On their way from the Theatre, Clearchus informed his friends of his decision to be married on the morrow.
"Then we must feast to-night!" Chares cried promptly.
"Very well," Clearchus said, "but you will have to make the arrangements for me, as I have other things to do."
"Aristotle will take charge of the food and wine," said the Theban, eagerly, "if he is willing to assume such a responsibility; and I will provide the entertainment and send out the invitations. What do you say?"
"Good," Clearchus replied; "that is, if Aristotle agrees."
"I am willing," said the Stagirite.
"It is settled, then," Chares declared. "Come, Leonidas, I shall need your help. Let us get to work."
It was hardly sunset when the guests who had been bidden by Chares began to assemble at the house of Clearchus. A crimson awning had been drawn over the peristylium and the soft light of scores of lamps shone upward against it. Shrubs and flowering plants partly hid the marble columns. Medean carpets had been spread upon the floor. The tables, each with its soft couch, had been arranged in two parallel lines, joined at one end by those set for the host and the most honored of the guests. At the farther end of the space thus enclosed a fountain flung up a stream that sparkled with variegated colors.
All had been prepared under the direction of Aristotle in such a manner as to gratify the senses without jarring upon the most sensitive taste. The masses of color and the contrasts of light and shade were grouped with subtle skill to create a pleasing impression. Slaves walked noiselessly across the hall, appearing and vanishing in the wall of foliage, bearing dishes of gold and of silver and flagons filled with rare wines. Softly, as from a distance, sounded the music of flutes and citharse.
Clearchus and his guests, crowned with wreaths of myrtle, reclined upon the couches. Their talk ran chiefly upon the events of the day and the contest of oratory in the Assembly.
"You Athenians ought to pass a law banishing all your speakers," Chares drawled. "Then there might be some chance that you would adopt a policy and stick to it. As it is, the infernal skill of these men makes you believe first one thing and then another, until you end by not knowing what to think."
"You mean we have plenty of counsellors but no counsel," Clearchus replied.
"That's it, exactly," Chares said. "And that man, Demosthenes, will bring you to grief yet, some day."
"All your states have had their turn of power," Aristotle said, "and none has been able to keep it. There is another day coming and it will be the day of the Macedonian. He dreams of making you all one."
"Let him keep away from my country with his dreams," Leonidas remarked.
"There spoke the lion!" laughed Clearchus. "Stubborn to the last."
"Did you hear what old Phocion said when he came out of the Theatre?" asked a young man with a shrill voice who sat on the right.
"No; what was it?" Clearchus inquired.
"Demosthenes wanted to know what he thought of his oration," the narrator said. "You know Demosthenes likes to hear himself praised and he would almost give his right hand for a compliment from Phocion, the 'pruner of his periods,' as he calls him. 'It was only indifferent,' the old fellow told him, 'but good enough to cost you your life.' You should have seen how pale Demosthenes grew; but Phocion put his hand on his shoulder and said, 'Never mind; for this once, I think I can save thee.'"
"They say Phocion is an honest man," Chares remarked.
"So he is," Aristotle replied. "And one of few."
The young men who had assembled to honor the occasion listened eagerly to every word that fell from the lips of the man whose keen deductions and daring speculations had begun to open new pathways in every branch of human wisdom. The rivalry between the philosophers in Athens was even more keen than that between the orators, and each had his school of partisans and defenders.
"Honesty is truth," said Porphyry, a young follower of Xenocrates, who had succeeded Plato in the Academy. "But what is truth? Have you Peripatetics discovered it yet?"
"We are seeking, at least," Aristotle replied dryly, feeling that an attempt was being made to entrap him.
"Democritus holds that truth does not exist," Porphyry ventured, unabashed.
"Yes, and Protagoras maintains that we are the measure of all things and that everything is true or false, as we will," the Stagirite rejoined. "They are unfortunate, for if there were no truth, there would be no world. As for the Sceptics, they have not the courage of their doctrines; for which of them, being in Libya and conceiving himself to be in Athens, would think of trying to walk into the Odeum? And when they fall sick, do they not summon a physician instead of trusting to some person who is ignorant of healing to cure them? Those who search for truth with their eyes and hands only shall never find it, for there are truths which are none the less true because we cannot see nor feel them, and these are the greatest of all."
"We might know the truth at last if we could find out what animates nature," Clearchus said. "Why do flowers grow and bloom? Why do birds fly and fishes swim?"
