving her lover. The deep sincere eyes of the artist rested a moment in loving regard upon the face of Corinna who flushed deeply, turning demurely away. Her mother and sister each placed an arm lovingly about her, and the three women left the atrium.
When they were gone Polygnotus turned enthusiastically to Zopyrus and said: “I have good news! Cimon has just been made commander of the fleet, and is contemplating visiting Sparta with Alcmæon in behalf of the alleged confederacy.”
“Your news is pleasing to my ear, and I rejoice with you and Cimon—but,” Zopyrus glanced about and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Will you not speak well to Cimon of Themistocles and ask him to do his utmost to put down this charge of Medism against the statesman?”
“I will do what I can,” replied Polygnotus. “Cimon is more a warrior than a statesman. His methods are direct and bold, often sadly lacking in diplomacy. He believes that when a man has served his purpose in life and is no longer useful to the community in which he dwells and may even become a detriment to those whom he once served, he should be cast aside as one would shed a worn garment when its season of beauty and service is past. Cimon and others like him also believe that when maturity of age is passed and the power of decision begins to wane, the very burden of long experience perplexes the mind and engenders doubt and fear instead of confidence. Will you come with me this evening to the home of Cimon to congratulate him upon his success and to speak a good word for Themistocles? But I had forgotten—tomorrow you will wed, and possibly you have arrangements to make in regard to the ceremonies. Corinna and I are to follow your example before long, but Cleodice does not wish to lose two daughters at once, and Eumetis is the older.”
“I am delighted to hear that your marriage will take place soon. I must be going now as I have a duty to fulfill,” said Zopyrus as he turned to go.
* * * * * * * *
Not long after this conversation a chance observer might have seen a young man of aristocratic bearing, crisp blond curls and noble face, walking with elastic strides toward Piræus. He was clad in the short dress of a laborer, called anexomis, and upon his head was a narrow-brimmed, close-fitting cap. As he neared the harbor he proceeded cautiously, desirous of observing all that was taking place without being seen. To his consternation he saw that three boats with their occupants had already been launched upon the sea. Vexed with himself for having arrived so late he scanned the people who remained upon the shore waiting to be assigned to other boats. It was almost unbelievable but it was true! The sun unmistakably revealed a head of auburn hair and close to it the bullet-head and thick florid neck of a young man. Zopyrus, for it was he who clad in the woolenexomisinstead of his customary linenchiton, watched the two closely, pulled the brim of his cap well over his eyes and approached the waiting youths and maidens. Several he recognized as the sons and daughters of prominent Athenians. Another filled boat was leaving, the rowers diligently plying the oars. It was apparent that Corinna and the heavy-set youth would be of the number to fill the next boat. Disguising his walk, Zopyrus made his way quickly to the waiting skiff and approached one of the oarsmen.
“Ten drachmas for you if you will let me take your place at the oars,” he said in a low tone.
The fellow looked amazed, prepared to turn his back upon Zopyrus, then suddenly thought better of the offer. He put forth his hand and when to his surprise the coins fell into his upturned palm, he sprang free of his seat and ran to the shore leaving his place at the oars free to the generous stranger.
Zopyrus took the vacant place and had not long to wait before the young people filled the waiting boat. In unison with his fellow oarsmen, Zopyrus assailed the task briskly, and soon the graceful little skiff was well out into the harbor. The first boat was a mere speck near the horizon to the south as the one in which Corinna was a passenger, emerged from the entrance of the harbor. Zopyrus was grateful for the opportunity for strenuous physical exercise. It took his mind off of his own sorrow. He realized presently that he was listening unconsciously to the conversation of two men.
“What did you say were the names of the seven boats that left for Naxos?” asked one.
“They are named for seven goddesses or nymphs,” replied the other, “Doris, Leucothea, Metis, Aegle, Amphitrite, Doto and Persephone. This one is the ‘Persephone.’”
Zopyrus let his oars drift when he heard the last statement. Was the vision or name of Persephone to haunt him throughout life? When he was on land the leaves on the trees seemed to whisper “Persephone,” and now on the water, the boat in which he sat bore her name, and the ripples that washed its sides murmured the beloved accents.
