The Project Gutenberg eBook, Persephone of Eleusis, by Clare Winger Harris

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Persephone of Eleusis
A Romance of Ancient Greece

by
CLARE WINGER HARRIS

STRATFORD PUBLISHERS

1923
THE STRATFORD COMPANY, Publishers
Boston, Massachusetts

Copyright, 1923
The STRATFORD CO., Publishers
Boston, Mass.
The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A.

Preface

In this tale of Greece in the fifth century B. C., fact and fiction are so closely intervolved that a detailed explanation of their respective boundaries would be both tedious and superfluous. Suffice it to say that I have with reluctance departed from history only when the narration of the personal affairs of the characters made it necessary to do so. The difficulty of accurate adherence to historical facts seems insuperable.

C. W. H.

Contents

Chapter

Page

I At the Hot Gates 1

II “Remember the Athenians” 10

III The Defense on the Acropolis 17

IV The Miracle of Salamis 28

V The Traitor of Thermopylæ 40

VI Athena Speaks Through the Olive-Branch 46

VII The Banquet of Attaginus 51

VIII Masistius’ Message to Zopyrus 60

IX The Rescue of Ladice 70

X A Venture at the Eve of Battle 80

XI A Hero of Platæa 86

XII The Prophet at Delphi 93

XIII The House of Pasicles 101

XIV Beyond the Dipylon Gate 111

XV What Happened at the Theatre of Dionysus 121

XVI The Celebration of the Mysteries 128

XVII Persephone 136

XVIII Agne’s Advice 142

XIX Ephialtes’ Plot 147

XX The Ward of Themistosles 155

XXI In the Shadow of the Acropolis 162

XXII A Letter from Sicily 167

XXIII The Festivities at Naxos 174

XXIV Dionysus and Ariadne 180

XXV A Revelation 187

XXVI The Home of Aeschylus 194

XXVII The Allied Fleet Sails 201

XXVIII The Hand of Fate 209

XXIX After Twenty Years 216

“What have I to do with the heroes or the monuments of ancient times? With times which never can return, and heroes, whose form of life was different from all that the present condition of mankind requires or allows?... At least we compare our own with former times, and either rejoice at our improvements, or, what is the first motion towards good, discover our defects.” Samuel Johnson in “Rasselas”

CHAPTER I.
At the Hot Gates.

“In gay hostility and barbarous pride,

With half mankind embattled at his side,

Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey,

And starves exhausted regions in his way.”

Samuel Johnson.

The reddening glow of an evening sun was shed upon the little town of Anthela in Locris as Zopyrus, a young Persian officer in the army of Xerxes passed quickly from the shadows of the temple to Demeter into the narrow street. In his general bearing and physique he was truly a Persian; large of frame, broad of shoulders, with a proportionally small but well poised head. But the tight clusters of blond curls, clear blue eyes and sensitiveness of mouth were not distinguishing traits of Persian parentage. There was a seriousness in his expression far in advance of his years which may have numbered four and twenty.

As he walked with swinging gait toward the Persian encampment, he turned his gaze in the direction of the ridge of Oeta whose northern slope silhouetted against the ruddy glow of an evening sky, approached the Malaic gulf. At any other period in his life the beauty of his surroundings would have called forth his admiration, but the scenes of the past two days which had been here enacted, had completely quelled the natural æsthetic tendencies of his soul. Here he had been a witness to the slaughter of Persian and Greek; he in whose veins flowed the blood of both peoples.

As he neared the encampment another officer clad in the familiar close-fitting leathern tunic of the Persian army hailed him. He was a giant in stature, a man born to command. It was he who had charge of the cavalry. Zopyrus recognized him at once.

“Ho, Masistius! Does this beautiful June evening summon you forth too? Truly a fair land is Hellas. Amid such surroundings as these the annals of Persia had been different!”

By this time darkness had descended and as Masistius surveyed the landscape an exclamation of spontaneous admiration burst from his lips, soldier though he was and unused to the gentler phases of life. Oeta cast its purple shadows across the Malaic gulf, whose waters now reflected countless stars, and in the shrubbery about the two soldiers were heard the mournful notes of the little owls, so common in this strange land. Occasionally the call of birds of prey grated on their ears and brought to their minds the loathsome fact that amidst all this entrancing loveliness of nature, death had come to hundreds of their countrymen and allies.

“Friend Zopyrus, although I am a soldier through and through, I am not blind to the beauties of this land of Greece, but sterner things brought me out tonight. I came to summon you to the presence of the king who wishes to speak with you. Artabazus and I were in the royal tent talking over the plans of the morrow when Xerxes suddenly commanded a slave to summon you to his presence. The order took both Artabazus and myself quite by surprise, for we have not been blind to the fact that Xerxes has avoided you since the very beginning of this campaign. Why he should do so, I cannot imagine. It has always seemed to me that the king has quite overlooked the physical prowess and ability of his cousin Zopyrus.”

Zopyrus shrugged his shoulders. “True my father was Artaphernes, satrap of Sardis and brother of Darius Hystaspis, but you must remember my mother was only a Greek from Miletus, although her parents were both Athenians of noble blood.”

“But you can subdue the Greek within you, for surely the influence of your royal father is the stronger,” said Masistius.

Zopyrus turned his gaze to the bejeweled vault of the heaven. A lie is an unpardonable sin to a Persian, and to that extent Zopyrus displayed his paternal heritage, but there rose before his eyes the vision of a beautiful woman with classic features whose last words to him before her death had been: “Zopyrus, it is my earnest desire that sometime you go to Greece, to Athens, and there acquire some of the culture of that freedom-loving people in that fair land. Here in Persia you will always be the victim of oriental despotism.” As he grew older Zopyrus realized that his mother’s words and the past influence of her life had been instrumental in causing him to hate not only the vain-glorious idolatry of the Persian court, but the weakness, licentiousness and tyranny of the Persian king. Zopyrus looked again at his companion.

“I will go at once to Xerxes,” he said, completely ignoring the other’s remark.

The tent of Xerxes was in the center of the encampment to insure its protection in case of an unexpected attack from the enemy. An Ethiopian slave parted the hanging folds as Zopyrus approached and held them as he passed into the interior. Seated upon a throne covered with richly woven tapestry and surrounded by slaves and courtiers sat the monarch of Persia.