"The marble statues of the Parthenon would have remained blocks of stone forever had not Phidias cut them out," Aristotle responded. "It was Empedocles who taught us that earth, air, fire, and water must form the limits of our knowledge; but who believes him now?"
"Do you hold, then, with Anaxagoras of Clazomene, that all things are directed by a divine mind?" Porphyry asked.
This question was followed by a sudden hush while Aristotle considered his answer. All present had heard whispers that the Stagirite in his teaching was introducing new Gods and denying the power of the old divinities. This was the crime for which Socrates had been put to death and Pericles himself had found it difficult to save Aspasia from the same fate when a similar charge was preferred against her. Aristotle felt his danger, for he knew that the jealous and powerful priesthood would be glad to catch him tripping, as indeed it did in later years.
"It was Hermotimus, I think, who first proposed that doctrine," he said slowly, "and I have noticed that Anaxagoras employs it only when no other explanation of what he sees is left him."
There was a murmur of applause at this reply, which suggested the necessity for supposing the existence of an overruling intelligence without committing the philosopher to such a belief. The young Academician seemed crestfallen, but by common consent the topic was abandoned as too dangerous and the conversation became more general.
Clearchus could not wholly conceal the anxiety that filled his mind. He started at every unexpected sound and turned his face toward the entrance, where he had posted a slave with orders to bring him word instantly should any message for him arrive. His mood did not escape his friends, who, without knowing the reason for it, urged wine upon him in the hope of raising his spirits and for the same reason themselves drank more freely than usual.
Chares had promised something new in the way of amusement, but he refused to tell what it was to be. Consequently there was a flutter of expectation when the attendants removed the last course, washing the hands of the guests for the seventh time, and leaving only wine and sweetmeats before them.
First came a Scythian with a trained bear, which performed a series of familiar tricks. Aristotle watched the animal with the most minute attention, directing notice to several of its characteristics and explaining their meaning. The music then struck into a louder and livelier air and six young girls, in floating garments of brilliant hue, performed a graceful dance of intricate figure. There was no novelty in this and Chares became the target for good-natured reproaches, which he received smilingly. The dancing girls gave place to a swarthy Indian juggler, whose feats of magic delighted the spectators and evoked cries of wonder and admiration.
As the juggler retired gravely, it was noticed that Aristotle, unused to so much wine, had dropped quietly off to sleep. By command of Clearchus, two stalwart slaves carried him away to bed, while his companions at the board drank his health.
"All this is very well, Chares," Porphyry complained, "but I thought you were going to show us something new."
"Pour a libation to Aphrodite!" the Theban replied, sprinkling a few drops from his goblet and draining what remained.
The others followed his example, nothing loath.
From behind a mass of blossoms came a young woman and stood before the sparkling fountain with her chin slightly raised and a smile upon her lips. She wore a chiton of shimmering, transparent fabric from the looms of Amorgos. The coils of her tawny hair were held in place by jewelled pins which were her only adornment. There was a confident expression of sensuous content on her face and a slight smile parted her lips as she saw the involuntary admiration that she inspired.
Through the golden cobweb that covered without hiding it, her firm flesh glowed warmly. The curves of her shoulders and breast and the rounded fulness of her lithe limbs were as perfect as a statue. As Clearchus gazed upon her with the delight in pure beauty which was so strong in him, he was beset by an elusive sense of familiarity for which he tried in vain to find some explanation. He was certain that he had never seen the girl before. Had there been nothing else to assure him of this, he knew that he never would have forgotten her eyes. Like the eyes of a predatory animal, they shot back the light in reflected gleams of fleeting topaz.
Crouched at her side lay a leopard, his body pressed flat against the rich carpet in which her white feet were buried. He wore a golden collar with a slender chain, the end of which she held between her fingers. The beast glanced restlessly from side to side in his strange surroundings, twitching his tail with nervous uneasiness.
In the light that bathed her from head to foot, the young woman posed for a moment to allow the spectators to feel the full effect of her beauty.
"Thais! Thais!" cried several of the guests, in accents of intense astonishment.
"Is it really Thais?" Clearchus asked, turning to Chares. "How did you ever persuade her to come?"
The Theban smiled, but made no reply. Thais had only recently begun to attract attention, but her fame had already eclipsed that of other popular favorites in Athens. Sculptors and painters had declared her the most beautiful woman in all Hellas. Poets had made verses in her honor, likening her to Hebe and Aphrodite. Her house was thronged daily with the youth of fashion. She had become the latest sensation in a city greedy for all that was new.