The afternoon wore on, the sun’s rays became more slanting and the boats glided across the water like silent spirits. At length night descended upon the water—but no, it was growing brighter. Where but a few moments before the hills of distant Paros had slept on the edge of the darkness, now curve on curve was silhouetted against the silvery light of the moon, and the ripple of the oars on the water made a sheet of phosphorescence in its shadowy depths.
When Paros was passed, from across the water there floated on the gentle breeze the Dionysian hymn, sung by the occupants of the four preceding boats. Those in the “Persephone” joined in the chant, and Zopyrus heard Corinna’s pure, soft tones mingling strangely with the harsh notes of her companion.
As the prow touched the bank Zopyrus sprang from his seat eager to set foot on land, but he was checked by the glances of indignant remonstrance cast upon him not only by his fellow oarsmen, but by the others as well. He turned his face quickly into the shadow fearing to be recognized by some of the youths and maidens of Athens, but his fears proved groundless. After the boat had been emptied of the Bacchanalians, Zopyrus quietly stepped ashore, sauntering leisurely till beyond the range of vision of the oarsmen, who if they intended observing the rites of Bacchus, preferred to bide their time. Once out of their sight and hearing, Zopyrus quickened his pace, keeping well protected by the bushes and tree-trunks that lined the path, till he paused in awe as there appeared in a clearing to the left before him, the white Ionic columns and chaste lines of the Temple to Dionysus. Alas that its spotless purity was defiled by the wild orgies within! Its portals were thronged with gay devotees, and the sound of laughter and singing blended with the tones of flute and barbiton.
By now, indifferent to his plebeian dress, Zopyrus traversed the moon-lit sward to the temple and mingled with the light-hearted revelers. Groups of celebrants raised their voices in jubilant song, but here and there detached couples, their faces stamped with passion and lust, made horrible the scene. Now and then aheterawith appealing glance passed close to where Zopyrus stood like a statue, too horrified too move. The muscles of his mouth were drawn and his face was haggard. He suffered complete inertia till the sight of a girl who reminded him of Corinna aroused him from his lethargic state and he set out to find her before it was too late, for he knew that she had been ignorant of the nature of the revelries.
He pressed on down the length of thecella, scrutinizing the face of every maiden, but he did not see Corinna. As he neared the throne of Dionysus, the sound of triumphant acclamations, poured from the throats of a hundred devotees and Bacchantes who stood about the throne, fell upon his ears. He pushed his way nearer to the front, receiving many rebuffs and scornful glances because of his mean attire.
“What is the excitement?” he asked of a young man.
“You can see for yourself,” was the surly reply. “Dionysus has turned to flesh and blood and shares the throne with Ariadne!”
Zopyrus forced his way onward till he could see the throne. He stood a moment as if petrified, then with a few swift strides he was alone before the royal seat, gazing with death-white countenance at Dionysus and Ariadne.
“Bacchus, Bacchus! on the pantherHe swoons,—bound with his own vines!And his Mænads slowly saunter,Head aside, among the pines,While they murmur dreamingly,—‘Evohe—ah—evohe—!Ah, Pan is dead.”Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
“Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther
He swoons,—bound with his own vines!
And his Mænads slowly saunter,
Head aside, among the pines,
While they murmur dreamingly,—
‘Evohe—ah—evohe—!
Ah, Pan is dead.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Zopyrus stood with arms folded, his noble head, perfect stature and dignified bearing appearing most incongruous with theexomishe wore. From across his folded arms he looked straight at the mortal Dionysus, till the latter, feeling his impelling gaze, looked up and flushed guiltily, though the man who surveyed him so coldly was to him a total stranger. Zopyrus walked to the throne, thrust the false Dionysus rudely aside, seized the amazed Persephone in his arms and tried to force his way through the crowd with her, but the indignant remonstrances of the crowd made futile his efforts.
“Down with him for violating the privileges of the god!” cried one.
This outburst was followed with vociferous cries of, “Take Ariadne from him!” “Throw him out!” “Beat him!”
By this time Ephialtes had recovered his composure. The appearance of the stranger had inexplicably discomposed him and the attack had roused his ire, but now conscious of his costly garb in contrast to his assailant’s attire, he stood before the throne and in imperious tones demanded the return of Ariadne, as he called her.
