KInspector of the gymnasia.
KInspector of the gymnasia.
Acestor agreed with Thuphrastos, flattered Lamon, and said what he thought would please Xenocles; but in his heart he despised them all and considered himself the chief man in the hetaeria. Nevertheless he appeared to desire nothing except to become one of the people’s advocates. Every one who knew his high opinion of himself wondered that he did not aspire to some greater goal. Hipyllos had also noticed that Acestor had been unusually silent at the last meetings of the hetaeria and concluded that he was cherishing some secret plan. Thuphrastos also thought his manner strange, and determined to keep a watchful eye upon him.
Hipyllos was very differently situated. As, with his fortune, he belonged to the class of “knights” and was bound to serve in the mounted troops with the weapons, horses, and other costly outfit incidental to this duty, the thought of obtaining the position of a captain in the police force was natural. By the aid of Thuphrastos and others he succeeded in being elected, and had thus attained the end of his desires, but in doing so had by no means loosened the bond uniting them to the hetaeria.
Sthenelus would have liked to be public herald, but he was a cripple and the heralds, these sacred and unblemished men with the serpent staves, the “friends of Zeus,” must be persons without any physical defects.Therefore, like Lysiteles, he was obliged to wait until one of their more fortunately situated “friends” had been elected. Many of those chosen to fill public offices could have clerks, and to Sthenelus and Lysiteles, from whose houses smoke was never seen to rise, a clerk’s salary, though small, would have been a real blessing from the gods.
Thuphrastos talked of the numerous law cases that would pour in upon him when the time of his embassy had expired. Oppressed citizens, informers who knew that he had obtained money, envious fellow solicitors—would all rush to him.
“So it’s worth while, Friends, to be firm,” he said. “You, Hipyllos,” he added with a winning smile, “must contrive to have your uncle appear before the court.”
This was evidently an allusion to a very aristocratic and distinguished man. It was a common custom to bring powerful families into the courts of justice to make an impression upon the judges. Xenocles who, from his impoverished youth, had cherished a special reverence for all prominent personages, raised his head like a horse pricking its ears.
“Hipyllos’ uncle?” he asked, “who is that?”
“The former archon, Euthydemus.”
“An archon!” repeated Xenocles, gazing at Hipyllos as though the latter had suddenly grown taller.
Hipyllos thought of pretty Clytie, and did not lose his opportunity.
“Why yes,” he said carelessly, “our family is saidto descend from the Pallantidae, Theseus’ old antagonists. It has numbered not a few archons, among them one whose name you all know—Lacrateides.”
“What!” exclaimed Lamon with unexpected energy, “the one in whose archonship the severe winter happened. My grandmother often spoke of it. The roads were covered with snow, and poor people struggled for room in the baths so that some fell on the stoves and were burned.”
Xenocles stared at Hipyllos.
“A descendant of Lacrateides!” he exclaimed, clasping both his hands. “Excellent young man! You belong to one of the noblest races in Athens—and you never mentioned it till now!”
Thuphrastos, to whom this interruption seemed long, loudly cleared his throat.
“To business!” he said harshly. “What do you think? Shall we deal with Megas, the dyer?”
“He is a man highly esteemed,” replied Lamon. “His whole family connection see with his eyes and speak with his lips. He disposes of numerous votes.”
“Megas!” exclaimed Sthenelus, “The dyer without a work-shop ... yes, by Zeus, I know him. He’s a man of strict Spartan manners—always goes plainly dressed and bare-footed.... But when this pattern of manly sobriety meets his companions at night there is—I swear to you—no infamy that is not committed. To me that Megas is detestable.”
“Well, there is Medon, the brass-founder,” said Xenocles. “He’s a pleasanter fellow to bargain with.Do you know him?—A stout, sun-burned man, who loves wine and is always laughing. His family is even more numerous than the one of which Megas is head.”
“Why not win them both?” asked Hipyllos.
“There isn’t money enough,” replied Thuphrastos.
“Shall it be Medon?” said Xenocles.
After some discussion, this was generally approved.
“But,” said Hipyllos, more thoughtful than some of the older men, “if Megas finds out that we go to Medon—will he not be vexed and perhaps betray us?”
As a captain in the mounted police Hipyllos was obliged to have a helmet, breast-plate, shield, lance, sword, and spurs; besides the armor required for the forehead, chest, and flanks of the horse. The greater part of this costly equipment was made by the armorer Sauros. The latter did not live, like most of those who followed his trade, in the Scambonidae quarter of the city, but in the street of the sun-dials, and his forge was in the alley obliquely opposite to the side-building of Xenocles’ house. This was a place Hipyllos never wearied of visiting; merely to know he was near pretty Clytie was a delight to him.
The day after the meeting at Thuphrastos’ house, he was to try on the cuirass. He reached Sauros’ shop just at twilight. The smith had gone out, but ayoung slave who was filing a metal plate thought he would soon return. The work-shop was filled with smoke and unpleasant odors, so Hipyllos preferred to wait outside.
A luxuriant garden extended to a slope, along which ran a walk overgrown with vines supported on cross-bars resting on tall poles. The end of this walk, where Hipyllos stood, was closed by a dilapidated wall.
A wide view was obtained from this place. At the left rose the hill of the Museium and farther on the Acropolis towered into the air. The streets, trees, and houses between stood forth in dusky outlines amid the gloom of twilight. Lamps shone here and there. The sky was slightly overcast, and the foliage exhaled a strong odor as though it was going to rain. Ever and anon a sleepy gust of wind stirred the damp air. Everything expressed peace and rest, and the most profound silence reigned in this quarter of the city.
Suddenly light footsteps and mysterious whispers were heard at a little distance.
Hipyllos looked through a gap in the ruined wall, and saw several women approaching from the other end of the walk. The first one carried a lantern with horn sides and seemed to be showing the second the way. A third figure followed.
The woman with the lantern was dressed in a strange, outlandish costume. Over her head a blue cloth wrought with silver stars was drawn in long folds, two of which hung down on her breast, and on her hair above the brow, in place of a clasp, glittered agold sun. She wore a blue robe, and across her bosom and shoulder passed a broad white band upon which were embroidered golden suns, crescents, and stars.
At this time there lived in Athens a woman of foreign birth named Ninus, who called herself a priestess of the Phrygian god Sabazius. She foretold future events and brewed love-potions, while invoking gods and demons. Rumor said that she had a large number of customers, especially women.
Hipyllos did not doubt that this was the person he saw. She seemed to be about forty years old; her face was still beautiful, though uncommonly pale, and as cold and motionless as if hewn from stone.