Zopyrus never knew in what mood he would find his royal cousin. At times the king was most amicably inclined toward his subjects, upon which occasions he lavished upon them generous gifts; at others, the punitive aspect of his authority was made evident, and his dependents were punished out of all due proportion to their offenses.

Xerxes’ eyes followed the noble figure of his cousin with impatient tolerance as the latter bowed and performed the customary greetings.

“Where were you just previous to your meeting with Masistius?” questioned the king abruptly.

“In the town of Anthela,” was the reply.

“Is there not a temple to that pagan goddess, Demeter, there?”

“I believe so.”

“Well stay away from such temples except for the purpose of destroying them. By the way, Sikinnus,” he called, summoning a slave, “take that rascal, Tyrastiadas, who tried to desert today and give him forty lashes.”

Xerxes turned again toward the son of Artaphernes whose splendid physique and heroic mein summoned his reluctant admiration. Here he realized were unlimited possibilities for his army, for he sincerely believed Zopyrus to be a braver man than Mardonius or Artabazus, though he was many years their junior; then too he had respect for the independent air of this cousin who did not dog his footsteps with flattering remarks and hints for the promise of favors at the close of the war. So it was with a more deferential air that the politic Xerxes addressed his next remarks to his cousin.

“Zopyrus, you are too big a man to be in command of only one hundred soldiers. At your age your half-brother, Artaphernes, together with Datis, led the expedition which resulted in the battle of Marathon. If at the close of this battle with the Greeks in this pass you prove your valor, you shall be placed in command of one thousand men. Also I will allow you to choose among the fairest maidens of the kingdom for a wife, and for exceptional bravery I will give you a satrapy.” All eyes were turned to Zopyrus who acknowledged his king’s favor with a slight bow.

“I bear in mind,” continued Xerxes, “that your mother was a Greek, though she was a lawful wife of your father. It is this taint of blood that has stood in the way of previous honors, but with courage such as becomes the son of a noble Persian you may be able to make me forget completely the plebeian maternal blood.”

Anger such as had never before been experienced by Zopyrus surged within him at this insult to his mother’s memory, but he held it in subjection, merely bowing stoically before the ruler.

Xerxes had one dominating motive in attempting to win Zopyrus’ fidelity. At the beginning of the campaign he had secretly wished to cause his cousin’s death because he had feared him, but the latter’s advice when consulted on matters of doubt, forced him to the opinion that Zopyrus might become quite an asset to the Persian army if properly handled. That he, Xerxes, had failed in this he did not know.

At this moment the slave who stood at the entrance to the royal tent approached his master with these words:

“Most noble king, a Greek soldier waits without and would have word with you alone.”

“Bid him enter,” was the monarch’s response.

The courtiers quickly withdrew by a rear exit, Zopyrus passing out last. Moved by a sudden impulse and unnoticed, he quickly and silently re-entered the tent and stood a few feet behind the throne in the shadows. The canvas at the front entrance parted admitting the figure of a Greek soldier. He had removed his helmet and left his shield and javelin without in respect to the Persian monarch. Armed only with his short sword and wearing the characteristic scaled cuirass and leather greaves of Greek military dress he presented an interesting sight to both Persians. His head was uncovered, displaying the artistic hair-dress worn by the young men of Athens and Sparta. Long thick braids were crossed at the back of his shapely head and fastened together with a jeweled pin in front. From beneath the braids his brown hair lay in soft waves around his temples. His face was fair almost a degree of effeminacy and his figure of average height indicated graceful outlines even though concealed by the armour he wore. He addressed the king:

“O Xerxes, king of the Medes and Persians and would-be conqueror of the world, I come to you with a message of greatest importance! For two days your brave soldiers have met defeat at the hands of the Greeks at the entrance to the pass of Thermopylæ. Now the Greeks are so inferior in number, owing to the celebration of certain religious festivities which are soon due to come to an end, that right now is the time to strike, but not in the method which you have up till the present employed, when only a handful of men from each side could meet and enter into personal combat. The Greeks are well trained and if they are to be vanquished, it must be by the superior forces of the enemy.”

The king with offended dignity clutched the arms of his throne and raised himself, crying out in angry tones: “Am I to have a Greek tell me that my army lacks the military discipline of the Greeks?” Here he rose with an exaggerated attempt at majesty, “Behold, O Greek, Zeus himself in the form of an earthly monarch come to lead the whole race of mankind to the destruction of Greece!”

To Zopyrus’ amazement as he stood a silent and unobserved figure in the shadows, as well as to the amazement of Xerxes himself, the Greek did not tremble at the king’s words. An amused expression not without disdain passed over his fearless countenance. Xerxes’ face became purple with rage.

“Out of my sight grinning fool of a Greek,” he roared, “before I have your tongue cut out for your insolence!”

Zopyrus stood rooted to the spot in horror, but the graceful unemotional figure of the Greek remained unchanged. To Zopyrus it seemed an eternity before the young man spoke, but in reality it was almost immediately. He drew nearer the throne by a couple of paces, and Zopyrus feared for his life in that proximity to the wrathful monarch.

“Listen, O Xerxes, if you would succeed in overwhelming your foes you must attack them from behind, but this you can not do since you are unacquainted with this wild, impassable country. I am a native Malian and well acquainted with this locality. If you could make it worth my while, I could show you a mountain pass that would lead you to the rear of Leonidas’ army unobserved.”

While the Greek was speaking Xerxes’ expression gradually changed from malice to pleased attention: “And suppose, friend Greek, I do not permit you to leave unless you reveal to me this pass!”

The Greek smiled. “It is impossible simply to tell of this secret way, for it is beset with many dangers, such as almost impenetrable growths of underbrush, impermeable morasses and almost inaccessible cliffs. A native guide is absolutely essential and I am that guide who will receive my pay before the journey commences.”

The king nodded in affirmation and sank back quite dazed from the effect of the interview. The Greek was still unmoved and continued: “I will lead your army tomorrow night, as it is safest to travel under cover of darkness. We shall probably reach the other side of the pass at a very favorable time of day, when the market-place of the town is filling. I will meet you here tomorrow at sunset in Persian uniform, and except to your most important commanders, I wish to remain unknown. Till then, O Zeus, farewell!”