Zopyrus released the girl from his embrace and asked: “Do you wish to return to Pluto?”
For answer she stepped closely to Zopyrus’ side and clung tenaciously to his arm. He gazed long into the depths of eyes that matched the blue of her gown and the sapphires upon her brow. The color mounted to her temples, and as she bowed her head he noticed that the rosy flush likewise suffused her neck and shoulders which were partially visible through the golden strands of loosened hair.
Ephialtes was infuriated by Persephone’s refusal to return to him, and was nonplussed as to what method he had best employ to obtain the maiden, when there flashed through his mind the words of a sentence: “On the day that you deliver to Greece the traitor of Thermopylæ, I will become your wife.”
Straightening himself to his full height Ephialtes commanded the attention of the audience.
“I am about to make a revelation that will return Ariadne to me, I believe,” he said smiling with arrogant confidence. “The man to whom Ariadne clings and is no doubt one of our oarsmen, is no other than he who betrayed your country to the Persians before the battle of Thermopylæ. Greece has long sought him fellow countrymen, and yonder he stands, defiling with his touch the maiden who plays the part of Persephone at the Mysteries of Eleusis. What will you do with him?”
“Kill him!” came the cry from hundreds of throats, and with one accord the angry mob rushed toward Zopyrus.
“Just one moment please,” said Ephialtes. “I will wait for Ariadne, or Persephone of Eleusis, to join me on the throne.”
He paused impressively, but Persephone did not move.
“What,” he cried in indignation, “Did you not promise to become my bride when Thermopylæ’s traitor would be revealed by me?”
Persephone walked slowly toward Ephialtes who stretched forth eager arms to receive her, but she stopped a few paces before him and on her face was an inscrutable smile.
“Not so fast, Ephialtes. I want the proof. You dare not make such a statement without sufficient evidence against him.”
Ephialtes was confused. He had not had enough time to make up false testimony, but he knew that his future happiness depended now upon how successfully he placed the blame of his guilt upon the innocent man before him.
“Hear me,” he said, “and I will tell you the circumstances.”
“Your testimony can avail naught, for my protector here is a native Persian who knows nothing of the mountain passes of Greece,” said Persephone in a voice that rang clearly as a bell through the great hall. A death-like stillness pervaded thecella; nought was heard but the sharp intake of Ephialtes’ breath, then from his lips there burst in stentorian tones: “If this be true, a Persian in our midst is as deserving of death as a traitor! Friends will you allow him even so much as to touch the Persephone of the Mysteries?”
At this Persephone became alarmed and feared lest in her ardent desire to defend her protector, she had only made matters worse. Zopyrus, seeing her agitated countenance, smiled reassuringly and raised his arm to command general attention. A few rabid revelers rushed forward to do violence to his person but were checked by a voice in the throng: “Hear him! No man should be condemned without being permitted to say a word in his own behalf.”
The furious denunciations of the intolerant ones subsided, and Zopyrus turned and walked slowly toward Ephialtes who gradually retreated before the compelling gaze of his antagonist, till he reached the throne upon which he sat, quite unconscious of what he did. Zopyrus’ demeanor changed instantly. He bowed low before the amazed man upon the throne and said with impressive solemnity:
“O Xerxes, King of the Medes and Persians and would-be conqueror of the world, I come to you with an important message. For two days your soldiers have been defeated by the Greeks at the entrance of the pass of Thermopylæ. The Greeks are so inferior in number that right now is the time to strike, but not in the method heretofore employed. The Greeks are well trained, and if they are to be conquered, it must be by the greater forces of the enemy. Listen, O Xerxes! If you would succeed in overwhelming the enemy, you must attack from behind, but this you can not do since you are not acquainted with this wild, impassable country. I am a native Malian and well acquainted with this locality. If you will make it worth my while, I will show you a mountain pass that will lead you to the rear of Leonidas’ army unobserved.”
During the Persian’s recital, Ephialtes’ behavior had undergone many mutations. From startled curiosity to fearful apprehension, thence to genuine fright and finally to abject terror, his demeanor had rapidly changed. By the time the Persian had ceased speaking, the Greek’s face was as livid as a corpse.
Zopyrus sprang to the side of the doomed man and clutching him by either shoulder cried, “Speak, traitor of Thermopylæ. What have you to say for yourself?”