Her companion was closely-veiled and wrapped in a long, dark robe drawn over her face like a hood. Hipyllos could not catch the smallest glimpse of her features, but so far as he could judge from her figure, bearing, and gait, she was young, and so, too, seemed the female slave who followed her.
The new-comers directed their steps towards the vine-covered alley where Hipyllos was standing. The priestess of Sabazius set the lantern on a stone table just inside the ruined wall, and took from a basket a quantity of strange things. As well as Hipyllos could see by the dim light, among them were metal bowls, laurel branches, purple wool, an iron gridiron, some wax figures, and a wheel.
During these preparations her veiled companion had often showed signs of impatience.
“Oh, if I had never come!” she exclaimed. “A daughter outside of her father’s house after dark! If my mother should miss me—what a disgrace!”
The voice which echoed in clear, musical tones on the stillness of evening made Hipyllos’ heart throb. He had never heard Clytie speak, but it seemed to him that shemustspeak thus.
“Have no fear, pretty maid,” said Ninus in a singularly deep voice with a foreign accent. “Let Doris run back and keep watch. Then you can be called at once.”
“Yes, dear Doris, run, run!”
The slave lingered, but was obliged to obey.
Hearing the name of Doris strengthened Hipyllos in the belief that Clytie stood before him, for the slave through whom he had learned from Manodoros that her mistress loved him was called Doris.
“Make haste, good Ninus,” said the veiled figure when she was left alone with the priestess. “I am trembling with fright.”
“Give me time,” muttered Ninus. “Do you suppose the gods can be invoked as we draw water or chop wood? It would be a pity,” she added, pointing to the numerous articles on the table, “if all this should have been done in vain. I was obliged to bargain with and bribe slaves. How else could I get a man’s shoe or the fringe from his upper garment? But to bargain and bribe....”
Ninus paused, casting a side-glance at the younggirl, who remained silent. The priestess saw that she must speak more plainly.
“But to bribe,” she added, “requires money, a great deal of money.”
“I haven’t any; I’ve never had money.”
This was evidently not the first time the answer had been given to Ninus. She understood how to help herself.
“Well, well!” she cried, “if you have no money, my pretty one, you probably have many rings, clasps, and such things.”
The veiled figure threw back her cloak; two dazzlingly white arms appeared a moment and unfastened a brooch from her forehead. But the light from the lantern was so faint that Hipyllos rather imagined than saw the features which to him were the dearest in the world.
“Take this ornament,” she said; “I have many of them.... Take this pin and clasp too.”
Ninus bent her head to conceal her delight.
“Generous girl!” she exclaimed, “who would not gladly serve a maiden fair as Aphrodite and blooming as Artemis?”
“Offer your thanks to Doris,” said the veiled figure. “She persuaded me to come. She has told you all, even that terrible thing—the worst misfortune which could befall me.”
Hipyllos strained his attention to the utmost.
Ninus herself seemed to become somewhat thoughtful at hearing the girl’s words.
“Why don’t you speak to your mother?” she said.
“Ah, no, no! Mother will not venture to help me. She wants only what my father desires.”
Ninus was silent a moment.
“Yet there is no other way,” she said. “You must either go to your mother or do what Doris advises.”
“Follow Doris’ advice?” cried the veiled figure impetuously. “No, never, never! What are you asking? I should die with shame.”
How eagerly Hipyllos listened. Here was something he did not understand.
“True,” replied Ninus, “it must be torture to a respectable girl. Yet tohim....”
The muffled figure hastily interrupted her.
“Yes,” she said, “I know whom you mean.”
A faint smile flitted over Ninus’ pallid features.
“Aha!” she murmured. “You are afraid I might utter his name, and that it might be an ill-omen. So you think of him very often, pretty maid?”
The young girl bent her head with a bewitching air of embarrassment.
“Then it is true,” Ninus persisted, “you often think of him?”
“Always,” was the reply.
Hipyllos could have hugged the sorceress for that one word.
“Girl,” said Ninus suddenly, “is your mind devout and your body pure?”
“Before coming here I prayed to the gods and anointed myself.”
Ninus was silent for a time, then going close to the muffled form she asked in a whisper:
“Have you ever heard of stones animated with souls, which have fallen from the skies? We call thembaetyli, but among your people they are known by the name oforitesorsiderites.”
“I know nothing about them,” replied the young girl, then seizing the priestess’ hand with an enquiring gesture she murmured: “Tell me, what do thesebaetyligive?”
“Counsel.”
“What! Stones—talk?”
“Hush, hush! In the name of the gods—silence. It is a great mystery.”
Hipyllos listened attentively. He had already heard of a strange connection between demons and stones; he knew that in the temple of Apollo at Delphi there was a stone that had fallen from the sky, which was daily anointed with oil. This was the stone Rhea had let Cronos swallow instead of Zeus.
“As you know, fair maid,” Ninus continued, “I will gladly serve you.”
“I shall not be ungrateful.”
Ninus shook her head.
“Promises are words written in water,” she murmured.
The young girl, without answering, began to draw a ring from her finger but Ninus prevented it.
“The ring is worth eight drachmae,” she said. “Conjuring with the stone will cost ten times as much. Know that hitherto no Hellene has made abaetylusspeak. Such things can only be learned in Phrygia.... Farewell, maiden; we must part....”
“Don’t leave me!” cried the girl, seizing Ninus’ robe. “Look!” she added drawing from her arm a glittering gold band, “if this is enough, take it.”
“I am easily satisfied,” said Ninus, snatching the gold. “Well then, I’ll tell you everything. Before abaetyluswill show its power one must fast thrice seven days and hold no conversation with men; then the stone must be washed in spring-water and clad in swaddling clothes like a little child. Even this is not enough. A lamp must be lighted in a clean room in the house, incense offered, and prayers repeated. All this I have done from the hour Doris first told me.”
Ninus now thrust both hands down into the basket and, with great care, drew out a smooth oval stone, wrapped in swaddling clothes like a new-born child.
Holding out the stone, she bowed low.
Hipyllos felt like a person who, at some untimely hour, had entered a sanctuary and beheld things no mortal eye ought to see.
“Maiden,” whispered Ninus, “take thebaetylusinyour arms and rock it to and fro. But beware of dropping it; for then it would be angry.”
The veiled figure received the stone with evident anxiety.
Ninus now lighted some charcoal on the gridiron by the flame of the lantern, scattered incense upon it, and let the smoke rise before thebaetylus. Then, taking it from Clytie’s hands, she removed the swaddling clothes and anointed it with oil.
“Look!” she cried, raising it in the air, “the soul is coming.”
Hipyllos felt a slight thrill of awe. He fancied he saw the stone make a slight movement in the priestess’ hands.
