TPart of the women’s apartment.
TPart of the women’s apartment.
The slaves’ negligence, the only thing that could have shadowed her youth, disturbed her far less than it troubled her father, since she always had her faithful nurse with her and—thanks to the freedom granted her—enjoyed her life like a careless child, to whom the present moment is everything.
When Myrtale came out into the garden early that morning, she stood still for a time irresolute but, woman-like, not idle. Seeing how dark and wet the ground was and what big drops glittered in the grass, she instantly set to work to fasten up her dress that it might not be soiled by dampness. Then she tripped on through maples, ivy, and vines twined around poles which rested on stout posts, towards the most secluded part of the garden. When she reached the bee-hives and heard the buzzing of the insects, she paused a moment, laughed softly, and said to herself with a mischievous little smile:
“Now I know what to do—he shall be forced to confess everything.” Seeing some superb white lilies, she left her silver-embroidered sandals in the garden-path and skipped on her little bare feet into the wet grass. While gathering the flowers she felt as though ants were crawling on her and, raising her dress a little, looked over her shoulder at her ankles, carefully examining each. The pretty girl thought herself alone andunobserved, and there was something so bewitching in her whole appearance that it would have been a pity not to have had a witness.
But therewasa witness.
Lycon, who had been unable to sleep all night, because each passing day brought the decision of his fate nearer, had gone out into the garden early and seated himself on a bench in the nearest thicket. From his green ambush not one of Myrtale’s movements escaped his notice. Had he been familiar with Homer, he would have thought that she resembled Danae, Acrisius’ daughter, and deserved the name of Callisphyrus, the maid with the beautiful calves. But Lycon knew nothing of Homer, so he contented himself with muttering:
“Is that Myrtale? How pretty she has grown.”
Yet he did not go to meet her. Of course she would have been frightened by the sight of a strange man. And what should he talk about? He had nothing to say to her.
While Myrtale was putting on her silver-wrought sandals, a black and white goat, with trailing tether, came running towards her. She glanced at the wet, rough-coated animal, then at her light dress and, drawing back, clapped her hands violently to frighten the creature away. But the goat did not understand. It merely stopped in its run and approached slowly, holding its head very high, evidently supposing the movement of her hands a challenge to play. With the mischievousness natural to this animal it suddenly made acouple of short, frolicsome leaps, lowered its head and sharp horns, and darted towards the young girl.
Without hesitation Myrtale pulled up the nearest flower-stake and defended herself against the goat. But the animal, now it was once in fighting mood, constantly renewed the attack and the young girl found it more and more difficult to keep the creature at bay. She was therefore more pleased than alarmed when the bushes rustled and Lycon sprang out and seized the goat’s tether.
Myrtale silently put back the flower-stake, and busied herself in tying up the plant.
For some time neither spoke.
“Are you Myrtale, Simonides’ daughter?” asked Lycon, as he watched the pretty Methonian with a pleasure he had never felt before.
Myrtale nodded assent.
“Are you Lycon, the Athenian, my father’s guest?” she inquired, without raising her eyes to the stranger’s face.
Lycon had scarcely time to reply, for the goat now renewed its attack upon him. He laughed:
“Come, my kid. You shall learn that I am not called Lycon with the big hand for nothing.”
Seizing one of the goat’s horns with one hand, and its little tail with the other, he lifted the mischievous animal from the ground so that its four legs hung loosely down. When he set it on the earth again the creature was thoroughly cowed. Bleating feebly, itunresistingly allowed itself to be dragged back to the grass-plot from which it had escaped.
At the beehives Myrtale managed to have Lycon pass tolerably near them. While the insects were buzzing most thickly around him, she suddenly exclaimed:
“A bee, a bee!” and laying her hand on Lycon’s neck added: “Don’t you feel any pain? It must have stung you. I saw it creep out from under your robe.”
Lycon denied feeling any hurt.
“Let me see your shoulder!” continued Myrtale. “An old woman from Hypata taught me two magic words with which the stings of wasps and bees can be instantly cured.”
“It is unnecessary,” replied Lycon curtly.
“Do as I beg you,” urged Myrtale.
“Girl!” cried Lycon impatiently, “you ask foolish things.... I will not do it.”
Myrtale’s eyes flashed, the color in her cheeks deepened, and she suddenly stopped.