For answer Ephialtes drew from the folds of his robe a ruby handled dagger which he raised for a death-dealing thrust at Zopyrus, but the latter, free from the influence of wine, was the quicker, and caught his enemy’s arm in its lightning-like descent, thus warding off the blow that might have been fatal.
A muttering that grew to a rumble and then to a mighty roar that shook the very pillars of the temple was heard, and with one impulse an angry mob rushed toward the dais. Above the din and confusion a voice screamed: “Death to the traitor who opened the gateway to Greece! Upon his head and no other rests the loss of our homes and the deaths of our fathers and brothers.”
Zopyrus drew the half fainting form of Persephone to his side and with one strong arm gave her bodily support and with the other forced a passage through the enraged crowd down the length of thecella. At the door they turned and looked back toward the throne which was completely hidden from their sight by the oscillating wave of humanity which hovered about it and its ill-fated occupant.
Shuddering with horror they rushed out into the darkness. The cool breeze from across the water revived their benumbed senses. As they sped along the pathway which led to the shore, the drunken figure of a man emerged from a clump of bushes to their left. Zopyrus would have ordinarily paid no heed, as the man was in type a duplicate of hundreds of others within the temple, but something familiar in the drunkard’s appearance caused him to pause and take a second look, and in doing so he recognized beyond the question of a doubt the coarse companion of Corinna. His conscience smote him as he remembered that although he had come to Naxos for the very purpose of serving as Corinna’s protector, he had abandoned her to whatever fate might befall when he had seen Persephone in distress.
He seized Persephone’s hand and said hastily: “Come with me. We must find Corinna.”
“Do you mean Corinna the daughter of the poet Pasicles?” asked Persephone.
“The same,” he replied, “Do you know her?”
The girl nodded. The young man continued talking as they hurried on in the direction whence the rough man had appeared. “She came to Naxos in the company of that brutish-looking man we met and I intended to protect her, but you know the result! When I saw you, you were in dire need of help and I could no more have left you to suffer at the hands of that traitor than I did that day on the Acropolis when the Persian, Artabazus would have harmed you.”
He turned half timidly to her, ashamed of his adoration for her whom he now had no right to desire; for the image of a pure and noble maiden stood between them.
“Tell me how you knew Ephialtes to be the man who betrayed Greece at Thermopylæ,” she asked.
Zopyrus related in detail the episode of his eavesdropping in the tent of Xerxes, and Persephone was about to tell why Ephialtes had been so eager to accuse someone of being the traitor at Thermopylæ, when a white form, partially concealed by undergrowth a few paces before them, attracted their attention simultaneously.
Zopyrus sprang ahead and dropped to his knees beside the prone figure of a girl which he discovered lay in the stillness of death. Something cold seemed to grip his heart and everything about him seemed to melt into a whirling cloud! With a faint cry of anguish he lost consciousness just as Persephone ran up to him. She bent over him and looked into the lifeless face of the girl.
It was Corinna, the daughter of Pasicles!
“Gone, and the light gone with her,And left me in shadow here!”Tennyson.
“Gone, and the light gone with her,
And left me in shadow here!”
Tennyson.
The god Hymen did not have charge of the ceremonies at the home of Pasicles: the goddess Mors officiated in his stead! Corinna was laid away in her eternal rest, and the house and garden that had often echoed the sound of her gay laughter were silent! Even the boy Mimnermus, tip-toed about in awful solitude, gravely impressed by this, his first experience with death.
Polygnotus was a daily visitor, whose calm dignity combined with his kindly sympathy, made him an ever welcome one. For Zopyrus he felt a genuine love which had but recently developed from his former fellowship and friendly regard. One an artist, the other a poet by natural inclination, they understood each other upon the ground of their common adoration for all that was beautiful and true and good whether represented by picture or by word.
One day, several weeks after the tragic occurrences at Naxos, Zopyrus happened to come upon the letter which his beloved friend, Aeschylus, had written him from Sicily, and it reminded him of the poet’s request that he visit his young son at Eleusis, so without further delay he set out mounted upon a richly caparisoned steed, lent him for the occasion by Cimon. As he passed through the Dipylon Gate he became aware for the first time that heavy storm clouds were rapidly gathering ahead of him, but having arrived thus far on his journey, he did not wish to return. The broad road that always stretched peacefully into the distance a winding silver band, was now hazy with whirling eddies of dust; and the usually tranquil branches of the olive trees on either side were bending and swaying under the force which Boreas exerted upon them.