He passed quickly out of the bewildered kingly presence, and Zopyrus took advantage of this moment to make a hasty and unseen exit at the rear of the royal tent.

CHAPTER II.
“Remember the Athenians.”

“Who at Thermopylæ stood side by side,

And fought together and together died,

Under earth-barrows now are laid at rest,

Their chance thrice glorious, and their fate thrice-blest.

No tears for them, but memory’s loving gaze;

For them no pity, but proud hymns of praise.”

Simonides.

Like a great crawling serpent, the army of Xerxes, augmented by the cowardly Thessalians, wound its circuitous and perilous way from Trachis; first ascending the gorge of the river Asopus and the hill called Anopæa, then crossing the pitch-dark, oak-covered crest of Oeta. Its venomous head was the treasonable Greek, dressed as a Persian foot-soldier. Many were the woes of that nocturnal journey! Soldiers tripping over fallen branches and entangled in the undergrowth were trampled to death. Some were pressed into the treacherous morass, but the malignant monster, heedless of this sloughing, crept on toward its goal which was the town of Alpeni at the east end of the pass.

But the small army of the Greeks was not destined to suffer such a complete surprise as Xerxes had hoped, for the revengeful Tyrastiadas, limping painfully as a result of his forty lashes, had succeeded in deserting and had apprised Leonidas of the startling fact that the Persians were coming across the pass. The Spartan king sent a Phocian guard of one thousand men to prevent the enemy from crossing the summit of Oeta, but this guard was speedily overwhelmed by the Persians who were under the leadership of Hydarnes. The next morning shortly after sunrise, the Persian hordes descended upon the Greeks. The sun was reflected with dazzling brilliancy from thousands of breast-plates, spears, shields and helmets, and upon the ears of the heroic sons of Hellas fell the deafening war-cry from myriads of throats.

A suffocating sensation seized Zopyrus as he beheld the mere handful of Greeks bravely awaiting certain death at the hands of a pitiless foe, but to turn back was now impossible. Strange that he could in fancy so easily picture himself as one of that brave minority, awaiting inevitable death! To his own sorrow he had not infrequently lamented the faculty which he possessed of seeing the praiseworthy aspect of an enemy’s view-point. It was this attribute of leniency toward the opinions of his fellow-men that was especially irritating to the intolerant Xerxes. In the mind of the latter all men were divided into two great classes; subjects and enemies. To Zopyrus all men seemed friends unless by their own initiative they proved themselves otherwise. It was extremely painful to him to see these brave Greeks meet this great crisis unflinchingly. It was humanly impossible for this mere handful of men to stem the tide of the onrushing Persians.

To us at this day and age it is apparent that these men did not sacrifice their manhood in vain. The result of any noble act is never lost. In some way and at some time it brings a result as satisfactory as that desired in the hearts of the original heroes themselves. Such a result was destined to come to Greece after the bones of Thermopylæ’s warriors had long mingled with the dust.

Zopyrus was swept on by the barbarian host. A shower of missiles diminished the number of Greeks and soon the enemy was upon them and the battle continued with spear and sword. Zopyrus received a slight wound on the left shoulder, the Greek inflicting the injury snatching away his spear. Zopyrus quickly unsheathed his sword, pressing his opponent to closer combat as a better chance for self defense. The two fought long over the bodies of Persian and Greek who now lay in inevitable amity beside their once ruthless foe. At length the Greek who was little more than a boy, weakened perceptibly and in an unguarded moment Zopyrus’ sword disappeared up to the hilt. As the lad fell his helmet rolled off revealing a countenance of incomparable beauty; deep-set eyes, brows that nearly met above a straight nose, refined mouth and a contour of cheek and chin that was flawless. All this was revealed to Zopyrus in a second’s time, but it left an indelible impression on his mind. As he pressed on he felt that the horrors of war were crazing him, and his soul cried out against the awful brutality of it.

With the slaughter of the three hundred the gateway to central Greece had now been forcibly opened and Xerxes in imitation of his father’s avenging words, cried out, “Remember the Athenians.” A journey of about six days lay between the oriental despot and his ultimate goal, the city of Athens, so with prancing steeds, waving plumes, glittering arms and triumphant shouts, the Asiatic legions resumed their deleterious course.

The morning of the third day found the army within sight of Mt. Parnassus. With rapt gaze Zopyrus beheld the softest sculpture of cliff and peak against a cerulean sky. Upon yonder lofty summit dwelt the Muses, those daughters of Zeus who preside over the æsthetic and intellectual aspirations of man. It seemed to Zopyrus that surely now but one Muse, Melpomene, occupied that pinnacle, and with mournful gaze beheld the invasion of this fairest of lands.

In accordance with the order of Xerxes all faces were turned in the direction of Delphi, in spite of a report that the oracle of Delphi had prophesied that Apollo would protect his sanctuary. Through a gorge at the foot of Mt. Parnassus might Melpomene have seen the multitudes of Asiatic troops pursue their nefarious journey. Suddenly peal after peal of thunder reverberated from the apparent calm of a mid-summer sky. Then great crags from the mountain were loosened and rolled down upon the army which fled in wild terror, abandoning its attempt to plunder Delphi. So did Apollo protect his shrine! But fortune did not so favor the citizens of Thespiæ and Platæa in Bœotia both of which were ravaged and those citizens who would not join the Persian forces were put to death.

At length on the fifth day the army camped at night-fall outside of Athens. It was a beautiful intense dark blue Athenian night in which heaven’s vault seemed to blaze with innumerable jewels. Zopyrus sat at the door of his tent deep in his own thoughts. An army during its marches and battles must think, talk and act as one being, and that one subservient to its leader, but who shall say in the stillness of evening each living entity which comprises that vast unit shall not have his individual dreams, and those thoughts which render him distinct from every other living being? And Zopyrus as he sat in the darkness, thought of Athens and of his mother. What would she think if she knew he was approaching Attica’s stronghold as a plunderer and devastator! Conflicting emotions surged within his soul. Once again it seemed to him that he was in the far off Hermus valley, strolling by the little stream of Pactolus, and by his side was the austere Artaphernes whose stern visage was turned toward him with an expression of paternal rebuke. The vision faded leaving him troubled and sore at heart.