“Zenon,” she said, raising her voice, “I, the daughter of your master Simonides, command you to do it.”
If the earth had opened at Lycon’s feet he could not have been more surprised and horrified than by these words.
“Merciful Gods!” he exclaimed, turning pale and clasping his hands, “how do you know?—Who has told you?”
“Silence!” said Myrtale sternly. “Neither my father nor the slaves recognized you, but I knew you at the first sound of your voice, though you now speak the Attic dialect. You are Zenon, do not deny it. Shall I call Conops and the others, and have your robe torn off? There is a kappa on your shoulder; I know it.”
“Oh, miserable man that I am!” exclaimed Lycon, wringing his hands, while his eyes filled with tears. “I have seen you to my destruction.” And falling at Myrtale’s feet, he clasped her knees, adding: “How shall I answer? What am I to say?”
“The truth.”
“Ah, I will conceal nothing, but tell you a secret which is the key of my soul. Know that I am not, as you suppose, slave-born. My parents were free and lived in Carystus at Eubœa. My father was overseer of the slaves in the marble quarries. During my childhood he lived comfortably; but afterwards he began to drink, became involved in debt, and with his wife and child was sold into slavery. Yet, with my free birth, I had obtained a different temper from that of a slave. The scourge humbled far more than it hurt me, and I could not laugh with the rest when the pain was over. Day and night I plotted to gain my freedom and, as I could not purchase it, I resolved to steal it. To be free I could have robbed the gods themselves. The first time I failed—I was caught and branded. The next I was more successful.... There—now you know my crime.”
And he then told her about his happy life in Athens, his deep repentance at Phorion’s description of Simonides’ illness, and his determination to restore the discipline of the household in order to obtain forgiveness.
Myrtale did not lose a single word, but while Lycon was kneeling before her she noticed that his tearful eyes were very handsome, and that a delicate odor of ointment rose from his hair. The power of trifles has always been great, especially with women. This perfume made a strange impression upon her. For a moment she forgot that Lycon was a slave, and compared him in her mind with the son of their neighbor the baker, who after having spent ten days in Athens went as foppishly clad and moved as stiffly as the Athenian dandies. She looked at Lycon’s broad shoulders and sinewy arms—and whatever the cause, she felt more kindly disposed.
“You are a strange person,” she said, gazing into Lycon’s eyes. “Who and what are you?... Half Athenian and half Methonian, half citizen and half slave, half Lycon and half Zenon. I will do as my father once did: I will trust you, though perhaps I am unwise.”
With these words she was hurrying towards the house, but Lycon seized a fold of her robe.
“Myrtale,” he said, “believe me, a good emotion induced me to return. Consider how free from care my life was in Athens, and what I have risked. Do not make me miserable—do not prematurely revealmy secret, so that your father will refuse me his forgiveness! He who has once been free is of no value as a slave.”
Myrtale noticed the shudder that ran through his limbs, and felt strangely moved. She read in Lycon’s eyes the anguish he was suffering and to console him said:
“Have no fear! Myrtale does not hate Lycon.... I have never forgotten how kind you were to me when I was a child. I still have the little cart you made for me.”
“And I,” said Lycon, deeply moved as he seized her arm and kissed it, “I did not suppose that little Myrtale would become such a girl—so good and so beautiful!”
Myrtale smiled.
“Now Lycon is forgetting Zenon!” she replied, and raising her light dress, ran off towards the house.
But Lycon was by no means cheerful. On the contrary he was very anxious at knowing his secret was in a woman’s keeping. “The sooner I speak to Simonides the better,” he thought.
Two days after, just as Lycon had breakfasted with the master of the house, Carion, the old slave, entered. Lycon was going to rise and leave the room, but Simonidestook him by the arm and made him keep his place on the edge of the couch.
“Master,” said old Carion, “I have come to ask for myself and the rest of the slaves that you will forgive and forget. If you only will not sell us to the mines, we will obey you in everything and, as a token of our submission, we bring you the household implements of punishment, all of them, and in good condition.”
Simonides could scarcely believe his ears, and turned to his guest in speechless surprise. Lycon laughed in his sleeve.
At a sign from Carion, two young slaves entered and laid at their master’s feet large and small whips, iron collars, fetters, stocks, branding irons, neck-wheels, and the so-called “tree,” which served as a pillory and at the same time inflicted the torture of sitting in a doubled up position. Bringing in all these articles consumed time enough to enable Simonides to regain his composure.