The storm with all it fury did not burst upon him till he had passed the fountain of Kallichoros at which place he might have secured shelter. With his eyes on distant Eleusis he pressed on toward his goal gradually becoming unmindful of his soaking garments, and of the fact that a numbness was taking possession of his faculties.
Aeschylus had once described his home to Zopyrus as being the first abode west of the great temple, and Zopyrus gasped with delight as the classical outlines of a home typical of the upper-class citizen of Attica burst upon his sight. A high wall enclosing a garden space lay between the temple precinct and the home of the poet. As he entered the gate, a life-sized statue of the goddess Demeter, bearing in her arm a sheaf of corn stood at the edge of the garden to his right, and near by in marble stood the cheerful fun-loving figure of the faithful Iambe, who sought to alleviate her mistress’ sorrow. But that which caught his eye and held it was a fountain in the center of which was a most artistic composition representing the rape of Persephone. The faces chiselled in the cold marble were so like the faces of Ephialtes and Persephone that Zopyrus stood spellbound, unmindful of the fact that a slave was approaching him and bidding him enter, saying that his horse would be placed at once in the stable.
Zopyrus approached the door and found himself gazing into the half curious, half laughing face of a lad of sixteen, who said while he gripped Zopyrus’ arm heartily: “I know who you are, for father told me you were coming. But pray why did you choose such a day as this in which to pay a call?”
“I take it that you are Euphorion, the son of my most esteemed friend. I did not expect the storm to break so soon, or I should not have undertaken the trip.”
Euphorion surveyed his guest’s wet garments with disfavor.
“You must get into dry clothes,” he said. “You are shuddering now with the cold. Lycambes,” he called to a servant, “take this man to my father’s room and give him dry clothing.”
Zopyrus emerged from the upper chamber dry but not comfortable, for his head felt as though a fire burned in his brain, while his hands and feet were numb. Euphorion had disappeared and in his stead a young girl in white sat on the edge of the marble basin of a fountain, industriously engaged in a work of embroidery. She looked up as Zopyrus entered and the latter as his eyes rested on her, thought he must be suffering delirium, for it seemed he beheld Persephone!
Zopyrus moistened his lips and he cleared his throat so that his voice would be audible.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked scarcely above a whisper.
The girl laughed coyly and toyed for a moment with her piece of fancy-work while Zopyrus advanced toward her a step. Then she raised her blue eyes in whose depths Zopyrus read the same love-message that he had at Salamis and at the Mysteries.
“I am exactly who I appear to be,” she said. “I am Persephone of Eleusis. This is my home and—”
Zopyrus, eyes bright with the unnatural luster of a fever, echoed her words as she finished: “Aeschylus is my father.”
She threw back her head and tossed her curls and before she realized what was about to happen, Zopyrus held her in his arms, kissing her again and again the while he murmured: “I love you Persephone, but I am a Persian and must return to the encampment at Phalerum. Salamis is saved—listen to the Hymn to Dionysus! Can you find your way in safety to your people?—Hear the chant—”
Persephone felt his hold upon her relax, and though she tried to keep him from falling, he slipped from her grasp and sank unconscious to the floor.
“Euphorion! Euphorion!” screamed the terrified girl. “He is ill! Call Lycambes and together you must carry him to father’s chamber and there make him comfortable till I can summon a physician.”
His exposure to the storm, and the shock of finding Persephone and learning her identity, had proved too much for Zopyrus in his state of mental depression and low ebb of vitality due to the Naxian tragedy. For days he lay upon the couch of Aeschylus alternating between chills and raging fever. In his delirium he raved, and his listeners wondered at the names of Persephone and Eumetis heard interchangeably to fall from his lips. Pasicles, Cleodice and Eumetis were frequent visitors till the crisis was past and Zopyrus was a convalescent.