Ninus now rocked it more violently and in a strange tone, that sounded like the monotonous buzzing of an Egyptian sistrum, chanted the following words:
Orites, lend thine ear,Stone smooth and splendid,Let us the spirit hearWithin thy heart hid.Stone that thyself canst stir,From earth arising,Lipless art thou, yet murmurCounsel inspiring.
Orites, lend thine ear,Stone smooth and splendid,Let us the spirit hearWithin thy heart hid.Stone that thyself canst stir,From earth arising,Lipless art thou, yet murmurCounsel inspiring.
Orites, lend thine ear,Stone smooth and splendid,Let us the spirit hearWithin thy heart hid.Stone that thyself canst stir,From earth arising,Lipless art thou, yet murmurCounsel inspiring.
Again the stone seemed to make a slight movement.
The priestess of Sabazius, bending over it, whispered:
“By the two great mysteries, life and death, I conjure thee, Orites, raise thy voice and answer. Shall this maiden apply to her mother or shall she follow the advice of the slave-girl, Doris?”
A whimpering sound like an infant’s cry was heard.
Ninus bent lower and kissed the stone three times—a strange, weak voice, which seemed to issue from it with difficulty, said slowly, syllable by syllable, the two words:
“O-bey Do-ris!”
Hipyllos had been made no wiser by this scene. He did not yet know what terrible thing had happened to Clytie or for what reason she sought advice.
The priestess of Sabazius wiped the perspiration from her forehead, and in absolute silence washed thebaetylusand put on its swaddling clothes.
“See!” she said as she replaced it in the basket, “the spirit is departing again.... But know one thing, girl; you must do what thebaetylusadvised; the ‘Unknown’ do not give their counsel in vain.”
“I will do it,” replied the muffled figure sighing. “But—the other thing of which Doris told you?”
Ninus smiled.
“You haven’t seen him for ten days,” she murmured. “And you think that he has forgotten you?”
“Dear Ninus!” cried the girl, pressing her hand upon her bosom. “He is my hope, my only hope. Your spells will not harm him?”
There was such tender anxiety in the question, thatHipyllos felt an almost unconquerable desire to spring forward and clasp the young girl in his arms.
“No,” replied Ninus. “These spells will do no harm. But, since I fulfil your wishes in this, give me the ring you showed me just now.”
Clytie hastened to comply with the demand.
Ninus then drew out an article wrapped in a cloth. “This is one of his sandals,” she whispered. Scattering sulphur on the charcoal she held the sandal in the smoke, then flung salt into the flame, saying in a slow, solemn tone:
“Hi-pyl-los, Cly-ti-e!”
The young man felt a shiver run through his limbs at hearing his name so suddenly.
Ninus glanced around. This was the moment when the person summoned, drawn by an invincible power, ought to appear and fall at his loved one’s feet.
The priestess shrugged her shoulders.
“Hm!” she muttered, as though baffled. “Your fear was not groundless, pretty maid. Take this vessel I use in pouring libations and wrap the purple wool around it, put these laurel branches on the flames, hold the wax near them, and set the dish beneath.”
At the same time Ninus raised aloft a tri-colored wax image and flung fragrant boughs upon the fire before it.
“Hear me, most terrible of goddesses, mysterious Hecate!” she cried, “mercifully aid us and make our spells more powerful than those of Medea and Circe. Let his blood burn as these laurel leaves are consumedin the flame, and his heart bleed and melt with tenderness for this maiden as this wax melts from the heat.”
Ninus started and listened.
The baying of a dog was heard in the stillness of the night.
“Hush!” she muttered. “I hear dogs barking. Hecate is near—in the cross-road yonder, where her altar stands. Strike these metal basins against each other—let the sound tell her that we feel her approach. Oh, Hecate, stern, exalted goddess, I will pour three libations in thy honor! Thrice accursed be each new fancy of the man this maiden loves. Let him instantly desert her rivals, as Theseus deserted the hapless Ariadne.”
Then, seizing the wheel, she set it in motion.
“Let his footsteps circle around this maiden’s dwelling, as this wheel turns on its axle. Direct his steps hither, lofty goddess,” continued Ninus, throwing a powder upon the charcoal. “Appear, oh Hipyllos, appear!” she called loudly. A clear yellow flame shot high into the air and vanished with a faint crackling sound, like a flash of lightning.
By the glow the young girl had seen Hipyllos’ face appear and disappear like a vision in a dream—a wall seemed to open and close over it. Terror and surprise made her utter a piercing shriek. Ninus fancied herself watched and blew out the light.
While Hipyllos, dazzled by the blaze, was groping his way around the corner of the wall he heard the dry twigs snapping under hurried footsteps. It wasthe two women, who were stealing away through the other end of the long arbor. He wanted to follow them, but ran into the arms of the armorer’s slave who was looking for him to say that his master had come. Almost at the same moment the door of Xenocles’ house closed with a bang, rendering farther pursuit useless.
He followed the slave into the shop. Sauros deserved credit for his work; the cuirass fitted admirably. But Hipyllos did not hear the smith’s long explanations; his sole desire was to be alone with his thoughts. So, when the fitting was over, he hastily took his leave, called his slave, told him to light a torch and set out on his homeward way. His disappointment at pretty Clytie’s escape had already vanished; nay even his anxiety about the trouble threatening her was forced to yield to the blissful thought of being beloved by the fairest maiden in Athens. He knew that now from her own lips—for it did not occur to him to doubt that the muffled figure was Clytie herself.
The following day Hipyllos returned from the race-course shortly after noon and flung himself upon a couch; but his blood was too keenly stirred for him to find immediate repose. He still saw and heard only the chariot-races. A long, long course, marble benchesfilled with passionately excited spectators, slanting rows of chariot sheds, falling barricades, horses dashing forward four abreast, clouds of dust, clapping of hands, and shouts of: “Speude, speude!” (haste) and: “Aristeue!” (keep ahead)—all this had gone to his head like intoxication. Gradually his excitement died away into a pleasant lassitude, and at the same time his thoughts wandered to the conjuration the day before in Sauros’ garden. Again he heard the priestess of Sabazius say: “You think of him very often, pretty maid?” and recalled the bewitching movement with which the young girl had bent her head and whispered the one word: “Always!” that had almost made him betray himself in his delight. He had reached this point in his love-dream, when the door-keeper entered.
“A young slave-girl wants to speak to you,” he said. “She has a letter from her mistress.”
Hipyllos started from the couch.
“Bring her in—quick.”
He understood two things—that some misfortune must really have befallen Clytie, and that what Doris had advised and thebaetylusconfirmed was—to write to him.