Without showing his satisfaction in the presence of the slaves, he replied that he would grant their petition and forgive what had happened. No one should suffer oppression, but if any one did wrong he would be punished. Carion, the first who had given an example of obedience, would be made overseer of the others, and in token that he himself was ready to forget what had happened, each of them would be received that evening as if he were entering his master’s house for the first time. He should be led to the hearth by theoverseer and there receive figs, dried grapes, nuts, and small pastry cakes, in token that there was an abundance in the house and he would lack nothing.
Simonides then ordered the slaves to carry the instruments of punishment to the room intended for them.
Scarcely was he alone with Lycon ere, with overflowing affection, he pressed him to his breast.
“By all the gods of friendship!” he exclaimed, “tell me by what magic you have accomplished this?”
Lycon now mentioned the chastisement he had given Conops, and the demand he had made of the slaves in their master’s name under the penalty of labor in the mines.
Simonides grasped Lycon’s hand and pressed it in both his own.
“Though a stranger,” he said, “you have fulfilled my dearest wish and restored order to my household. May the gods bless you for it! To my dying day I shall remember this time as a happy hour. But tell me, my son, is there nothing you desire, nothing I can do for you?”
Lycon averted his face. Now, in this decisive moment, which he had anticipated during so many days and nights, he could not force himself to utter a single word.
“My son,” persisted Simonides, “there is something that weighs upon your heart. Do not deny it. By Zeus, I want to see only happy faces to-day. So, tell me what it is.”
Lycon sprang from the couch and threw himself at Simonides’ feet.
“Pardon, Master!” he faltered, “I am not worthy to be your guest.”
“What fire-brand are you casting into my bosom,” cried Simonides, half-raising himself on the couch as, seized by a dark foreboding, he gazed with dilated eyes at the kneeling figure.
Lycon turned deadly pale. Grasping a fold of Simonides’ robe, he said in a voice almost choked with emotion:
“Master ... don’t you know me?... I am your slave Zenon.”
“Wonder-working Gods!” exclaimed Simonides doubtfully, “what am I compelled to hear!”
“Mercy, Master, mercy!”
Simonides, uttering a fierce cry, kicked Lycon away with his foot.
“Thief,” he shouted, trembling with rage, “miserable thief, you have stolen my money and my health, what do you seek in my house? Have you come here to rob me a second time?... For two years I have not suffered your name to be spoken in my hearing.... Begone, begone from my sight, you source of my misery—you destroyer of the happiness of my life!”
And as Lycon still lingered, Simonides pointed to the door of the peristyle, shouting imperatively: “Go, go, I command you!”
Lycon left the room with drooping head, without casting a glance behind. He no longer had a hope.
At the same moment the curtain at the door of a side-chamber stirred slightly, and soon after Myrtale entered and silently seated herself on the edge of the couch at her father’s feet. She was very pale, and through the folds of her thin dress the rapid rising and falling of her bosom showed that she was struggling for breath. Simonides scarcely seemed to notice her and, without moving or looking up, she waited patiently for him to speak.
At last he broke the silence.
“Do you know who Lycon is?” he asked.
“Yes, I know.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“It washisbusiness to confess, not mine.”
“What do you advise, Myrtale?”
“To wait until to-morrow.”
“Why?”
“To let Lycon sentence himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of two things will happen—either he will run away during the night and then his solicitude for himself will be greater than his repentance, or he will stay, and then his repentance will be deep enough to make him prefer to suffer everything rather than not obtain your forgiveness.”
Simonides drew Myrtale towards him and stroked her pretty brown hair.
“Polycles is right,” he said, “your name ought to have been MetisUand not Myrtale.... But will notLycon take advantage of the night to steal from me again?”
UPrudence, ingenuity.
UPrudence, ingenuity.
Myrtale made no reply, but the lines around her mouth expressed so much wrath and scorn that Simonides in surprise looked at her more closely. A glittering streak ran from her eyes down over her cheeks.
“So you trust him?” he asked.
“Idotrust him,” replied Myrtale so earnestly that her father remained silent a long time.
“Was I too severe?” he said at last.
Myrtale did not answer.
“Remember, child, that the service he has rendered to me is nothing in comparison to the crime he committed. If his own sin had not made me ill, I should never have needed his assistance.”