Upon one occasion a few days before Zopyrus expected to be able to undertake the journey back to Athens, he and Persephone were seated in the garden. The statues of Ceres and Iambe stood in their accustomed places, but the Hades and Persephone had disappeared. Zopyrus asked no question for he felt that Persephone was fully justified in her dislike for that particular work of art, beautiful though it was.
“Tell me,” he said as they gazed across the ivy-covered wall to where the sun’s rays illumined the top of the temple, “is your name really Persephone, or are you so called because of your part in the Mysteries?”
“My parents named me Persephone, hoping even at my birth that some day I would play the part of Persephone in the temple. I have fulfilled their hopes in that respect.”
“You are adorable in the part, little Persephone, and some time a real Pluto will come and carry you off to his realm. If I—that is—sometime—Oh, Persephone, I have no right to say it, but I adore you, and if you will consent to marry me, I will arrange other matters that might interfere.”
“I believe I know the ‘other matters,’ Zopyrus,” said the girl, not daring to meet his gaze. “Eumetis loves you, and there has been some understanding between you. Go to her—but, oh my dear, my dear, how can I stand it—yet I have said it. Go and keep your vows to her. She will make you a good wife.”
“‘A good wife,’” groaned Zopyrus in mental agony. “I don’t want ‘a good wife.’ I want the woman whom I love heart and soul!”
He rose and though weak and unsteady of step he advanced toward her with outstretched arms, but she evaded his touch.
“Think Zopyrus,” she entreated. “Can you not recall your advances of love to Eumetis? They were promises, and must not be broken!”
He stood with head bent upon his breast and hands clenched till the nails pierced his palms. When he looked up his passion-distorted features were calm and his voice was steady.
“You are right. My first duty is the happiness of the pure girl who lost her sister through my neglect. And you Persephone,” his voice and features again showed deep agitation, “do not know that you lost a brother, not through my neglect, but by my intention. Your brother fell at Thermopylæ pierced by my sword! The first time I ever saw you I knew that you were his sister.”
“Phales!” cried the poor girl, raising tear-dimmed eyes to heaven, “my twin brother! Why did your spirit not warn me that this man who dared think of me in love was your murderer!”
“Not murderer,” cried Zopyrus in deep anguish. “Do not say that! I did it in the heat of battle and in self-defense. I am no murderer and my conscience does not reproach me for what happened at Thermopylæ. Listen—Persephone!” But he stood in the garden alone.
“And still from morn till eve I’ve scannedThat weary sea from strand to strand,To mark his sail against the spray.In vain! In vain! The morning rayShows not his bark ’mid all the seas.”Thomas Davidson.
“And still from morn till eve I’ve scanned
That weary sea from strand to strand,
To mark his sail against the spray.
In vain! In vain! The morning ray
Shows not his bark ’mid all the seas.”
Thomas Davidson.
The opportunity for meetings between Cimon and Ladice had been very rare since the former wished as far as possible to avoid meeting Themistocles. The young man had conscientiously endeavored to rectify the harm that he had done against the older man, but the populace preferred to believe the evil charge which was still vigorously promoted by Leobotes and other newly-won conspirators.
One afternoon Cimon walked briskly into the curio shop of Aphobus. The little merchant was dusting with loving care, delicate vases in ivory and bronze of intricate designs.
“This vase,” he said, picking up a small urn in terra-cotta with figures and designs painted in black, “has depicted upon it in minutest detail the story of the siege of Troy. Here we see Paris presenting Aphrodite with the apple. There he is carrying away the beautiful Helen. And here,” he added delightedly, “is the wooden horse of Ulysses. How very—”
“I did not come here to discuss the Trojan war,” said Cimon abruptly. “I came to find out if there is any truth to the rumor that Themistocles has disappeared.”
Before Aphobus could reply, the entrance to the shop was darkened by another figure. Both men upon looking up perceived it to be Lysimachus, son of Aristides.
“Have you heard the news?” he cried, and upon receiving negative responses, continued. “Themistocles has left Greece and it is believed that he has gone to Persia!”
Cimon could venture no response but he listened dully to the details as related by the son of Themistocles’ former rival. But one question kept throbbing in his brain: “Will she marry me now that Themistocles has gone?”