A young slave with a bright face entered and, folding her arms across her breast, bowed before him.
Hipyllos hastily advanced to meet her.
“In the name of the gods, what has happened?” he asked.
“This letter will tell you,” replied Doris—for itwas she—and handed him two wax-tablets folded together.
Hipyllos broke the ribbon that confined them, opened the tablets, and read the lines traced upon the wax. They ran as follows:
“Clytie, Xenocles’ daughter, greets Hipyllos, Chaeretades’ son.“It is necessary, doubly necessary, for me to write, first for the sake of the matter itself and secondly because a higher power has counselled me to do so. But I shall make the message short—for it concerns a misfortune. Know that my father, urged by that man, has hastened my marriage, and the wedding will take place in five days. Woe is me, funeral flambeaux would be more welcome than those bridal torches. Yet how is escape possible? Can a daughter contend against her father? Can a wife oppose her husband? My mother kisses me and weeps with me, but says she dares not do that. You, oh Hipyllos, are the only person with whom I can seek refuge. What you will do, I know not. But I turn to you as an ill-treated slave flies to the altar. Your vow that day, in my mother’s hearing, was no promise written in water. I read sincerity and truth in your face, and since that hour I have considered you the master of my life. You will not yield. In the midst of my grief I have butonejoy—that you cannot see me. My cheeks are crimson with shame, and my eyes are full of tears. This letter, the first and last, I still write as a maiden.”
“Clytie, Xenocles’ daughter, greets Hipyllos, Chaeretades’ son.
“It is necessary, doubly necessary, for me to write, first for the sake of the matter itself and secondly because a higher power has counselled me to do so. But I shall make the message short—for it concerns a misfortune. Know that my father, urged by that man, has hastened my marriage, and the wedding will take place in five days. Woe is me, funeral flambeaux would be more welcome than those bridal torches. Yet how is escape possible? Can a daughter contend against her father? Can a wife oppose her husband? My mother kisses me and weeps with me, but says she dares not do that. You, oh Hipyllos, are the only person with whom I can seek refuge. What you will do, I know not. But I turn to you as an ill-treated slave flies to the altar. Your vow that day, in my mother’s hearing, was no promise written in water. I read sincerity and truth in your face, and since that hour I have considered you the master of my life. You will not yield. In the midst of my grief I have butonejoy—that you cannot see me. My cheeks are crimson with shame, and my eyes are full of tears. This letter, the first and last, I still write as a maiden.”
While reading these lines the most varied feelings assailed Hipyllos; he felt both grieved and charmed. He again glanced over the letter, and the superscription awakened a feeling of delight. The young girl, educated under her mother’s eye, was honesty itself—it had not once occurred to her to write anonymously. She did not utter a single unkind word about Acestor, the source of her trouble; she merely alluded to him as “that man.” And how touching was her confidence! She did not know what he would do, yet she appealed to him as the only person with whom she could find refuge. And the last warning that there was only a short time for action she expressed in the words “I write thisstillas a maiden.”
There was something so womanly in the letter that Hipyllos felt his heart swell with pride and happiness. It seemed as though some part of the lovely girl’s personality clung to the wax tablets and the delicate lines traced upon them, and again he vowed to win her, cost what it might.
Hipyllos glanced from the letter to the slave.
She was a blooming girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, rather tall than short, with a brown skin and curling black hair. Her dress was a white linen robe, confined under the youthful bosom by a girdle striped with blue and yellow.
Doris smilingly returned the look. She understood the whole matter.
“Why is the wedding so hurried?” asked Hipyllos. “Why does it take place in five days?”
“How should I know?” replied Doris. “Some of the slaves think Acestor needs the dowry.”
Hipyllos took from a low chest a reed, “the black kind,” and a roll of the papyrus known among dealers by the name oftaneotica.
While Doris, knowing that on her return she would be obliged to describe every couch, rug, and tripod, was gazing around the room, Hipyllos sat down at a small table and wrote as his youth and love dictated:
“I greet you, beautiful Clytie, my light, my soul, and my life!“Your letter has been a source of both terror and delight. But the terror is conquered and the delight remains. Rely upon me, I shall leave nothing untried. But should I not save you in the five days, my advice is this: Feign illness, so that the marriage must be delayed. I shall thus gain more time. And now farewell, dearest treasure of my soul! Be of good courage and calm yourself.”
“I greet you, beautiful Clytie, my light, my soul, and my life!
“Your letter has been a source of both terror and delight. But the terror is conquered and the delight remains. Rely upon me, I shall leave nothing untried. But should I not save you in the five days, my advice is this: Feign illness, so that the marriage must be delayed. I shall thus gain more time. And now farewell, dearest treasure of my soul! Be of good courage and calm yourself.”
A drachma was slipped with the letter into Doris’ hand and, blushing for joy, she left Hipyllos with the best wishes for him and Clytie.
The young man was scarcely alone ere he became absorbed in thought. “Five days!” he murmured, “five days!” He could have killed Acestor, but he perceived that violence was no way to win the fair girl. To go to Xenocles and tell him everything would certainly be the simplest method, but would the latterbreak his pledged word, especially so short a time before the wedding? It surely was not probable. After long irresolution Hipyllos thought of Thuphrastos. The old soldier was clever in everything he undertook, experienced in all the relations of life, and renowned for his wise counsel. Besides, Clytie’s father had the greatest respect for him. Perhaps he might help.
The next moment Hipyllos was on his way to Thuphrastos. It was just the hour between the time to go to market and the time of visiting the gymnasia. As the young man expected, he found the old captain at home. The latter received him kindly and listened to him attentively but, when Hipyllos mentioned his real errand, Thuphrastos frowned and gave him a flat refusal.
“What do you ask?” he said in his rough way. “I am to go to Xenocles—and dictate to him to whom he shall marry his daughter? Make myself a laughing-stock for him and others? No, young man, you don’t know Thuphrastos.”
Hipyllos bent his head and fixed his eyes upon the ground. His last hope was destroyed.
There was a moment’s silence, in which the dog was heard rattling his chain outside.
Thuphrastos straightened his grey robe, rubbed hisbald pate, and absently pulled his beard. Hipyllos felt ashamed of his request and looked thoroughly disheartened. At last Thuphrastos laid his hand on his shoulder and sat down on the couch by his side.
“Don’t lower your eyes like a woman,” he said, and then added in a kinder tone: “Pluck up your courage! There are other ways and means.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hipyllos, raising his head.