The next morning, while Lycon was uncertain whether he ought to go to Simonides or wait for the latter’s orders, a boy entered and said:
“Simonides asks Lycon to come to him.”
This message showed he was not to be treated as a slave.
“I will come,” Lycon hastily replied, and when the lad had gone he fairly leaped into the air in his delight.
Before he had left the guest-room he remembered that during his restless sleep he had had a dream. In his childhood he had often seen a little boy, the son of poor parents, known by the name of unlucky Knemon, because he looked so doleful that everybody slapped and pushed him because he really seemed to invitecuffs. This boy had appeared to him in the dream. Lycon tried to push him aside—but at the same moment the lad was transformed and Eros himself stood smiling before him, a garland of roses on his hair. Gazing intently at Lycon he shook his finger at him. Lycon thought of Myrtale and murmured: “I accept the omen.”
This dream now returned to his mind.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “yesterday I was a doleful, unlucky Lycon; I invited a beating—so Simonides kicked me.... Would a dog get so many blows if it did not crouch before its master? Well, I will be braver to-day.”
With these words he took up the two bundles he had brought with him from Athens.
“What have you there?” asked Simonides, as he saw Lycon enter with a package under each arm.
“Not my property, but yours,” replied Lycon.
Simonides understood that the parcels contained the ready money and articles of value Lycon had brought with him from Athens.
“Put them there,” he said, pointing to a small cabinet.
Lycon laid the bundles down.
“Tell me,” Simonides continued, “what did you think about your position in the city?”
“Nothing—by Zeus!” said Lycon, as though amused by his own freedom from anxiety. “I had so much to do in becoming acquainted with people and things in Athens, that I forgot both past and futureand, when I heard Phorion speak of your illness and your servants’ laziness and negligence, I was so busy in selling my house and slaves to hasten to your assistance that not until during the journey here did I find an opportunity to think of scourges, fetters, and branding-irons—in short of all that might await me.”
“Did it not occur to you to run away during the night?”
“Certainly,” replied Lycon; “but I said to myself: ‘Then it would have been better not to come at all.’ So I stayed.”
“Were you not afraid of being enslaved again?”
“No,” said Lycon quietly; “you would not do that. You know that a man who has lived for years as a free citizen cannot become a bondsman.”
“Well, by Hera!” exclaimed Simonides laughing, “you are a strange mortal. Yesterday you were all humility, and to-day you dictate what I am to do. Yet I like Lycon better to-day than yesterday! Take one of my slaves with you, look about the city and return at dinner time; by that time I shall have considered what will serve you best.”
Accompanied by the gigantic Conops, who had volunteered his services, Lycon went to the market. It was a little open square, one side occupied by the council-hall, a pretty new pillared building, another byan ancient temple of Poseidon, one of the noteworthy objects in the city, a third by an arcade used for a shelter in rainy weather, and the fourth by the houses of the citizens.
Though it was still early in the day, the place was crowded. Lycon found entertainment in looking about him for, although only in miniature, this market-place was an image of the one in Athens.
Country people, standing in booths made of interwoven green branches, were selling fresh cheese, eggs, honey, oil, fruit, and green vegetables; one or two potters were loudly praising their painted jars; bakers’ wives were half concealed behind huge piles of bread and cakes, and young flower-girls sat among their bright-hued, fragrant wares, busily making wreaths. Freemen, as well as male and female slaves, wandered among the booths, bargaining here and there, while youths in light mantles, with embroidered fillets around their hair, jested with the prettiest saleswomen. But the most successful person was aneurospastes, the owner of a puppet-show, who had taken his stand on a spot generally used for a slave-mart. Unseen himself, he pulled the hidden strings which set the ugly puppets’ bodies in motion so that, to the delight of the children and their pedagogues, the figures made the most ridiculous gestures.
Lycon had stopped a moment to look at the busy puppets and the laughing children, when a strange, deafening noise was suddenly heard.
It seemed as though a countless number of chainswere falling with a prolonged, rattling clash into a measureless depth, yet it was impossible to tell whence the sound came. It filled the earth and the air, and withal was so mighty, so startling, that all jest, all conversation ceased. Even the animals were roused from their usual repose, and the swallows which had been darting and twittering about the market-place and up and down the long Street of the Bakers, suddenly gathered into flocks and soared screaming into the air as if trying to escape some danger.