He realized presently that Lysimachus was addressing him personally. “I hear that the allied fleet leaves tomorrow on its first expedition since the formation of the Delian Confederacy, with you as its commander in which capacity you succeed my father.”
“Yes we set sail on the morrow for Thrace to free from Persian rule the town of Eion on the river Strymon.”
Aphobus gazed with approbation at the manly form of Cimon.
“I have known you since you were a little boy,” he said, “and I am proud to see you the first man in Athens. This expedition is a noble enterprise, but take care that while you are gone others right here in the city do not arise to seek your position. I have in mind a certain youth named Pericles. To be sure he is not the soldier that you are, but he is a patron of the arts and is interested in beautifying Athens, as very little of that has been done since the war.”
“I do not fear Pericles,” answered Cimon. “Athens is more interested at present in the results of the recent formation of the Delian League which pertain more directly to our colonies. After these troubles are settled there will be time for the future rebuilding of the city.”
Cimon took his leave of Aphobus and Lysimachus and had gone but a few steps when he met Leobotes. He wished to hurry on after a short nod of greeting, but Leobotes stopped him with the words: “Congratulations, Cimon, Themistocles has fled and now there is none before you in Athens.”
“In my opinion Themistocles is fortunate to be away from the immediate influence of the intrigues of certain so-called ‘loyal citizens.’ The fate of Ephialtes should prove a warning to such,” with which words he walked away from Leobotes who was too much astonished to reply.
At last he had opportunity to think! So the fiery statesman, Themistocles, was gone, and he, Cimon, had been instrumental in bringing this about! Well he knew that he had done his utmost to prevent this toward the last. He had humbled himself that Themistocles might not be thought guilty of treason, and all this was for the purpose of obtaining the girl he loved. He realized that whether by force of will or unconsciously he was drawing nearer and nearer to the home of Themistocles. He paused before the entrance, ascended the steps and lifted the bronze knocker. There was no response, so he gently pushed open the door and entered. All was still. He proceeded cautiously to the solarium and found it empty, but from this room the faint sound of voices came to his listening ear. They proceeded from the garden, so thither he betook himself. From the top of a short flight of stone steps which led to the garden, he surveyed the abundance of plants and shrubbery which he thought surpassed even those in the garden of Pasicles. He caught sight of two female figures seated upon a bench at the farther end of the garden. They were Ladice and Asia, the youngest daughter of Themistocles. The girls seemed to be indulging in mutual consolation.
A vague uneasiness that foreboded no good hovered about Cimon as he approached with the words: “Do I intrude?”
Ladice shook her head while Asia arose, hastily excused herself and entered the house.
Cimon took the place that Asia had occupied and said gently: “Ladice, you can not believe how I regret what has happened. Believe that I did all within my power to prevent this ever since our meeting in the shadow of the Acropolis. I have come to take you with me, Ladice. I sail in the morning for Thrace.”
“And you will go alone,” she replied drawing away from him. “Do you think for one moment that I will be the wife of the man who helped to cause the ruin of one whose home has sheltered me for many months? You failed in accomplishing your part of the agreement; I do not have to abide by mine!”
Cimon’s face grew pale and his jaw acquired the peculiar set appearance of indomitability.
“The trouble with me,” he cried, “is that I have been too gentle, too lenient with you. My patience is exhausted and I am going to take you by force.”
He caught her and held her close, though she struggled to free herself from his almost brutal kisses.
“I am going to take you as the men of the mountain countries take their wives,” he whispered fiercely, and she felt his hot breath upon her cheek.
Frantically she struggled to gain her freedom, succeeding at times in striking sharp blows upon his face, but still he held her in a vise-like grip. Her desperate struggles merely strengthened his determination to conquer her, but when she realized the impotence of her resistance, she resorted to the use of the most effective weapon a woman can employ. In scathing tones she reminded him of the dissipations of his youth, of the disgrace of his father and ended with a direct accusation of the ostracism of Themistocles, thus denying any belief in the assurances with which he had opened conversation with her upon entering the garden. Suddenly his hold relaxed. He pushed her from him and arose from the bench and there was a cold glint in the eyes that a moment before had burned with the light of desire.
“Very well,” he said, and his tones were clearly cut and even, “the fair Agariste to whom my attentions are not unwelcome will accompany me to Thrace.”