“Listen—I’m going to give you a piece of advice. The old general Stratocles once saw some of his heavy-armed troopers turn pale when about to meet the foe. He instantly shouted: ‘If any of you have forgotten anything in the camp, you can go and get it!’ One man sneaked timidly out of the ranks, followed by five or six others. ‘Good!’ cried Stratocles, ‘the cowards have gone! Now we have only brave men among us.’ Then he rushed forward, and the enemy fled.... But, young man, you don’t yet fully understand?”
Hipyllos made a gesture of denial.
“Well then,” Thuphrastos continued with a certain impetuosity, as though he could not utter what he had to say quickly enough, “I think your rival, Acestor, is a chatterer and a coward—I mean—that, like those slaves, he must be brought to show himself in his true colors. Then Xenocles—without asking anybody’s advice—will let him go.”
“Splendid! Excellent!” cried Hipyllos, clapping his hands. “Men don’t praise your clever counsel without cause. But how is this to be managed?”
“By Zeus, there’s no difficulty about that. Make yourself small as he makes himself great—feign to be timid, and let him show himself brave. Then, when he has puffed himself up well, give him a real fright. Pretend that the meetings of the hetaeriae are discovered, that the house is surrounded by bowmen, and when he is trembling with terror and doesn’t know where to hide, do as Stratocles did with the cowards—give him an excuse to slip away, and he’ll speedily show the hollows under the soles of his feet.”
Hipyllos laughed. The pair talked together some time longer, and when the young man went away all anxiety and doubt had forsaken him.
Hipyllos’ letter was a joy and comfort to Clytie, but it did not soothe her. Five days was so short a time! Amid tears and caresses she confided in her mother, and described Hipyllos with such loving eloquence that Maira (her mother) was won over to her wishes. Though Clytie had little faith in her intercession, she went to her and by entreaties and persuasions induced her to promise to tell her story to Xenocles. Two of the five days had already passed, so there was no time to lose.
The next evening, when the husband and wife were supping together, the husband comfortably extended on a couch and the wife sitting humbly on its outeredge, Maira—not without a secret tremor—ventured to mention the subject; but the hot-tempered little man scarcely understood what she was talking about, ere he started up and repulsed her in such a way that she dared not revert to the matter again. Every hope of Maira’s assistance was thus cut off, and to speak to her father herself did not even enter the young girl’s mind. She could do nothing but fix her last faint hope on Hipyllos.
Yet, when the day before the wedding arrived without any prospect of deliverance, Clytie ceased to weep and fell into a state of dull insensibility, like a person who is utterly hopeless. “What is the use of pretending to be ill?” she thought. They will say: “It is nothing—it will pass off! Can I oppose them all? Can I keep the bridal procession waiting? No, even if I complain of sickness, they will lift me into the chariot and let that man carry me to his house.”
From that moment she felt as though she had no will in anything.
When evening came, the last evening she was to spend under her parents’ roof, her mother and a few female slaves were busied about her in her maiden-bower. It was a small room with reddish-brown walls, lighted by a clay lamp which stood on a brass tripod. Clytie sat on a low chair, with her face turned from the lamp, and Doris stood behind her in the act of fastening her hair into a knot. At the back of the room Maira and a middle-aged slave, who had been Clytie’s nurse, were busied in examining robes, kerchiefs, girdles,and over-garments, which they spread out on the young girl’s bed, a small maple-wood couch, covered with embroidered pillows and coverlets.
A sorrowful, troubled mood prevailed. Even the atmosphere of the little room was heavy, as though saturated with the peculiar damp freshness of women’s clean garments, mingled with a penetrating odor of ointments and Median apples, the latter being laid between the stuffs to perfume them. Now and then Clytie’s mother and the nurse exchanged a few words, but as softly as if they were trying not to disturb some sick person. Clytie resigned herself in perfect silence to the care of her favorite attendant, and even the latter’s nimble tongue was still.
Suddenly a girl’s merry voice was heard outside. According to ancient custom the bride, on her marriage eve, bathed in water brought from the Fountain of Enneacrunus.
This water must be brought by a virgin, and a young neighbor, Coronis, the daughter of a rich basket-maker, who from childhood had been Clytie’s friend and looked up to her with admiration, had gone with her slaves to the fountain to fetch the water.
As she entered, a breath of gayety and life seemed to come into the silent room. Coronis was a merry little maid, with a childish face, whose dark eyes, lips, cheeks, dimples—all laughed. She was dressed entirely in white, and carried the laurel branch used for purification. This she instantly put down by the door, as if to say: “Stay there, you useless, solemn thing.”
She had so much to tell that she scarcely took time to greet Clytie and her mother. She had met at the fountain two other bride-maids; they had talked together, and Coronis therefore knew all about the weddings which were to take place the next day; she knew the fathers, mothers, brides, and bridegrooms, and had a great deal to say about the marriage garments, bridesmen, and nuptial banquets.
When her story was ended, preparations were made for a ceremony which the art of those days has represented upon many a vase.
Doris placed a bath-tub shaped like a mussel-shell in the middle of the floor, and set the full hydria beside it. Then, kneeling before her mistress, she loosed her girdle and unfastened the clasps on her shoulders. Two slight pulls were sufficient to make the garments fall around the hips, and from a cloud of white folds appeared the whole upper portion of the maiden’s slender form, whose fairness, seen against the brown wall, became doubly dazzling and seemed created to ensnare both eyes and hearts.
Now began the familiar talk that always takes place among women on such occasions.
“How beautiful you are, dear!” exclaimed little Coronis, pressing a light kiss on her friend’s shoulder. “What a complexion—what is the finest Syrian stuff compared with its smoothness!”
“Yes,” said the middle-aged nurse, with as much self-satisfaction as though she considered Clytie herown work, “I know that even Leda’s bosom was not more beautiful, ... no breast-band is needed here.”
Doris glanced with a smile at Coronis and the nurse.
“What you praise deserves the highest compliments,” she said, “but it is not what I value most.” With a look of earnest affection she knelt before Clytie, took her hand, and kissed it. “What I value most is my beautiful mistress’ goodness. I have served her daily ever since she was a little child—and never in that long time has she uttered a single unkind word.”
“Believe me, my Clytie,” the mother added, not without a certain pride, though her eyes were full of tears, “you will be fortunate and happy. What husband can fail to love you—so good and so beautiful!”
Coronis now took her friend by the hand. As Clytie rose, the garments slipped lower and remained lying around her on the floor like a broad white linen garland. An instant, but only an instant, the young girl, faintly illumined by the lamp, stood in the white beauty of her snowy limbs in the dusky room; then, with a swift movement, she stepped out of the folds of her robes into the bath-tub.
Coronis, with a mischievous expression, raised the full hydria.