No one remembered having heard anything like it; no one knew what it was. But, from the people who came thronging up, it was soon learned that the noise had been just as loud inside the most closely shut rooms in the houses as in the open market-place and just as near and distinct in each remote part of the city, nay even on the ships in the port. The crews of the vessels declared that the sound came from the water.
Only one old smith, a man almost a hundred years of age, seemed to suspect the cause. He shook his head anxiously, but would not speak freely. “I may be wrong,” he said, “but take my advice. Keep out of the houses—that will perhaps save many a life.”
Lycon felt as though some misfortune was impending. Accompanied by Conops, without knowing where he was going, he had walked down to the harbor, where he had not been since his return to the city. The view here offered to his gaze was so magnificent and beautiful that it made the same impression as if he were beholding it for the first time. Ere long he felthis mind relieved and his former light-heartedness return.
“What should happen?” he said to himself. “Can a summer day be clearer or brighter than this?”
The sun rode high in the heavens. Not a cloud was visible far or near, and not a breath of air was stirring. About thirty boats and small vessels were lying at a quay built of large limestone-blocks—the ones whose masts were seen from the Street of the Bakers. On the right the gaze rested upon the highest part of the city, above which rose the distant mountains of Pherae; at the left the smiling, fertile coast extended almost as far as the eye could reach, towering upward into a spur of Pelion. Over the green water of the bay, that glittered like a mirror, fishing boats and pleasure craft glided past each other and beyond, like a broad dark-blue stripe, appeared the Pagasaean Gulf, which melted into the open sea, flashing like gold in the sunshine. On the opposite side of the gulf rose the promontory of Pyrrha, while through the mists of distance gleamed the coast-cities, and behind them the ridge of the Othrys mountains, over which led the road to Locris, Bœotia, and Attica.
Lycon stopped at the first of the little vessels, whose owner, an old sailor named Dorion, he had formerly known. The sight of this man vividly brought to mind what strangely different fates the same years may bring. While he himself had been in Athens, seeing and hearing so many new things that his memory could scarcely retain them, Dorion had daily sailedto and fro across the same corner of the bay to get and sell sand. Yet he seemed content, and when Lycon entered into conversation with him he told him with joyous satisfaction that his boat was new, that his sons had built it, and that it was large enough for him to make longer voyages.
“But,” cried Dorion, suddenly interrupting himself and springing into the bow, “look, look, how the sea is falling! Holy Dioscuri! What is happening before our eyes?... I never saw the water run out so fast.”
“It is the second marvel to-day,” said Lycon. “What can it mean?”
Even while they were speaking the boat and all the other small vessels sank lower and lower, so that the lime-stone quay seemed to tower far above them. Confused shouts and shrieks echoed from one craft to another and a moment after the inner bay, except for a few pools of water, lay as dry as a heath. Where the glittering surface of the waves had just extended, nothing was now seen save the greyish sand overgrown here and there with large and small patches of sea-weed. The little vessels which a short time before were flitting about far out on the water, now lay on dry ground, keeling over upon one side, and their crews were seen like small black dots standing around them uncertain what to do.
Conops, who had watched what was occurring with less indifference and dullness than usual, now made an apt remark.
“If the bay had been a drinking cup,” he said,“and there was an invisible mouth reaching from one shore to the other, the water could not have been drained quicker—in five, six long swallows.”
“What!” cried Dorion suddenly, “if I see aright, the water is returning.”
Lycon shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out towards the bay. The mass of water was moving across the cove like a rampart nine or ten ells high, the crest and bottom white with foam, and at a velocity greater than that of a man running at full speed. He saw the billow roll under the craft resting on the ground, raise them aloft, and sweep them onward in its own mad course.
Followed by Conops, he leaped into Dorion’s boat, shouting at the top of his voice to the people in the other vessels:
“Loose the boats from the quay!... or the water will fill them and drown us all.”
These words ran from mouth to mouth.
Then a thundering roar echoed from the approaching mass of water, it buried the quay in snowy foam, raised one boat after another,—not without partially filling them—and bore them with furious speed up the Street of the Bakers, which lay straight before the landing-place.
Lycon, Dorion, and Conops had succeeded, with the help of oars and poles, in keeping their craft clear of trees and houses. As if in a dream they heard wild cries of terror and saw the two buildings nearest the harbor sink under the force of the water, while some ofthe small vessels were stranded on the fallen walls and pillars.