Little was known of her beyond the fact that she had been reared and educated in all the accomplishments of her profession by old Eunomus, one of the most skilful of all the Athenian dealers in flesh and blood. Where he had found her he refused to tell. Everybody had heard that Alcmæon had purchased her freedom a short time before his death, paying Eunomus half her weight in gold, and that he had made comfortable provision for her when his last illness seized him and he knew that he must die. The only regret that he had expressed was that he must leave her behind him.
Left in an independent position, Thais had shown herself capricious. None of the young men who hung about her could boast of any successes. A few had ruined themselves in their efforts to gain her favor, and one had even drunk hemlock and crept to her door to die. Clearchus, although he had never before seen her, had heard enough of her to feel astonished at her presence. He could not understand how Chares had been able to induce her to come, like a mere dancing girl, for their amusement, unless he had offered her an enormous sum of money. Knowing the reckless character of his friend, the thought alarmed him.
"You have ruined yourself!" he whispered to the Theban. "What did you promise the woman?"
"Not an obol, on my honor, O youth of simple heart!" Chares replied, laughing.
"Then how did you get her to come?" Clearchus asked. "You do not know her."
"I invited her," Chares replied; "and she accepted. I suppose it was a woman's whim. I did not ask her."
Slaves ran forward with a number of sword blades set in blocks of wood in such a manner as to enable them to stand upright. These they arranged symmetrically upon the carpet at equal distances from each other, so as to form a lozenge pattern with its point toward Thais. Dropping the end of the chain by which she held the leopard, as the music changed to a rhythmic cadence, the young woman began to tread in and out between the swords. Her movements were so light and graceful that she seemed hardly to touch the carpet, threading her way from side to side to the quickening measure. The leopard crept closer to the line of steel and watched her with glowing eyes. Faster and faster grew the measure, and faster grew her motions, until she was whirling among the blades, which flickered like blue flames as her shadow intercepted the light. A misstep would have sent her down to her death upon one of the points which she seemed to regard no more than if they had been so many flowers. The company watched her with a suspense that was breathless. Suddenly the music ceased, and she stood before them unharmed at the upper point of the lozenge. There was a glow on her cheeks and her bosom panted from her exertions. The guests broke into cries of admiration, casting their wreaths of myrtle at her feet; but she had eyes only for Chares, who lay looking at her with a lazy smile. She frowned and bit her lip.
"Did I not do it well?" she demanded.
"Excellently well," Chares replied.
"Is that all?" she asked in a tone of disappointment.
Before he could make any reply there came a frantic knocking at the door outside the house. Clearchus started forward with an exclamation of alarm. The man whom he had placed on guard ran in, terror stricken, followed by Tolman, one of the slaves from Melissa's house in Academe.
"Oh, my master!" Tolman cried, throwing himself at the feet of Clearchus.
"Artemisia!" the young man demanded.
"They have carried her off," Tolman said, "and Philox, the steward, is slain!"
"Horses, Cleon! Bring swords and armor!" Clearchus shouted.
"Who has done this?" Chares asked.
"I know not," Clearchus replied; "we were forewarned; but it would be better for them had they never been born."
"Fetch me a jar of water," Chares cried, pushing aside the guests, who had left their places and were crowding around Clearchus to learn the news. When a slave brought a jar of cold water, the Theban plunged his head into it to clear his brain and shook off the drops from his yellow hair. "Now my armor!" he said.
Leonidas was already occupied in putting on the light accoutrement of a horseman, and, although he said nothing, there was a look of expectant joy on his harsh face.
Thais, who had drawn to one side, stood for a moment, and then seeing that she had been forgotten, slipped away unnoticed. Some of the guests hastened to their homes to arm themselves and follow the three friends, while others remained behind to discuss the event. Clearchus said a hasty farewell, and in a few moments from the arrival of the slave the three young men, followed by Cleon, were racing down to the city gate.
Into the open country they dashed, Clearchus leading the way, while the others spurred madly in their effort to keep pace with him. The sun had not yet risen when they wheeled into the gateway and drew rein at Melissa's villa. The place seemed deserted, for the terrified servants had closed and barred the doors, fearing a renewal of the attack. It was several minutes before they were able to gain an entrance.
The frightened women pressed around Clearchus, wailing and beating their breasts and trying all at once to tell him the story of what had happened. The young man waved them aside and ran to the room where Philox lay. The faithful old steward had received a dagger thrust in the breast and was unconscious. Clearchus then sought Melissa; but in the extremity of her fright she had locked herself in her apartments and refused to open the door.