“Prepare to shiver, Clytie,” she said laughing. “I’m going to do what is written in Lamprus’ bath-song.” And holding it so that the water trickled down over the shining, supple body, she chanted in a low tone:
“Slowly pour the fountain’s waterO’er the white neck of the bride;Brow and bosom let it moisten,Hand, and foot, and back, and side!Soon the fair one will perceive theCooling freshness of the bath,As her fair limbs’ marble whitenessThe pink bloom of roses hath.”
“Slowly pour the fountain’s waterO’er the white neck of the bride;Brow and bosom let it moisten,Hand, and foot, and back, and side!Soon the fair one will perceive theCooling freshness of the bath,As her fair limbs’ marble whitenessThe pink bloom of roses hath.”
“Slowly pour the fountain’s waterO’er the white neck of the bride;Brow and bosom let it moisten,Hand, and foot, and back, and side!Soon the fair one will perceive theCooling freshness of the bath,As her fair limbs’ marble whitenessThe pink bloom of roses hath.”
While Doris was wiping her mistress’ back with a soft woollen cloth, the latter’s eyes followed the quivering drops of water that chased and mingled with each other on her white neck before trickling in waving streams over the smooth skin. Clytie was not vain of her beauty; but when, as now, she looked down over the soft slope of her shoulders and the chaste curves of her bosom she could not help receiving an impression of something uncommonly pretty. The water had not only strengthened her body, but given fresh vigor to her mind. A multitude of thoughts darted through her brain. Did not Homer himself tell the story of a bloody war waged for a fair woman’s sake? So woman’s beauty must be something precious. And for whom wasshedestined?
She saw in imagination her bridegroom Acestor—stately and boastful, but without a trace of Attic refinement, heavy and dull. She had only cast one hasty, timid glance at him, but a woman’s glance is like a flash of lightning, and she had caught him fixing his eyes on her with an expression she had never seen. She felt that it was monstrous, a desecration, to begiven to this man, and secretly vowed to shun no means of escaping so bitter a fate.
This resolve was soon to be tested.
Scarcely had Maira, accompanied by the nurse, left the room to go with Coronis to the door and make a final survey of the house, when a noise like a pebble flung against the wall was heard outside. Faint as the sound was, Doris started and Clytie, who was in the act of putting on her tunic, stopped, blushed crimson, and held her breath to listen.
Doris ran to the peep-hole and drew the red curtain aside. A voice whispered a few words which sounded like a question.
Before Doris replied, she turned towards Clytie and said: “It is his slave Manodoros.... He asks if you are alone.”
Then she put her head through the hole and answered in a smothered tone: “Yes, entirely alone. But what do you want? Speak. My mistress’ mother has just gone out, and will be back directly.”
Again there was a whisper outside.
Doris stretched her arm through the opening as far as she could. At the same moment her neck and ears grew crimson, and she stamped her foot impatiently. “Let go!” she cried, “let go! This is no time fortrifling.” When she again turned, she held in her hand a letter written on a papyrus-scroll.
“Read it, dear Mistress,” she said as she took the bath-tub and carried it away. “I’ll keep watch outside.”
Clytie seized the letter with a trembling hand and broke the seal. The dull expression of her features had vanished, and her lovely face was radiant with expectation and hope.
The letter contained the following lines, which seemed to have been hastily written, for here and there a word was erased and changed for another.
“Dearest Clytie!“You are alone against many; I fear you may let yourself be over-persuaded. You must fly; it is the only way of escape. The priestess of Sabazius is willing to receive you. Doris must go, too, or she will be tortured and confess everything.“In the name of all the gods, do what I advise, my beloved. Have you not yourself called me the lord of your life? You can easily escape through the garden; keep concealed a few days, and all danger will be over. I shall know how to soothe your father’s wrath. Besides, can it be counted against the many happy years awaiting us?”
“Dearest Clytie!
“You are alone against many; I fear you may let yourself be over-persuaded. You must fly; it is the only way of escape. The priestess of Sabazius is willing to receive you. Doris must go, too, or she will be tortured and confess everything.
“In the name of all the gods, do what I advise, my beloved. Have you not yourself called me the lord of your life? You can easily escape through the garden; keep concealed a few days, and all danger will be over. I shall know how to soothe your father’s wrath. Besides, can it be counted against the many happy years awaiting us?”
If this letter had come earlier, Clytie would never have decided upon a step so entirely opposed to what was seemly for an Attic maiden. The idea of quittingher father’s roof would have appeared to her the most impossible of all. Yet, now that her aversion to Acestor had become as intense as her love for Hipyllos, she thought the letter very bold, but at the same time perceived that Hipyllos told the truth. The danger was imminent, and there was no escape save flight if they were not to be parted forever.
“He is right,” she thought. “I have called him the lord of my life. Should I then fail to fulfil his first command? No—I will do what he directs—happen what may.”
When Doris entered to fetch the empty hydria, Clytie stood before her with flushed cheeks and a glance which expressed firm resolution.
“When everything is quiet in the house,” she said, “I shall fly through the garden. You will go with me.”
Doris stared at her in open-mouthed amazement; the empty hydria she had taken dropped from her hand and broke with a rattling noise on the tiled floor.
“May the gods avert the warning!” she murmured, as she picked up the pieces.
But Clytie did not allow herself to be disturbed.
“When father and mother are asleep,” she continued, “you must slip into their chamber and get the key of the garden.”
Doris scarcely believed her ears. She no longer recognized Clytie. Was this the timid young girl who had been afraid to meet Ninus and whom she was obliged to lead step by step? Now it was Clytie who commanded and Doris who hesitated.
“But, do you think, Mistress...?”
Clytie raised her hand with a gesture that commanded silence.
At the same moment steps were heard outside. Clytie’s mother returned and, sending Doris away, seated herself on the edge of the couch and drew the young girl down beside her. This was the last evening the daughter would spend at home. Maira tenderly stroked Clytie’s hair, clasped her hands in her own, and talked a long time to her in a whisper. When they at last parted it was reluctantly, after many an embrace and caress, and the eyes of both were wet with tears.
Clytie felt a twinge of remorse, but it did not change her resolve.
Tearing a strip of papyrus from Hipyllos’ letter, she wrote the following lines:
“Dear Mother!“Forgive me, I must fly—I abhor that man. But do not fear! I shall seek a safe place, where no harm will befall me. Doris goes with me. In a few days, when the danger is over, I will come back. Farewell, dear mother, blessings on you for your love! I leave my father’s house a virgin, and as a virgin I shall return.”
“Dear Mother!
“Forgive me, I must fly—I abhor that man. But do not fear! I shall seek a safe place, where no harm will befall me. Doris goes with me. In a few days, when the danger is over, I will come back. Farewell, dear mother, blessings on you for your love! I leave my father’s house a virgin, and as a virgin I shall return.”