Soon after another surge came rolling in and, amid fresh shrieks from drowning men, swept the boats farther on into the middle of the long street. Lycon saw with delight that Simonides’ house stood uninjured, though the water was more than half way over the door.
Almost at the same moment human figures were seen on the roofs of the nearest houses, and they heard the shrieks and wails of women, which reminded Lycon of the lamentations daily resounding during the Adonis festival in Athens. But it was easy to perceive that this was a more serious matter for, with the shrieks mingled the shouts of numerous men calling, each from his own side of the street, to the boats for aid.
Lycon’s heart swelled with a humanity as warm as the greatness of the peril surrounding him. Springing to the stern he shouted to the men in the nearest boats:
“Friends! let us thank the gods for our own deliverance by saving as many of these unfortunates as possible. Let nine or ten of the boats row about in the next street. There is enough for us all to do until evening, though there seems to be only one street besides this under water.”
“The Athenian is right,” replied a voice from another vessel. “Let us do what we can for the city. Have we not all acquaintances and friends here?”
Lycon and Dorion now rowed the boat to Simonides’house. There was only one person to be seen on the roof—Paegnion.
“Where are Simonides and his daughter?” asked Lycon.
“On the roof of the women’s apartment.”
“And where are the slaves?” enquired Conops.
“On the stable.”
Lycon poled the boat between the buildings. Suddenly it was shaken from stem to stern by a strange, mysterious shock, which congealed the blood in Lycon’s veins. This shock was repeated, though the boat was floating in water three ells deep and had not run against anything.
At the same moment a cry of horror ran from roof to roof.
“Seiei, seiei!The earth is shaking, it’s an earthquake.”
Lycon now understood that the day’s prodigies, the noise and the flood, were connected with what was occurring.
Though neither of the shocks had lasted longer than the short time required for a man to raise his arms and let them fall again, the result was terrible; two of the houses in the street sank crashing into the water with the hapless people on their roofs. Fortunately the ruins formed a heap large enough to enable most of the inmates to keep themselves above the tide until the boats could come to their assistance.
Lycon perceived that there was no time to lose. Anxiously as his own heart throbbed, he encouragedDorion and Conops. They took off Paegnion, though not without difficulty and, uniting their strength, urged the boat towards the women’s apartment.
But between the buildings the dark, muddy water moved in a powerful stream and, as Dorion unluckily broke his oar, the boat was swept with irresistible force past the corner of the women’s apartment out into the garden. Here it struck against the tops of some bushes and suddenly struck fast between the trunks of two trees concealed at the bottom by the water and at the top by leaves. It required a long time and much exertion to release it from this position, and the task was not accomplished until after the water had reached a level in the flooded streets, so that the current was less swift. When they at last succeeded in getting back to the women’s apartment, they found it impossible to save Simonides and his daughter without the help of a ladder.
Lycon was beginning to get impatient over these delays, for the day was waning.
Conops knew that there ought to be a ladder in the stable, but when the boat reached the place it had disappeared. After some search it was found where they least expected to discover it. A rude two-wheeled harvest cart had caught on a marble monument by the side of the house, and the pole of this cart had accidentally run between the rounds of the ladder and held it fast.
It was not without fresh difficulties that they succeeded in raising the ladder to the roof of the women’sapartment; and it was high time, for the stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky. Lycon found Simonides and Myrtale in a very exhausted condition; the clothing of both was drenched with water, and they had spent the whole afternoon in dread lest the house should yield to the pressure of the flood and sink beneath it. The overseer Carion, who had helped Myrtale carry her father up the stairs, had vainly sought to obtain dry garments; nothing could be found in the little rooms under the roof.
Simonides was shaking so violently with a feverish chill that his teeth chattered; his eyes were closed and he muttered now and then a few unintelligible words; but when Lycon carried him down to the boat he pressed his hand. When Lycon turned to bring Myrtale she was already standing by her father’s side. Light and agile as the pretty little creature which shades itself with its tail,Vshe had sprung into the boat unaided.
VSquirrel.
VSquirrel.
Fortunately the craft was a large one, for there were many to save and, much as Lycon hastened the work of rescuing the slaves and their children from the stable-roof, by the time all had embarked night had closed in, so that it was difficult to find the way out between the buildings.