Finding that nothing was to be learned in that quarter, Clearchus sternly commanded the women to be silent and answer his questions. Trembling, they obeyed, and he managed to make them tell how the marauders had scaled the walls of the house with a ladder and how Philox had fallen while trying to prevent them from admitting their confederates. They had pillaged the house of everything that they could carry. Artemisia had fainted when they laid their hands upon her to take her away, but they had placed her in a litter which they seemed to have ready for the purpose. As nearly as the women were able to judge, they had gone southward, and as soon as they were out of sight, Tolman had ridden to the city to give the alarm.
"They are making for the harbor," Leonidas cried. "We shall catch them yet!"
Clearchus felt two small cold hands clasp his own, and glancing down he saw Proxena, one of Artemisia's little slave girls, with her tear-stained face upturned to his.
"Please, master," she sobbed, "bring back our mistress, Artemisia!"
The young Athenian could not speak, but he lifted the child quickly and kissed her. In another moment they were off in the pursuit.
Clearchus led the way through brake and thicket and across tilled fields, bearing off slightly to the southwest so as to avoid the Long Walls that joined the city to the Piræus, where he knew the robbers would not dare to venture. They crossed the winding Cephissus by the Sacred Way, skirting the hills that overlook the harbor. It seemed hours to the young man before they emerged upon the brow of a slope that fell away to the rocky beach.
Directly below them was a small inlet from which a boat filled with men was putting out toward a weather-beaten galley that lay a short distance offshore.
"There she is!" Chares cried, pointing to a blotch of white in the bow of the boat.
"We are too late!" Clearchus groaned, as he measured with his eye the widening gap between the boat and the shore. Despair and helpless rage surged up in his heart as they dashed recklessly down the slope.
"Come back!" he shouted desperately. "Twenty talents of ransom!"
The distance was too great for his words to be distinguished, although his voice evidently reached the boat. Artemisia heard it and stretched her arms toward him. She struggled to rise, but the sailors held her in her seat. The steersman turned his bearded face toward the shore and shouted out a rough command. The boat continued on toward the galley, whose sails were already spread for flight.
"They are not all gone!" Leonidas cried eagerly. "See there!"
A second boat lay in the inlet with its nose in the sand, while its crew hurriedly stowed away the litter. As Clearchus looked, they completed this task and prepared to push off.
The three young men leaped from their horses, but the boat was now launched. One of the mariners waded into the water, pushing at her stern to give her headway, while the others got out their oars.
"You come too late, idlers!" the seamen cried mockingly as their pursuers leaped down over the rocks to the narrow strip of sand that fringed the inlet. "You should rise earlier in the morning."
The man who had been pushing at the stern of the boat was up to his waist in water. "Pull me in, lads, she has way enough!" he said; but as he gathered himself to spring, Leonidas plunged in after him and clutched him by the ankle. Paying no more attention to his struggles than he would have given to those of some fish that he had taken, the Spartan dragged the spluttering wretch back to the beach. The crew of the boat hesitated for a moment as though doubtful whether to attempt a rescue, but Leonidas settled their doubts by thrusting his sword into the man's throat.
A cry of rage and a volley of threats came from the boat as the sailors witnessed the fate of their comrade. In giving vent to their indignation, they lost valuable seconds of time. So narrow was the inlet that the boat was still within easy javelin cast of the shore. Clearchus ran along the beach abreast of it, promising a fabulous reward to the men who should bring back the captive.
"Seek the girl in the slave markets," was all the reply that he could get, "and see that you come not too late a second time!"
"I promise that you shall not be punished!" the Athenian cried in despair. "At least lend us your boat, or take us with you to the galley."
"If you want our boat, come out and get it!" one of the sailors cried in derision.
The words were still on his lips when a great stone fell into the water close beside the prow, dashing the spray into the faces of the crew. Clearchus looked up in astonishment and saw Chares standing on the crest of the ledge of rock that rose behind the strip of sand. The Theban held another huge and jagged missile poised above his head. With a mighty effort he hurled it at the boat. Uttering cries of terror the sailors attempted to sheer out of the way, but in their confusion, their splashing oars neutralized each other. The great stone, which a man of ordinary strength could not have moved, turned ponderously in the air and struck the gunwale amidships with a crash that tore out the planks in splinters. In an instant the boat filled and went down, leaving the crew struggling among the floating fragments of the litter.
Several of the men, who seemed unable to swim, disappeared beneath the surface. Others struck out for the beach, only to meet death on the swords of Chares and Clearchus on one side, and of Leonidas, who had run around to the opposite shore of the bay to intercept those who sought to escape in that direction.