When Clytie had fastened the strip of papyrus with a pin to the pillow, she gathered together the few articles of clothing she would need for a short absence.Doris now came stealing in; she had been listening outside the chamber. Xenocles and his wife were not yet asleep, but were talking to each other; she had heard them utter the word “bride-man.”
An hour later Doris again glided through the open hall of the women’s apartment, called theprostas, to the chamber occupied by Clytie’s parents. She listened, but heard nothing; the conversation seemed to have ceased. The room was one of the few apartments in a Greek house that could be closed by a door. Fortunately this door was ajar, but to slip in Doris was obliged to push it farther open. Scarcely had she touched it when she was startled by a loud, distinct creaking. She felt her cheeks grow bloodless, but she must go in. With the utmost caution she again took hold of the door, and this time it opened noiselessly. Silently as a shadow she stole bare-footed into the room. A sultry, heavy atmosphere greeted her. She heard the breathing of the sleepers, but there was no other sound. From the peristyle the faint light of the night-heavens shone through the open doorway. Doris saw the bed indistinctly; something light trailed on the floor beside it—doubtless a woman’s long robes hanging from a chain. She cautiously groped her way forward, fearing to knock against something and make a noise. There was astrange feeling of insecurity about her, and her feet seemed as heavy as lead. With dilated eyes she saw, or fancied that she saw, two human figures stretched upon the bed. Advancing a few steps nearer she felt paralyzed with terror and on the point of falling. One of the figures sat upright in the bed and turned its face towards her. She could not see the eyes, but was aware that the person saw her distinctly.
“Is it you, Doris? What do you want?” a voice said, interrupting the silence.
Doris knew the tones, though amid the darkness and stillness of the night they seemed to have a ghostly sound. It was Maira who spoke.
The mother was so engrossed by the thought of her daughter’s wedding, that she had not been greatly startled by seeing Doris glide in. The voice merely sounded a little surprised.
Doris could not answer; it was impossible for her to utter a single word.
“What do you want so late?” Maira said again, this time with a touch of impatience.
Doris forced herself to control her voice.
“The key....” she stammered, “I want to get the key.”
“Why?”
“The night-lamp has gone out, and I want to light it at the neighbor’s.”
“Simpleton, you can light it from Clytie’s. It is shining on the pillars outside.”
This was unanswerable—Doris thought her causelost. But the very magnitude of the danger forced her to calm herself. She drew a long breath, and once more felt in possession of her wits. Shewouldhave the key. And all the resolution and defiance that exist in a firm determination suddenly filled her soul so completely that, heedless whether she roused Xenocles or not, she went straight to her goal.
“But I must have the key,” she replied in a tone that sounded cold and strange in her own ears, “I want to pour out the bath-water.”
“Let it stand till morning.”
Doris felt with her hand over the wall near the head of the bed and found the nail with the three-toothed key, which she took quietly without any extreme haste.
“I dare not let the water stand,” she said, “my mistress ordered me to pour it out.”
Without waiting for a reply, she left the room as lightly as a feather, and breathless with joy and excitement ran back to Clytie, before whom she triumphantly held aloft the key.
Clytie clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly, then, without losing a moment, she gave her the bundle of clothes, threw a blue-striped kerchief over her head, and holding her faithful maid-servant’s hand, glided out of the room.
Clytie’s heart was throbbing with excitement. In passing on she raised the curtain hanging at the door of the apartment in which stood the images of the household gods, and bowing towards the little statues, wholly invisible in the gloom, murmured in a low tone:
“Do not be wrathful, protectors of my race! Do not desert me because I forsake you.”
Then, accompanied by Doris, she walked through the open hall into a large work-room set apart for women. The darkness here was so great that nothing was visible save two narrow grey streaks; these were the loop-holes in the wall, through which the room received its light by day. A warm atmosphere, the heat emanating from human bodies, greeted the fugitives, and they heard the heavy breathing of numerous sleepers. Most of the female slaves of the household spent the night here on couches made of piles of cushions or felt rugs ranged along the wall. As Doris moved towards the garden door she ran against something, probably a tall tripod. She hastily caught at it, but in the darkness missed her aim and it fell with a heavy crash, while a copper lamp which had stood upon it rattled on the stone floor. The slave women started from their sleep; the shrieks of one terrifiedthe others till all vied in screaming. Hasty footsteps crossed the peristyle, and a man’s voice cried angrily:
“What an ado! Why are you yelling so? What is it?”
“Hush, you simpletons!” said Doris’ well-known tones, “do you take me for a thief who has lifted the door off its hinges or dug his way through under the wall?”
“What are you doing here?” asked the door-keeper of the women’s apartment; for it was he who had hurried in.
Meantime Doris had found the lock and put the key in it.
“Oh, pshaw!” she replied, as though vexed by so much disturbance, “I’m going to pour out the bath-water. In the dark I ran against a tripod—it fell, and so they screamed as if they were possessed by some evil demon.”
With these words she opened the door, pushed Clytie out, and followed herself.
The fugitives now found themselves in the garden. Here the darkness was not too great to permit them to distinguish without difficulty the paths winding between the black masses of the shrubs and trees. A damp wind blew into their faces and the odor of the flowers was oppressively strong; they heard a rustling among the leaves, like the sound of dice dropping on a copper shield, and big drops fell singly.
After the anxiety she had experienced Clytie felt unspeakable relief. It seemed as if she inhaled libertywith every breath of the night air, and she thought with a touch of joyful dread of meeting Hipyllos. Doris was still absorbed by the remembrance of the nocturnal disturbance in the house, but consoled herself by thinking that the door-keeper would explain everything.
Outside the garden gate stood two dark figures. One wore his hair cut short—so he was a slave; the other had long locks, and though both appeared like dim black outlines Clytie instantly recognized Hipyllos by the stately way in which his mantle was draped about him—in itself sufficient to mark the young Eupatride.
Clytie’s heart beat faster, and she suddenly trembled in every limb as she had done the evening she stole out to meet the priestess of Sabazius. She had scarcely stepped outside of the garden, when Hipyllos hurried towards her.
“I thank you,” he said, “blessings on you for coming.”
The young girl made no reply; she was far too much agitated and confused to be able to utter a single word.
“You saw the necessity,” Hipyllos continued, “and besides....”
He paused and, smiling, gazed into her face; he had never seen her look lovelier. The blue-striped kerchief she had thrown over her head cast a slight shadow upon her features, which lent them a mysterious charm.
... “And besides,” he added, “you wrote that you trusted me.”
Clytie raised her dark eyes to him.