It was a strange voyage, which none of the occupants of the boat ever forgot. The Street of the Bakers, the largest and finest street in the city, usually so full of life, this evening, for the first time within the memory of man, neither resounded with loud conversations from door to door, nor the merry songs of young men echoing from the wine-shops; silence reigned in harmony with the ruin that everywhere met the eye. The rippling and gurgling of the water, as well as the light strokes of the oars and the murmured words of the boatmen when two craft met, were the only sounds that interrupted the gloomy stillness. The houses were outlined in dark masses against the sky; but whenever an opening between them was reached columns of smoke and blazing flames were seen in the distance, which shed a murky light on the angles of the houses, the faces in the boats, and the smallest ripple upon the surface of the water. Ever and anon a shower of sparks fell hissing into the waves, and sometimes the cool evening breeze swept a veil of smoke over the street, bringing with it a suffocating smell of fire.
At the edge of the flood the people stood in little groups talking together. From them it was learned that some of the houses in the higher part of the cityhad also fallen. There had been fire on their hearths, the flames had caught the ruins, and it was these buildings which were now burning.
At the house of Polycles the wine-dealer, where Lycon, by Myrtale’s request, took her father, an unusual bustle prevailed. Lanterns were hung on slender poles in front of the house, and at a number of small tables sat part of the citizens, discussing over a goblet of wine all that had happened on this eventful day.
At the sight of Lycon, who, with the closely-veiled Myrtale, was supporting Simonides, an eager murmur arose; some rose to get a better view; others pointed to him as though saying: “That’s he!” and from one table to another the question ran in low tones:
“Is that the Athenian?”
“The one who saved the sailors by unfastening the boats?”
“And who helped the citizens in the flooded streets?”
“Who knows him?—Who can tell whether it’s he?”
The temptation was too strong for Conops; he forgot to ask whether he might speak.
“I can tell you that!” he replied, not without a touch of pride; “he’s my master’s guest, and I’ve been with him all day, first at market and then in the boat—he and no other is Lycon the Athenian.”
A universal shout of applause rang out; several women of light repute, who were passing, flung himkisses, and Polycles, the owner of the house, grasped his hand, saying:
“If you are the Lycon of whom everybody is talking, you are a man of honor to whom the city owes more than a new robe.”
Then, with the most cordial sympathy, Polycles welcomed the sick Simonides and his daughter, and learning from the latter’s lips that they had spent the afternoon in terror lest the house should fall and bury them in the water, he said:
“I won’t take you to my old stone mansion—there might be another shock of earthquake—but I have in my garden a good new wooden barn, where you can rest in safety and be supplied by my old housekeeper with everything necessary. The slaves shall be cared for as well as possible.” And, as he took Simonides’ arm out of Lycon’s to guide him and Myrtale to their temporary abode, he called to one of the boys who were hurrying about waiting on the guests and ordered him to bring Lycon wine, barley bread, cheese, and fruit.
While the latter was hurriedly eating the meal before returning to Dorian’s boat, Polycles came back from the garden and Lycon hastened to say:
“I see that many of the citizens have assembled here. Could not some of the younger ones relieve one another in guarding the burned houses, that no one in the absence of the master and the darkness of the night, may get in and take what still remains. Awatch will be kept from the boats upon the houses in the flooded streets.”
Instead of answering, Polycles turned to the people seated at the tables and called in a loud voice:
“Citizens, this stranger puts us to shame. He seems to think more and take wiser care of our city than we who were born and have spent our lives here. Do you know what he proposes?”
Polycles had scarcely repeated Lycon’s advice ere twelve or fourteen young men came forward, ready for the required service. Soon after they were divided into three parties, the first of which, supplied with a sack of Chian wine and accompanied by some slaves, went to the scene of the fire.
“My house is yours,” said Polycles to Lycon, “come here when there is nothing more to be saved. You will need rest and sleep if the night is quiet.”
Before Lycon, followed by Conops, again entered the boat, he lighted with the help of some of the citizens a large pile of wood on the edge of the flood, so that the vessels might be provided with torches whenever they brought anything they had rescued ashore. Then an agreement was made between the captains of the boats about sharing the work. Half a score of the craft were stationed in each street, five on a side. The rest were to help wherever assistance was most needed and, as ladders had been found necessary in many instances, most of the boats were provided with them.