One man only, a fellow of powerful frame, seeing the fate that awaited him on land, swam boldly for the open sea, preferring to take his chance of being picked up there rather than face death upon the sand.
"Leave him to me!" Chares cried, stripping off his chiton.
Without hesitation, he plunged into the sea, holding his sword in his left hand and swimming with his right.
"Take him alive!" Clearchus shouted. "We may learn something from him!"
The chase was short, for although the Theban carried a weapon, the sailor was encumbered by his garments.
"Wait, my friend, I have something to say to thee," Chares said, pricking the man with his sword point.
Like a wild beast, the sailor turned in desperation as though to make a struggle for his life. He looked with bloodshot eyes into the Theban's smiling face.
"You have only one chance of seeing to-morrow's sun," Chares said coolly. "Swim before me to the shore and make up your mind on the way to tell all that you know of what has happened."
"Will you spare my life?" the man asked.
"That depends," Chares replied, "but I promise you that I will not spare it unless you obey without question."
"There is no help for it," the man muttered, and he swam sullenly back to the beach, where Leonidas quickly secured his arms behind him.
"There is still a chance of capturing the galley," the Spartan said to Clearchus. "Ride quickly to the Piræus and hire a vessel to put out after her. We will bring this fellow in."
Clearchus dashed away toward the harbor, but, as it happened, there was no vessel that could take up the chase with any chance of success. The galley was running before a fresh southwest wind, and although still visible, she was already distant. Of the ships in port, some were newly arrived and were heavily laden, while others were discharging their cargoes. Clearchus offered any price to the captain who should overtake the fugitive and bring Artemisia back, but the offer was made in vain. The best that he could do was to charter six of the swiftest ships that were available to take up the pursuit as soon as they could be made ready.
While he was concluding these arrangements, Chares and Leonidas arrived with the prisoner. The man said that the galley had just returned from a piratical cruise on the coast of Lucania and was under the command of Syphax. He had joined the crew at Locri, he said, and knew nothing about the abduction excepting that they were all to be well paid for it. He was unable to tell what port the galley expected to make after leaving Attica.
Although he was examined later under torture, the man could reveal no more. He was thrown into prison to be used as a witness against his companions should they be caught. The last of the vessels that Clearchus sent on the chase was out of the harbor before nightfall, and the young man, feeling that he had done all that he could do, rode back to the city overwhelmed by his loss. Chares and Leonidas sought in vain to comfort him. His self-reproach at having left Artemisia unguarded after the warning of the dream was too poignant. He shut himself up to avoid the acquaintances who flocked about him to offer their sympathy and to learn the details of his sorrow. They questioned the slaves when they found the doors closed against them and then ran to tell what they had learned in the baths, the barber shops, and the gaming houses, greedy of gossip. Ariston, after making certain that his part in the plot had not been discovered, came to visit his nephew and was admitted.
"We have no defence against the will of the Gods when it falls heavily upon us save one," he said.
"What is that?" Clearchus asked.
"Patience," the old man responded.
"Patience!" Clearchus exclaimed, striding back and forth with clenched fists. "Yes, I will have patience! I will have patience to seek Artemisia to the ends of the world until I have found her! And I will have patience until every man who is concerned in this attack upon us has paid for it with his life. I will be patient!"
Ariston blanched at this outburst, but immediately recovered himself. "Alas! What can you do alone?" he asked mournfully.
"He will not be alone, for Chares and I will be with him," Leonidas said quietly. "We have sworn it."
"I will not advise against it," Ariston said with a sigh. "But it may be that the galleys you have sent out will bring the robbers back. You must not forget that you have duties to the State. The times are troubled and your fortune is great."
"My own affairs must come first at present," Clearchus said bluntly. "As for my fortune, of what use is it to me without Artemisia? I must ask you to take charge of it once more for me. I shall give you full power, and if I come not back I desire that it shall be devoted to the public good as you may see fit."
"I am an old man," Ariston said, with mock hesitation, "but I cannot refuse the trust under the circumstances if you require it of me. Yet, why dost thou leave Athens?"
"How can I remain here?" Clearchus exclaimed. "My suffering is too great. But I knew you would not refuse me," he added in a calmer voice, clasping his uncle by the hand.
"Doubtless they have carried her to some one of the Eastern cities," Ariston said reflectively. "That is where this Syphax would most naturally go, as it seems his hope is to get money. I will write to such friends as I have there to be on the watch."