That night Zopyrus had a dream. It seemed to him that his father appeared and beckoned silently to him to follow and that he wonderingly rose and obeyed. When they were out in the open, Artaphernes, who Zopyrus noticed was fully armed, pointed with his sabre toward Athens and repeated the memorable words of Darius, “Remember the Athenians.” Suddenly the shade of his mother appeared to the right. She stood holding on her arm a scroll of papyrus, and while Zopyrus looked she pointed with it in the same direction as that indicated by the sabre of his father and behold, as Zopyrus turned he saw a beautiful city with numerous buildings of white marble, and in the center a temple-crowned hill. In the streets were many busy people hurrying to and fro. Some talked from the temple steps while the populace listened, some vied with each other in various physical sports and others sold the produce of the soil in the bustling marketplace, but whatever their occupation, they represented a happy and contented democracy.

Marveling at this vision, Zopyrus turned to his father and noticed that the sabre now pointed to the east. Following the direction of its keen blade with reluctant eyes, Zopyrus beheld another city more gorgeous, but totally lacking in the refined beauty which characterized the city which lay to the west. The buildings of this eastern city possessed a massiveness and grandeur that inspired in the beholder a profound awe. Upon the throne in the magnificent palace, and surrounded by a court retinue, sat a tyrant to whom all bowed in servility. On the streets the people moved and worked en masse. There was no individuality, no differentiation, for these people were victims of an oriental despotism.

When Zopyrus opened his eyes the palace and the toiling people had vanished and so likewise had the vision of the peaceful republic. The Persian father and Greek mother no longer stood before him. The youth knew that this dream represented the Persian and the Greek at war within himself for the supremacy.

When morning broke, the camp was astir at an early hour for this was to be the day of days! Zopyrus was awakened by the stamping and neighing of horses, the rattle of arms and the jocular voices of his comrades.

“Wake up, Zopyrus!” cried a friendly voice. Zopyrus saw his friend Masistius leaning over him.

“Xerxes bids us avenge the burning of Sardis today,” continued Masistius. “His words to all his officers this morning are, ‘Remember the Athenians!’”

“His advice to me is quite unnecessary,” replied Zopyrus, “for I can not forget them.”

CHAPTER III.
The Defense on the Acropolis.

“Dim is the scene to that which greets thee here,

Prompting to worship, waking rapture’s tear,

Yes, rise, fair mount! the bright blue heavens to kiss,

Stoop not thy pride, august Acropolis!”

Nicholas Michell.

The city of Athens was seething with excitement, for the news had just been received that the Greek soldiers had been unable to hold the pass of Thermopylæ. The streets were filled with groups of agitated old men, women of all ages, and children, who seemed no longer capable of being controlled by reason. Weighted down by the burdens of their personal property they prepared to flee. But whither!

In the center of a group near the Areopagus, at the foot of the Acropolis on the north-west, were gathered about fifty men, women and children intently listening to the counsel of one to whom they turned at this time. He was a man of venerable countenance, flowing beard, and wore a white chiton with a handsomely embroidered Greek border.

“My friends,” he was saying, “let us make haste to the top of the Acropolis, there to defend our temples and to seek refuge within the ‘wooden wall.’”

Some of his audience seemed inclined to take his admonition seriously, others hesitated as if in doubt. Presently a man whose personality was felt before he was actually visible came hurriedly into the group. He possessed a commanding bearing, noble face, an eye piercing and full of fire. There was decision in the swift gestures of his shapely hands. This man was Themistocles, the most powerful Athenian of his time. It was he who had persuaded his fellow-citizens to increase their navy at the time of the war with Aegina, and who sincerely believed that the future safety of his country lay with the ships which were now anchored in the bay of Salamis.

He approached with dignified air the terrified gathering of Greeks, and there was an imperious ring in his voice as he addressed the spokesman of the group.

“Kyrsilus, can you not persuade these people to come to the bay at once where some of the ships will conduct them safely to Salamis till all danger from this invasion is past?”

To his surprise the old man answered haughtily. “I am trying to prevail upon these frightened people to seek refuge behind the ‘wooden wall’ as the Delphic oracle warned us.”

“The ‘wooden wall,’” shouted Themistocles, “is not the Pelasgic wall which surrounds the top of the Acropolis. It is a wall of ships, and by this means alone will the people of Athens find refuge. Come!” he cried turning away, “all who wish to live to see the accursed foreigners expelled forever from Greece, follow me to the protection of the ‘wooden wall!’”

“And all who are brave enough to defend their city,” cried the old man, still firm in his conviction, “follow me to the protection of the ‘wooden wall!’”

There was a division of opinion at the last moment, Themistocles winning nearly half of Kyrsilus’ former followers.

Clinging tightly to Kyrsilus’ hand as they ascended the steps of the Acropolis was a young girl possessing exceptional charm of face and of personality. The usual clearness of her blue eyes was dimmed with tears, and the customary curve of her smiling lips had vanished. Upon her luxuriant brown hair the sun revealed gleams of gold. She was clad in a white garment which hung in graceful folds from her shoulders. Over this was slipped a kolpos plaited at the waist. Her neck and arms were bare except for a necklace and bracelets of silver. The white of her dress and ornaments brought out in favorable contrast the healthful pink of her youthful face.

“Dear Kyrsilus,” the girl was saying, “I shall think of you as my father while my own dear father is preparing to fight the Persians in the bay. He fought bravely at Marathon and I do not believe the gods will see him defeated at Salamis. My uncle too is in command of one of the ships!”

“It is possible that with such brave men as we possess on our side the victory will be ours,” said the elder, “but remember the words of the oracle at Delphi! Although there have been some differences of opinion as to the meaning of the words of the oracle, to me it is quite clear that our city should be defended from its sacred hill. I am not criticizing your father, nor Themistocles, nor others like them who seem sincere in their belief that our land will be saved by a battle upon the water. However your father left you in my care, and I shall do what I deem best for your safety.”

A faint smile flitted across the girl’s face. “Did it ever occur to you, Kyrsilus, that the words of the Delphic oracle are usually vague and ambiguous? Come, be frank, do we not all try to interpret its prophecies to our individual satisfactions? Take for instance Themistocles, whose one obsession ever since he has risen to a place of prominence, has been to increase our navy. It is natural that he should desire to bring his beloved navy into use at the first possible opportunity. Then again let us consider you, dear Kyrsilus, and I mean no offense whatever. Your sister served many years as a priestess of Athena, performing her duties with others in the temple of Athena on this Acropolis. Then too you have lived in Athens longer than has Themistocles. The city itself and above all its templed hill, the very nucleus of Athens, are dearer to you than relatives of whom you now have none surviving.”