When everything was arranged in this way, thework of rescue progressed more rapidly than Lycon had expected, and when at last no voice called for aid, the twenty boats had saved the owners of more than twenty houses, besides a large number of slaves.
Lycon, attended by Conops, now hurried back to Polycles’ house. The wine-dealer came to meet him with a troubled face and told him that Simonides was dangerously ill. The cold and fright he had endured had been too severe a trial for him.
As Lycon entered the wooden barn where Simonides and his daughter were lodged, his first glance sought the sick man. The latter’s eyes were open, but stared fixedly into vacancy, and his thin hands fumbled to and fro over the coverlids with a convulsive twitching. Lycon wished to approach, but Polycles held him back.
On the opposite side of the couch sat a little man of grave and dignified bearing, dressed in a white robe. Lycon instantly saw that this was the physician; for ever and anon he took the sick man’s hand to judge of his condition by the pulse, and on a little table close beside him lay his pouch of medicines and the instruments used in his profession. At the foot of the bed stood the overseer, Carion, with clasped hands and eyes fixed on his suffering master.
The preparations hastily made for the latter’s comfort showed that the household was a wealthy one. Milesian carpets were hung in a semi-circle around the couch to shut out every draught of air, and beneath its ivory feet Babylonian stuffs had been spread to prevent any chill from the stone floor.
The twitching of the sick man’s hands gradually ceased. The physician rose softly and went to Polycles.
“Simonides is better,” he said. “But if you have anything important to discuss with him, do not delay. His voice will soon become thick and unintelligible.”
“Do you think his death is near?”
“If it is the will of the gods, he may live a day or more; but he will never rise from this bed.”
Soon after, the restless movements of the patient’s hands ceased and they fell feebly on the coverlid. Raising his head with difficulty he looked around him.
“Where is Myrtale?” was his first question.
“She is preparing a decoction the doctor ordered,” replied the wine-dealer.
“And Lycon?”
“Here,” said Polycles, beckoning to Lycon to approach the bed.
“Is it true,” asked Simonides, “that you have saved the citizens in the flooded streets, besides numerous slaves?”
“Not my boat only, all the small craft.”
“It’s the same thing,” said Simonides with a faint smile, “you will now and in the future be regarded as one of the benefactors of the city, a sort of demi-god—and as it is not seemly for a demi-god to be a bondsman, I shall give you your liberty. Polycles, who knows everything that concerns you, has added the necessary codicil to my last will, which he and the physician have signed as witnesses.”
Lycon knelt beside the couch, clasped Simonides’ hand, and covered it with kisses. “I thank you,” he faltered, overwhelmed by emotion. “You have fulfilled my dearest wish. I have obtained my freedom—and this time I did not steal it.”
Soon after the curtain at the door was pushed aside and Myrtale entered, followed by the old housekeeper. She held a glass cup in her hands and seemed to have eyes only for her sick father. The physician poured a few drops from a little flask into the smoking potion, and Simonides drank a few mouthfuls. “How it revives me!” he said, while Myrtale was straightening the embroidered pillows under his head and shoulders. “Are those lamps which shine so? It seems as though I saw the sun in the midst of the night.”
“Do you feel better, old friend?” asked Polycles.
A glimmer of his former mirthful spirit sparkled in Simonides’ small brown eyes.
“That fellow yonder,” he whispered, pointing to the physician, “has given me too many drops. He didn’t make me well, but drunk.”
Then, with an unexpectedly sudden movement, he seized Myrtale’s arm. His mouth and chin projected so that he was almost unrecognizable, and a corpse-like hue overspread his face as swiftly as though an unseen hand had caused it by gliding lightly over it.
“He is dying! he is dying!” cried Myrtale and, sobbing passionately, she flung herself upon her father’s breast.
A large clay jar filled with water, placed outside the door of Polycles’ dwelling, announced the next morning, to all who passed, that the mansion was a house of mourning. While the female slaves were perfuming and dressing the dead man, Polycles was talking with Myrtale about Simonides’ last will.
Myrtale had no brother, but was a so-called inheriting daughter.WAs there was no kinsman whom she could wed and endow with her fortune, Simonides had bequeathed his whole property, amounting to twenty talents, to his friend Polycles on condition that he should marry Myrtale. If Polycles was not willing to do this, he was to inherit only two talents and then use his best judgment in choosing a husband for the young girl who, in such a case, was to keep all the rest of the fortune as a dowry.