Clearchus groaned. "It will be too late, I fear, before thy letters can reach them," he said. "I know not what to do nor where to turn."
"Here is Aristotle; let us consult him," Chares said as the philosopher entered.
Aristotle listened attentively while Clearchus and his friends related all the circumstances of Artemisia's abduction. He asked many questions regarding the particulars of the dream of warning that had preceded the attack.
"Some things we know and others we can guess," he said at last. "Only the Gods know all. The world is wide. I pity thee, Clearchus, my friend, with all my heart, and I wish that I might aid thee. It is clear that the warning came from Artemis. I advise thee to seek counsel from Phœbus, her brother. Thou art not an unworthy disciple of his, for thy heart is pure and thy hands are clean. Thou lovest the poets and music. Go to him with faith and perhaps he will aid thee."
Hope appeared upon the face of the young Athenian. "I will go," he said. "The great God himself loved Daphne and lost her. He may take compassion on me. Chares shall remain here and set all things in order so that we may act quickly if a sign should be given. Will you come with me, Leonidas, to Delphi?"
"I will," said the Spartan, "and let us go at once; for I can see that thy heart is sick."
Clearchus and Leonidas rode out of Attica across the olive-bearing plains, and up the rugged spurs and ridges which flank the mountain of Cithæron, upon whose rocky slopes Antiope wailed as an infant, and the rash Pentheus was torn to pieces by women to the end that the power of Dionysius might be established. They halted for a brief space at the fortress of Phyle, the key that had opened to Thrasybulus his native land and enabled him to give it freedom. Leonidas admired the great walls built of square blocks of stone laid one upon another without mortar and fitted so exactly that the joints would scarcely be seen.
Teleon, captain of the guard which was stationed at this gateway, was a friend of Clearchus. He gave them bread and wine, while the young Athenian told him of his misfortune. After expressing his sympathy, Teleon inquired eagerly for the news of Athens.
"Will the Assembly send troops to the aid of Phœnix and Prothytes, who have raised the revolt in Thebes?" he asked. "You know they now hold the city, and my spies tell me that they are preparing for any attack that may be made upon them."
Clearchus gave him an account of the indecisive meeting of the Assembly on the preceding day.
"All Athens believes the boy king is dead," he said, referring to Alexander. "What is your opinion, Teleon?"
"That, too, is the belief in Thebes," the captain replied. "I know not; but if it proves to be so, Thebes is free."
"And if not?" Clearchus asked.
"If not, there will be fighting," Teleon predicted, "and may Zeus inspire the Macedonian to attack us here!"
From the slope beyond Phyle the young man saw the Bœotian plain spread out before them, and beyond, in the purple distance, the rocky ramparts of Phocis. There, glowing rose-colored in the evening light, shone the snow-clad crest of Parnassus. Clearchus' heart swelled as he looked upon the goal in which his hope was centred.
"We must be there to-morrow," he said eagerly.
"The God will not run away!" Leonidas replied.
They plunged down the mountain slope into the shadows, which deepened under the plane trees as they advanced, until the winding track was almost hidden before them. The moon rose as they emerged upon the plain that had so often drunk the life-blood of Hellas. At Thespiæ their horses could go no further, and they halted for the night.
Although the road from Thebes was better, they had purposely avoided the city, fearing that the disturbances there might delay them. They found Thespiæ full of rumors of the Theban uprising. Some said that the Macedonians in the Cadmea had been put to the sword; others that the peace party had gained the upper hand and was awaiting the arrival of Alexander. Leonidas, who listened eagerly to all that was said, was surprised to find that the report of the young king's death was discredited in the town. There were even men who insisted that he was on his way through Thessaly at the head of his army, ready to strike.
The Spartan sighed and looked wistfully over his shoulder in the direction of Thebes as they took horse at sunrise. At evening, begrimed with dust, they toiled up the last ascent that led to Delphi, the terraced city among the sacred cliffs—the Navel of the World.
As Clearchus gazed upward at the twin columns of the Phædriades rising side by side a thousand feet above the temple in the cool gray twilight, the fever of anxiety in his blood left him and his pulses beat more slowly. The strong masonry of the outer wall, which enclosed and seemed to hold from slipping down the mountain side the buildings clustered about the lofty terrace, on which the temple stood close under the towering cliffs, shut in the shrine that for centuries all Hellas had looked upon as hallowed. Awe came upon him in the presence of the great Mystery. There were scoffers in Athens who laughed at all religion. There were philosophers in the world who taught that the existence of the Gods was a foolish dream. Why had Phœbus permitted the Phocians to seize his treasure and to profane his altar, they asked, if he really existed?