The old man looked sadly at the girl and turned his face away to hide a tear. He was deeply affected by her words and the sincerity of her manner, but he did not wish to betray his emotions.

With an effort at severity he said, “My daughter you do unwisely to ridicule the divine oracle of Apollo. The words it utters are not as you say ambiguous, but so fraught with significance that we mortals are incapable of full comprehension. We do our best to interpret the will of the god through his agents, and perhaps at best we can only guess what revelations he makes concerning the future. But it is unseemly in a maiden of your years to criticize our divine source of revelation.”

They were now at the top of a long flight of broad steps, and stood one hundred and fifty feet above the level of the city. In the distance through an atmosphere of unusual clarity they beheld to the south and east, isolated peaks which, though apparently devoid of vegetation, possessed a beauty of color and contour that was enchanting. It was the time of the year when the Etesian winds came from across the blue Aegean and the whole fair land of Greece smiled under the magic touch of the goddess, Demeter.

The faithful band of Kyrsilus’ followers passed through the gateway of the Pelasgic wall and stood in front of a large rectangular building, the temple of Athene Polias[1]. Upon a pediment of this temple was a grotesque serpent in relief, painted and gilded to a dazzling brightness. Processions of priests and priestesses with conventional head-dress and stereotyped smile, formed a frieze which adorned the entablature. A figure in relief of Theseus carrying across his shoulders the Marathonian bull aroused in these, his supposed descendents, a renewed courage to protect their threatened city. They made ready for use what few weapons of defense they had among them, then retired to the temple to pray for the safety of Athens.

“My daughter,” said old Kyrsilus, “pray to Ares that our soldiers may be possessed of unusual valor and courage in the coming conflict, and pray to Athena that our generals may wisely direct the approaching battle.”

“Father Kyrsilus,” replied the maiden, “I always pray to one God! You may call Him Zeus if you wish, but He is all powerful and in His hands alone rests the fate of Greece.”

“Hush my child,” said the aged one, horrified, “you will call down the wrath of the goddess in whose temple you now stand! Will you not pray to Athena?”

Before the girl could reply, a young cripple, who because of his affliction, had been unable to join his friends in the defense of his land, hobbled into the temple.

“They are coming, they are coming!” he cried pointing with trembling finger to the west. The refugees, looking in the direction indicated, beheld on the distant horizon a mass of purplish nimbus which as it gathered momentum gradually took the definite shape of a vast glittering array of horsemen and foot-soldiers. Petrified with terror they stood watching the approaching multitude, which swept relentlessly toward them, a great human deluge!

“Quick! gather rocks and stones and pile them near the wall. The ascent is steep and few can attempt to scale it at a time. We can easily hold them back from the steps with these stones till our soldiers at Salamis return to our aid.” Kyrsilus forced an air of bravado to encourage his countrymen, but his heart sank as he beheld the barbarian host! For a brief space the maid’s doubt as to the wisdom of the oracle also took possession of him, but only for a moment. He thought, “When all else fails, Athena will protect her sanctuary and we can find refuge there.” Soon the oscillating wave of humanity was beneath them. A voice from below rang out clearly above the clash of weapons:

“I represent, O Athenians, one of the banished Peisistradi from this fair city. I beg of you, surrender your city to this world conqueror and save your holy places from pillage!”

It was the resolute voice of Kyrsilus that replied; “Behind the ‘wooden wall’ will we defend our temples, and the gods of Greece will aid us!”

The answer seemed to amaze the Persians. Their officers drew aside and discussed the situation, arriving at their decision without unanimity.

The cripple whose name was Philinus, was appointed sentinel since he was unable to lift the heavy rocks and stones. From a seat upon several boulders near the wall he could observe the movements of the Persians without being seen.

Many of the girls and women wept and prayed for themselves and for their fathers, brothers, husbands and sons now on the fleet. A few had lost loved ones at Thermopylæ. The maiden who had been with Kyrsilus showed remarkable self-control. To her the others now turned for strength and encouragement. One girl to whom she seemed especially dear, clung to her robe tenaciously.

Kyrsilus approached his charge, and there was on his countenance an expression of mingled horror and compassion.

“Persephone,” he said with trembling accents, “if a worse fate than death threatens you, and you can avail yourself of no weapon, better far fling yourself to the rocks below!”

The girl, Ladice, who clung tightly to Persephone’s hand wept bitterly, calling upon the names of all the gods and goddesses to protect her.

“Why are you so calm, Persephone?” she cried. “Do you not realize that this Acropolis may be our huge funeral pyre?”

“Yes I know that, Ladice, but I pray to one God, and I have a belief in a future existence beyond this one, so I am not afraid to die.”

“I too have not had the horror of death that is common to many, but not because of any thought of an existence continuing beyond this. The certainty of oblivion after a tumultuous life in this world of ours is reward enough for me. Surely the peace of nonexistence would be sufficient compensation.”

The smile on Persephone’s face was indicative of an inner knowledge out of which she derived supreme satisfaction and which was incomprehensible to Ladice.

An elderly man by the name of Moschion called excitedly from the gateway: “It will be necessary for all the women and girls who can, to help throw these stones upon the Persians who are climbing faster than we can prevent.”

Persephone and Ladice with others rushed to their task, rendering the needed assistance, though their fingers bled and their bodies, unused to such prolonged, strenuous labor, ached to the point of complete exhaustion. The additional help from the women turned the tide of fortune temporarily in their favor, and the Persians were forced to abandon their attack upon the well protected west side, but now they employed different tactics! They poured upon the wooden ramparts, arrows with burning tow attached to them and it was not long before the palisades were consigned to flames. Still the little group held its ground bravely, but Kyrsilus and Moschion at last sent the women into the temples where they soon joined them. Once within the sanctuary of the city’s patron goddess the frightened Greeks looked for a miracle, and indeed nothing short of a miracle could save them now! In this they were doomed to disappointment for the temple to Athena was the first to be reached by the hungry flames, and the frenzied Greeks were forced to abandon it for other smaller temples.