Hipyllos threw his arm around her waist, and though he felt a slight movement of resistance he led her in this way the short distance to the hired house where the priestess of Sabazius lived. It was a dwelling called atristegos, a three-storied house which belonged to Sauros, the armorer, and stood close beside his workshop.
At the first subdued tap of the knocker, Ninus was ready and opened the door.
Hipyllos clasped both of Clytie’s hands.
“We must part,” he said. “But, whatever happens, do not go home until you have received a message from me. And now farewell, you beautiful one, you darling, you light of my life!”
He pressed her to his breast, and ere she could prevent it he had snatched a kiss.
But Clytie tore herself from his embrace, gathered the folds of her robe around her, and fled as lightly as a deer up the steps, where her slender figure vanished in the darkness.
Hipyllos gazed after her.
“By Aphrodite,” he exclaimed, “she is like a butterfly.”
Maira did not sleep much that night. The next morning she was surprised not to see Doris flitting about the house, and having found Clytie’s room empty, she did not doubt that her daughter was in the garden with her favorite attendant. She went there and called repeatedly; but, when silence was the only reply, a presentiment of misfortune darted through her mind. She hurried back to Clytie’s chamber, searched it, found the papyrus note on the pillow, and read its contents with breathless haste.
“Merciful Gods!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Gone—fled in the night!... Clytie, Clytie, how could you cause me such sorrow? Make our house the scorn of envious neighbors—What will your father say? He will rage and curse you....”
Suddenly a revulsion of feeling came over her.
“Well, let him rage,” she murmured, “let him rage and call down curses.... To drive my Clytie to this! How she must have suffered! But, by Hera, he shall hear the truth.”
She was already on her way to her chamber, when she paused.
“What am I doing!” she exclaimed. “The first thing is to conceal Clytie’s flight. No one must suspect that her room is empty.”
Calling Eunoa, the oldest female slave in the house,she said to her: “Clytie is ill. Sit down here outside of her door and let no one enter, not even her nurse. Do exactly as I tell you.”
Eunoa opened her eyes in astonishment; she had never heard her mistress speak in so curt and imperious a tone.
When Maira entered her bed-room, there was a certain solemnity in her manner that attracted Xenocles’ attention. Stretching himself on the couch, he beckoned to her.
But, instead of taking her seat on the edge, Maira remained standing before him, gazing steadily into his face. Xenocles scarcely believed his eyes. It was the first time during the twenty years of their married life that his wife had not instantly done whatever he requested.
“Sit down,” he repeated, again pointing to the seat.
Maira did not seem to hear.
“I have evil tidings,” she said coldly. “A misfortune has happened to us during the night.”
“What is it? What is it?” cried the excitable little man, and pointing to the strip of papyrus she held in her hand, he asked: “Is this the misfortune?”
“It is from Clytie,” replied Maira, and read the contents in a tone which seemed to imply that the matter was no concern of hers.
At the words: “Forgive me, I must fly,” Xenocles started and, with a stiff movement, as though both his limbs had suddenly become one, he swung himself upfrom his reclining posture and put his feet on the floor so that he sat erect on the couch. He seemed to have been struck speechless, and his hands fumbled with his belt, which he had not yet buckled.
He was thinking of Clytie’s childhood, of her pretty, gentle face, her innocent caresses. His eyes filled with tears—he could not believe that she had gone.
Maira was a good wife and loved her husband tenderly; but she was not more generous than the majority of the female sex. Deeply as Xenocles was moved, it did not occur to her to spare him. All that she had silently endured for years must be uttered.
“Now we have no daughter,” she said, as a sort of preamble.
Xenocles was silent, the muscles around his mouth twitched convulsively.
A pause ensued. At that early hour of the morning the house was so still that the flies were heard buzzing in the sunshine on the rush carpet inside the door.
“It would have been better,” Maira continued, “if you had not always had your head filled with your plans and measurements for buildings. Whole days passed without your saying a word to Clytie or me, and if I spoke to you about anything that disturbed you, I was so harshly rebuffed that I often dared not address you. Doris the slave-girl knew ten times as much about Clytie’s affairs. By Adrasteia, it’s an easy matter to be a father, if a man considers it enough to give his daughter home and clothes and food. But, ifyou had had any love for your child, had you suspected what she hoped and longed for, had you known what she feared more than death—this misfortune would not have befallen us.”
Xenocles gazed at Maira as though she were a stranger. He understood that it was maternal affection which made her so strong, and at the same time dimly felt that perhaps he had some reason to reproach himself.
He bent his head.
“What is to be done?” he murmured. “Tell me, Maira. You have always been a good wife to me.”
At these simple words all Maira’s wrath vanished. She involuntarily sat down beside her husband and, as their eyes met, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“First,” she whispered, “we must conceal Clytie’s flight. Then you must—better now than later—go to Acestor and tell him that Clytie is ill and the wedding must be postponed. You can say she is delirious and no one is allowed to see her.”
Xenocles rose.
“It will be a hard task,” he said.
Fortunately Acestor’s house stood in the Melitan quarter so Xenocles, while on his way to it, had time to clear his brain.
As he had feared, he found the slaves in the act of decorating the building with garlands and green branches.
“Take all this down!” said the impetuous little man. “The bride is ill. There will be no wedding.”
The door-keeper, who was standing at the half-open door watching the slaves, heard these words and hurrying to his master, repeated them while announcing the visitor.
Xenocles was not a man to stand waiting at an open door, especially in the house of his future son-in-law. He followed close behind, but while crossing the peristyle he started at the sound of a blow, and distinctly heard the words:
“Take that, bird of misfortune, for your evil tidings.”
Acestor received Xenocles with a sullen face and frowning brow.
“Is what this blockhead says true?” he asked, without letting Xenocles have time to speak.
“The gods have given me a bitter cup to drain,” replied the little man with dignity. “My daughter has had a sudden attack of illness. She is delirious, and no one is permitted to see her. The wedding must be deferred.”
Acestor made no reply, but stared angrily into vacancy.
“Strange!” he muttered, “A bride who falls ill on her wedding day—who ever heard of such a thing? By Zeus, this or something else seems to me a bad omen. Do not forget that you owe me compensation and, by the gods, a double one. In the first place the girl is beautiful enough for many to desire to wed her,even without a dowry, and secondly I had calculated on the amount agreed upon as a sum of which I was sure.”
“I will think of it,” replied Xenocles coldly, and went away even more displeased with Acestor than with himself.
On the walk home he recalled the events of the morning and, as Clytie’s flight, Maira’s reproaches, and Acestor’s greed passed through his mind, he sighed heavily and exclaimed:
“The gods know where all this will end.”