Clearchus put the same question to himself as he looked down upon the Cirrhæan fields that had been consecrated to the God and condemned to lie waste forever in his honor. The Phocians had desecrated them by cultivation. When condemned by the Amphictyons at the instance of their enemies, the Thebans, they had seized the shrine and the treasure-houses. Though they had prospered for a time, in the end Philomelus and Onomarchus had been slain and the Phocians broken and scattered. The sacrilege had been punished, but Philip had been brought into Hellas as the champion of the God and the chief instrument of his wrath. Thebes had been placed beneath his feet.
What was to be the end? Was the fate of the city that had driven the Phocians to their crime to be worse than that of their victims? Clearchus, as he thought of these things, was chilled with an indefinable dread of the Invisible Presence whose home was among the silent and Titanic crags that made the utmost triumphs of human art and skill laid at their feet seem as transitory as the work of children fashioned in sand. He felt that here the mighty purpose of the Unseen was being worked out, deliberate and irresistible, before which the races of men were as nothing.
They did not enter the city that night, but turned aside to the house of Eresthenes, who had been a guest-friend of Clearchus' father. The old man was overjoyed to see them. After the evening meal he sought the priests of the temple and brought back word that the oracle might be consulted next day if the sacrifice proved propitious.
Clearchus slept soundly. In the morning he purified himself, according to the rule, in the clear, cold waters of the Castalian Font hung about with votive offerings in marble and bronze placed there by grateful pilgrims to the shrine. Eresthenes gave him fresh garments, with the garland of olive and the fillet of wool which suppliants were required to put on.
Guided by the old man, the two friends ascended the wide marble staircase that led to the great stone platform at the southeast corner of the lower terrace, where ceremonial processions were accustomed to form before entering the sacred enclosure. Passing through the gate, they advanced between treasure-houses upon which the most famous sculptors of the world had lavished their skill. Among these and the dwellings of the priests and the chief men of the place were set scores of columns and statues, the offerings of centuries from kings and princes. Across the lower terrace the way led them to the next higher, with a sharp turn to the right at the great stone sphinx which guarded the passage through the second wall. They continued up the slope to the final platform, on which the temple stood resplendent with color.
Entering between the great columns, Eresthenes and Leonidas left Clearchus to the care of the priests—grave men of advanced age who were under the direction of Agias. They led the Athenian to the apartment of the chief priest, a venerable minister whose age had passed one hundred years. He sat in his marble arm-chair, propped by cushions. His white beard flowed over his breast, and his thin hands lay crossed in his lap. He raised his dim eyes and fixed them upon the face of his visitor.
"What wilt thou, Thrasybulus, who comest back to me from beyond the tomb?" he asked in a quavering voice.
The attendant priests glanced at each other in surprise, but none of them dared to reply.
"Speak, Thrasybulus; I am an old man," the chief priest said.
"Thrasybulus has been dead these fifty years, Father," Agias said. "This is Clearchus, an Athenian, who comes as a suppliant to the oracle."
"He is like Thrasybulus!" the old man muttered, bowing his head. "It seems but yesterday that he stood before me." He paused for a moment and then continued with an effort: "Art thou pure of heart? Art thou free from the sins of the flesh?"
"I am," Clearchus replied firmly.
"Then pass into the presence of the God who knoweth all and who doth not forget!" said the patriarch, closing his eyes wearily.
Clearchus bowed and was about to turn away, when the old man roused himself once more.
"Come hither, boy, and let me look at thee!" he said. "My sight is growing dim."
Clearchus knelt at his feet, and the aged priest placed his hand on his head, stroking his hair and peering into his face.
"So like Thrasybulus! It was only yesterday!" he said to himself. "The storm comes and the world is changing. Thou shalt see thrones made empty and nations perish; but the God will remain until a greater cometh. Clearchus art thou called? It may be so; but to me thou art Thrasybulus. Go thy ways. The God will be kind to thee."
Although the other priests were evidently struck by this unusual scene, they made no comment, but led Clearchus into the dim interior of the temple. On every hand, between the columns and against the walls, gleamed statues and vessels of precious metals, exquisite in design and workmanship, that the Phocians had not dared to remove from the house itself of the God. Before them stood a group of young women in snowy robes with fillets in their hair. They were chanting a hymn of slow and solemn measure.