It was soon observed that Philinus was not with them. He had last been seen in prayer before the altar of Athena and doubtless there he had met his death! In unspoken terror all wondered who would be the next victim on the altar of oriental voracity. The chapel of Aglaurus was farthest from the flames and to it the terror-stricken Greeks fled. Here for a time at least was safety and possible salvation.

“Watch the north side now!” cried Kyrsilus, “The Persians may——” but the words froze on his lips, for there at the doorway stood fifteen or more of the besiegers, who had succeeded in scaling the precipitous northern side.

“To the rocks below, my daughter!” screamed Kyrsilus. “Do not forget my warning!”

An officer laid rough hands on the aged Moschion: “Old bald head, your time on earth is about up, anyway. You may as well journey on without delay. Old Charon is waiting to ferry you across the Styx.”

“Hold!” cried another voice, “I prefer to die first and not witness the end of these my followers.” It was Kyrsilus.

“As you wish,” cried the big Persian, “you are all to go anyway.”

The brave Kyrsilus knelt before his captor whose spear-head disappeared in his breast. His face was convulsed in the agony of death, but with his last faint breath he tried to speak to Persephone. “Perhaps you were right—about the oracle—to the rocks—below—”

Immediately following the tragic death of the leader the remaining men were killed and the rough floor of the little chapel became slippery with blood. A number of the women, following old Kyrsilus’ advice, flung themselves to certain death upon the ground below rather than fall into the hands of Xerxes’ soldiers.

It was Artabazus, one of the most insolent and rapacious of the king’s officers, who discovered Persephone and Ladice cowering in a remote corner.

“Oho, look what I have found here!” he laughed in a coarse loud voice. “Surely such a prize was worth that perilous climb.”

He took a step forward and seized Persephone roughly, but as he did so, he caught the eye of a young officer who had just arrived upon the scene together with Xerxes himself. The king took in the situation at a glance and his narrow eyes gleamed in approbation.

“A brave soldier deserves a fair prize, Artabazus,” he said.

“One moment please!” It was the voice of the young officer Zopyrus. “Did you not, cousin Xerxes, promise me a choice of the fairest maidens of the kingdom? This land of Greece is now a part of your kingdom, O mighty conqueror, and out of it I choose the maiden whom Artabazus now holds.”

“It is all one with me,” cried the impatient monarch, “Artabazus shall have the other maid.”

Zopyrus stepped forward and took the half unconscious form of the beautiful girl in his arms, and amid the coarse jests and ribaldry of the Persian soldiery, fled with his burden to the city below.

CHAPTER IV.
The Miracle of Salamis.

“First from the Greeks a tuneful shout uprose,

Well omened, and with replication loud,

Leaped the blithe echo from the rocky shore.

Fear seized the Persian host, no longer tricked

By vain opinion; not like wavering flight

Billowed the solemn paean of the Greeks,

But like the shout of men to battle urging,

With lusty cheer.”

Aeschylus.

The Persian forces were now turning from the Acropolis, and drunk with victory, were scattering over the city. Dwellings were plundered and burned, and a few wild-eyed Greeks who had remained to guard their valuable possessions, fled in mad confusion, but were overtaken by the ruthless enemy and slaughtered.

Zopyrus’ one desire was to leave behind him the horrors of massacre and conflagration. With great difficulty he forced his way through jostling crowds of demoniac soldiers, who upon recognition of his uniform and insignia, stayed their impulse which was to murder any who did not take part with them in the destruction of the city.

The heat of a noon-day sun shone upon a scene unparalleled in the gruesome aspect which it presented. Zopyrus turned his face to the west, for in this direction the Persians did not go. Their fiendish work was in the heart of the once glorious city which lay to the north and east. Many too were pursuing a south-west course in the direction of the bay of Phalerum where the Persian navy had its headquarters.

As Zopyrus trudged onward, the limp form of the Greek girl in his arms, he noticed that the road which he had chosen, though now deserted, was of unusual width and well paved. The dazzling heat, reflected from the white pavement, became oppressive, and it was with a feeling of ineffable joy that he saw to the right the cool green shadows of an olive-grove. Looking back between the gnarled trunks of two large trees whose branches were entwined in serpentine fashion, he beheld the Acropolis topped with its smoldering ruins. Once within the cool recesses of the grove he deposited his burden, and as he did so, he received a shock. Where before had he beheld those identical features in the relaxation of death? He looked again intently, thinking it an hallucination, and while his gaze rested upon her face, the maiden opened her eyes. With a look of unspeakable horror she recoiled, then as quickly turned her face in his direction, her features expressing amazement. The refinement of his countenance in combination with his Persian uniform astonished her greatly. She marveled at his attitude of reserve. His gaze met hers and held it with an impelling magnetism till she dropped her eyes in confusion.

“You—are a Greek in disguise?” she faltered.

“On the contrary, I am a Persian officer in the army of Xerxes,” he replied, and perceiving her look of terror, he added, “but I will not harm you, rather I have rescued you from a horrible fate.”

“And I am truly grateful, but I am puzzled as to why you should care to do that for me, a daughter of the enemy.”

“The motives of a Persian are not always altogether base,” he replied somewhat coldly.

“A thousand pardons,” she beseeched, “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, but my people have suffered horribly at the hands of yours, and surely you can not wonder at my attitude!”

“No,” he replied more gently, “I do not blame you, but I am glad to prove to you that Ahura-Mazdâo may be as deserving of worship as Zeus.”

To his surprise the suspicion of a smile flitted across her face. Was this bewitching Athenian maiden mocking him? Her features were again serious as she said: “Ahura-Mazdâo and Zeus are one. There is one all-powerful God, and compared with Him the others are quite insignificant.”

“You believe that?” he asked with fresh interest. “I had supposed polytheism to be the unshaken belief of the Greeks.”

“Of the majority that is true,” she replied seriously, “but many of us, while performing the rites due our gods and goddesses, send our prayers to a Deity who is above the petty jealousies of the gods of Olympus. It was a prayer to that Deity which saved me from a tragic fate on the Acropolis!”

He looked at her with a new interest. Not only did he consider her very beautiful, but he was surprised to find her possessing more intellect than was usual among the Persian girls of his acquaintance. He knew too, that the Greek women were educated to be principally home-makers, and that beyond the duties of wives and mothers, their training was somewhat deficient. Therefore he was not a little amazed that this maid of Athens could express her views on religion with the assurance of a man.

“If a prayer to the Deity saved you, can not another such prayer save your ships there at Salamis?” he asked, but so kindly that she did not resent his question.

“Let us go to the shore,” she cried eagerly, “and there I shall pray that success may come to my poor fellow-countrymen who know that their beloved city lies in ashes!”

As they ascended the ravine which intersects the range of Mt. Aegaleos and gazed beyond toward the low hills which lay like purple velvet, fold on fold, it seemed to the man and the maid that hatred and warfare must be altogether odious to a God who had created such beauty. And it seemed to them that man, the crown of his creation, was not fashioned for the murder of his fellows, or to perish on the bloody field of battle. They passed numerous sanctuaries and temples whose white pillars stood like silent ghosts hiding amid the dark foliage of shady groves, or half concealed behind some grassy hillock, but always the great vault of the universal temple impressed upon them their common beliefs. At length from the top of a woody eminence they beheld the silvery sheet of the bay of Salamis, dotted with the Greek triremes.

“Let us take this wooded path to the south,” suggested Zopyrus. “It will take us to the shore at a point considerably north of the Persian forces and out of the danger of meeting any chance pedestrians to Eleusis.”

Persephone had explained that the road which they had traveled up to this point was indeed the Sacred Way which led from Athens to the city of Eleusis where there was a temple dedicated to the worship of Demeter and of Dionysus.

“Many of my friends are now on yonder island,” said Persephone pointing in the direction of the mountains of Salamis which girdled the bay.

“Why were you not with them in this time of peril to your city?” asked the Persian.

“Because my father, who is out there with the Greek fleet, left me in the care of an old friend, Kyrsilus, who believed that Athens could be saved by defending the Acropolis. My father will be frantic with grief when he hears of the fate of Athens, for he lost a son, my twin brother, in the battle of Thermopylæ. My brother Phales, was considered too young to fight and was refused permission to join the naval forces when he applied to Eurybiades, the commander of our fleet, so he united with the Spartans under king Leonidas, and as you know, not one of the three-hundred soldiers escaped death.”

Zopyrus was too overcome with emotion to trust himself to speak. Like a flash the association of her lovely face as she lay passive in his arms, with that other face, so strangely similar, was made clear. His had been the hand that had laid low that youth just on the threshold of manhood, and caused sorrow to the brave father and the devoted sister! In his mind he lived over again that period of mental anguish preceding the battle of Thermopylæ. Then once again as in the heat of battle he saw before him the handsome face of the Greek lad as he lay at his feet in the peace of death. Oh, it was unbearable! He passed his hand across his eyes as if to shut out the haunting vision and lo! as he drew his hand away the same face was before him still, only now it appeared in the fresh vigor of life! As they followed the course of the little by-path, she noticed his sudden silence and wondered if it were possible that he felt any sorrow that a Greek soldier, though her brother, had met death in the pass of Thermopylæ.

No more words passed between them until they stood side by side on a small promontory, the bay, reflecting the glory of an afternoon sun at their feet. Persephone stood shading her eyes and looking eagerly toward the Greek triremes as if she hoped even at that distance to be able to discern a familiar figure on board. It was with new emotions that Zopyrus watched the slender form of the girl silhouetted against a horizon of water and sky like a sylph limned on gauze. She was clad in the flowing white, sleeveless chiton of the women of higher caste, with a plaited kolpos, giving a puff effect at the waist. Her hair, gold where the sun shone upon it but brown in the shadows, was parted so that it fell in loose waves around her temples. At the back, low in her neck, it was gathered in a soft Psyche knot. Her nose was typically Greek, straight and thin, and the perfect contour of cheek and chin was the same that Zopyrus had observed in the slain lad at Thermopylæ.

“Just so have the opposing fleets lain for days,” she cried. “That is the position in which they were when news was received at Athens that Aristides had arrived from Aegina whither he had been banished.”

“Do you think the Greek fleet would do well to strike first? Why not wait for the Persians to take the initiative?” Zopyrus asked.

“Do you think I will tell you, a Persian, what I think?” she cried angrily.

He thought she was going to leave him, but in that he was mistaken. She walked a few paces away still gazing with shaded eyes toward the triremes. Her features now showed the tragic expression of despair. Themistocles had told the Athenians that the Peloponnesians might withdraw their ships, and this, Persephone knew would mean victory to the Persians, and Asiatic rule in Greece. Why, oh why did the Greek ships hold back! It was in an agony of despair that the girl sank to her knees and would have fallen had Zopyrus not run to her assistance.

“The prayer, oh, I had nearly forgotten the prayer for my people! I said I would pray at the shore and so I shall, for the salvation of Greece and the expulsion of the enemy!” The tears were coursing down her rounded cheeks and her frame shook with sobs. Reverently she raised her eyes to heaven and prayed with greater fervor than she had on the Acropolis. Then a few lives had been at stake, now the future of a nation and possibly races of mankind were involved!

The sun apparently crept a few feet nearer its goal and still the girl remained in her attitude of supplication. All at once she stood erect and turned amazed in the direction of Eleusis and the Sacred Way. Borne on the breeze that was wafted across the picturesque bay of Eleusis came the sound of myriads of voices raised in a mighty pæan of joy. The chant rose and fell in awful grandeur striking fear and adoring wonder to the hearts of Persians and Greeks.

“It is the Hymn to Dionysus!” cried Persephone. “That is the way it sounds at festival times, only this is a thousand times grander. There are none left in Greece to sing that hymn! Do you not see it is a miracle sent by the Deity in answer to my prayer? Listen!”

The volume of sound grew louder and more distinct until it seemed to surround them and they stood dumb with astonishment. Out over the waters of Salamis drifted the pæan of solemn, dignified joy, and into the heart of every Greek it sent its message. Never to hear again in reality the Hymn to Dionysus! Never to walk in joyous procession with the celebrants from Athens to Eleusis, bearing the statue of Iocchos! Never to celebrate the national festivals so dear to the heart of every Greek! Was Greece to be overrun and conquered by Orientals? The pæan died away gradually and was followed by an ominous, death-like silence. Then a very different sound pierced the ears of the two listeners. It was the battle-cry of the Greeks as they sent forth their ships to meet the enemy. All fear had fled. Only one motive actuated the entire fleet and that was to save Greece at any cost.