They ceased their chant as the priests entered with Clearchus, and two of them advanced, leading between them one of the three priestesses of the temple. The Pythia was a woman of middle age, slender of figure, with large gray eyes that seemed to look at Clearchus without seeing him. Her thin cheeks still retained the fresh color of youth, and her lips, of a deep red, moved gently as though she were whispering to herself.
Looking about him with eyes grown accustomed to the semidarkness, Clearchus saw a slightly raised platform of white marble toward the rear of the temple. Three shallow steps led to a broad slab, in the middle of which was a cleft. Through this orifice curled a pale, fleeting vapor, which rose like transparent smoke for the height of a man above the platform before it vanished. It came from the stone in puffs and spirals which swayed, now this way, now that, with a peculiarly irregular and capricious impulse like the balancing of a coiled serpent.
Over the cleft was set a low tripod, the legs of which were formed of intertwined snakes wrought in gold so cunningly that every scale seemed reproduced in the bright metal. The jewelled eyes of the reptiles twinkled through the vapor which alternately hid and revealed them.
Slowly and solemnly the priestesses led the Pythia to the foot of the platform, where they gave her hands to two of the most venerable of the priests, whose office it was to conduct her to the tripod. Her lips formed themselves into a smile as she mounted the steps and the women resumed their chanting.
As she took her place upon the tripod and the priests descended, leaving her alone, a sudden thunderstorm burst above the towering crags which overhung the shrine. The wind roared down between the Phædriades with mighty strength, and a crash of thunder, leaping and reverberating from rock to cliff, shook the temple to its foundations.
"Zeus is speaking to the son of Latona!" murmured Agias, and all bowed their heads in reverence.
Filled as he was with awe, Clearchus felt reassured by the calm demeanor of the priests. He fixed his eyes on the Pythia, who remained seated on the tripod with her hands loosely folded in her lap, oblivious alike to the storm and to her surroundings. The chill vapor seemed to grow more dense. At times it hid her entirely, wrapping her in its cold embrace. The color deepened in her cheeks and the smile left her parted lips. With dilated pupils she gazed over the heads of the little group before her. Gradually her face assumed a troubled expression and her tongue began to frame broken words and fragmentary sentences the purport of which Clearchus could not understand. Suddenly she half raised her hands as though she would cover her eyes and her face contracted as with a spasm of pain.
"Evohe! Phœbus!" she cried in a wailing voice.
"Ask thy question—the God is here!" Agias whispered, pushing Clearchus toward the platform.
The young man found himself standing alone in the dread Presence, gazing upon the Pythia, who was no longer a woman, but an instrument in the hands of the God. The vapor curled about her and encircled her in swiftly changing, fantastic forms. Her gray eyes looked out into his, fixed and steadfast, and the tension of the influence which possessed her convulsed her features. Dead silence reigned throughout the vast and shadowy interior of the temple.
Clearchus tried to frame the question that he had prepared but the words refused to come. The awe of his surroundings paralyzed his speech.
Suddenly the dear, wistful face of his love seemed to appear to him amid the folds of the rolling mist, filled with sorrow and yearning. His fear left him. All else, even life itself, was as nothing before the fierce desire of his heart.
"Where shall I find Artemisia?" he cried, stretching out his arms before the whirling cloud which hid the priestess in its embrace.
There was a moment of suspense, in which he could hear the dull rushing of the torrent that filled the sluices, overflowing with the rain, on either side of the temple. The priests leaned forward attentively to catch the reply, each holding a tablet of wax and a stylus with which to record any words that the Pythia might utter. Clearchus stood motionless, his arms still outstretched, gazing with straining eyes upon the lips of the priestess. She writhed upon the tripod as though in agony. Her eyes were set and glassy and a slight foam showed itself upon her mouth. Then came her voice, strained and strange, through the eddies of the vapor:—
"Seek in the track of the Whirlwind—there shalt thou find thy Beloved!"
Her eyes closed, and a shuddering sigh issued from her bosom. The two priests who had placed her upon the tripod hastened forward and bore her from the platform. She had lost consciousness completely. Her head drooped upon her shoulder and her face was as pale as death. The old men gave her in charge of the women, who ran forward to receive her and quickly carried her into their own apartments.
A great joy filled Clearchus. "She is safe! She is safe! And I shall find her!" he said to himself, following the silent priests out of the temple. As they passed out into the portico he looked back over his shoulder at the platform where the God had manifested himself. The swift storm had swept over and the sun was shining again. A gleam of his light fell upon the curling mist and Clearchus saw it tinged with the prismatic colors of the rainbow.