“Do you see the ship that leads the assault?” cried Persephone excitedly. “That is commanded by Lycomedes, a brave captain well deserving of the honors he has won in previous conflicts, but the ship behind is a close second.”

The leading Greek ship pursued a Persian vessel which was seemingly but a few feet in advance of the Greek boat.

“The Persian vessel is making for that narrow space yonder but I doubt if it will have room to turn about and face its antagonist. It is like sailing between Scylla and Charybdis,” said Zopyrus. “Look it is about to turn, but the space will not permit. There—!”

As he spoke the boat commanded by Lycomedes struck that of the Persian broadside, nearly cutting it in twain with the sharp, strong beak. Instantly the greatest confusion reigned on board the damaged vessel. Soldiers leapt into the water, preferring drowning to death or captivity at the hands of the enemy. Persephone turned away with a shudder. Zopyrus observed her narrowly.

“It pains you to witness the victory of this Lycomedes?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.

“No, no,” she replied in distressed tones, “I should have been glad to hear of it, but I can not enjoy being an eye-witness to such a terrible scene!”

His feeling of bitterness left and he said more kindly, “Will you not go and rest under the shade of some tree well out of sight and somewhat out of sound of this battle?”

Her reply rather surprised him. “If you can watch so serenely the annihilation of your countrymen, I can endure witnessing the victory of mine. Oh,” here she unconsciously clutched Zopyrus’ arm, unaware of the thrill of contact to the Persian, “the second ship is commanded by my brave uncle, Ameinias. Look, he is pursuing a Persian ship which has so far eluded his beak!”

The battle was now raging in earnest, Persephone and Zopyrus stood with tense interest while at their feet was enacted one of the world’s great tragic dramas. The narrow space in which they were engaged hindered the Persians and rendered their superior number a disadvantage. Becoming panic-stricken, they collided with each other. Oars were broken, and unable to steer, they could not direct their blows with the prows, by which means they sought to sink an enemy ship. The bay was a moving mass of driving beaks and heaving wreckage.

“Whose is the vessel that my uncle still pursues?” asked the girl presently.

“That is the ship of Artemisia, queen of Halicarnassus,” he replied.

No sooner had the words fallen from his lips than the Karian queen’s boat collided with that of one of her countrymen, and Ameinias abandoned the pursuit. But Artemisia’s boat was not damaged and retreated quickly to the Persian side.

“I believe the collision was deliberate,” said Zopyrus more to himself than to his companion. “By apparently becoming a deserter and sinking one of her own ships, she escaped with her life.”

“Who is this Artemisia, that she commands a ship and displays such keen intelligence in naval warfare?” asked Persephone with growing interest.

“She is a companion of Xerxes, and had proven a wise counsellor. Her advice when followed has always been adept, and when unheeded, disaster has resulted. This naval engagement with the Greeks was undertaken entirely against her wishes and this is the result!”

Persephone smiled. “I am glad I do not have to serve in the capacity of king’s counsellor. My talents evidently lie in a different direction. I can not cause battles to be fought or not, at will.”

“No, little maid of Greece, but it seems that by your prayers you can determine the results of the battles that are fought. Your power is far greater than that of Artemisia!”

Her eyes were filled with tears of happiness. “The One God who is powerful above all others does hear and answer the prayers of earnest suppliants.”

It was difficult to say whether the sweet loveliness in the lines of Persephone’s face, or her majesty of character gave her the greater fascination, but as the youth gazed upon her features illuminated with triumph and joy, he became convinced that she was the most attractive woman he had ever known.

“When the battle is over, where will you go?” he asked.

“Wherever my father or uncle wish,—and you?”

For a moment he hesitated. Should he tell her of his Greek mother and of the conflicting emotions which had been his ever since the beginning of the campaign? She observed his indecision and said softly even seductively: “You have seen much to rouse your sympathy for my people, have you not? Surely the atrocities wrought by the Persians have not met with the approval of one who could rescue a maiden in dire distress, though she were of the enemy!”

Zopyrus was soldier before he was lover. He had come over with the Persian host to aid in subduing Greece, and here he was nearly allowing himself to be swayed by the charms of a Greek maid. For the moment he forgot that his Greek mother had been the strongest influence, barring his vows as an officer, that had as yet actuated him in this campaign. He felt momentarily the sting of the defeat of Salamis.

“I go to the Persians at Phalerum, after I have seen you safe with your people,” he replied coldly.

“There is no danger now,” she answered, and there was a twinkle in her eye. “With the defeat of the Persians, I am secure in my own country.”

He looked at her speechlessly as she stood in an attitude of superb defiance, then moved by a sudden impulse, he strode toward her and gathered her roughly in his arms, crushing her against him till she cried out with pain.

“You see your danger is not over, is it?” he asked fiercely.

She ceased to struggle, and when he looked at her pale face and into her eyes, which are ever truer messengers of the soul than the spoken words of the mouth, he read a truth which bewildered him. Passionately he kissed her lips, once, twice, thrice, then rudely put her from him and strode away in the direction of Phalerum.

CHAPTER V.
The Traitor of Thermopylæ.

“Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, O, give me back my heart!

Or since it has left my breast,

Keep it now, and take the rest!”

Lord Byron.

A small barge shot out from the shadows of a cliff through the light spray which spumed about its prow as it cut the billows. Its occupants, in addition to the two oarsmen, were a youth and maiden of comely features. The former was clad in a long, deep bordered chiton covered with a chlamys or cape of semi-military style. His feet were protected by leather sandals, bound with straps about the calves of his legs. In indolent ease he stretched his too graceful form and gazed from beneath half closed eye-lids at the beautiful young woman who reclined upon a cushioned dais at the boat’s prow. The woman, if she were conscious of the other’s gaze, did not make it manifest. Her eyes sought the tranquil water with a dreamy, faraway expression. For some time the two sat thus. At length the man’s attitude of indolence changed abruptly. He leaned forward, drawing his companion’s gaze to his.

“Why this coolness to me, Persephone? You have been a changed girl ever since I found you wandering alone on the shore near Eleusis. Have the horrors of recent events affected your reason, that you do not smile upon me as was your wont?”

“It must be the war, Ephialtes, that makes my spirit so downcast. If only the entire Persian army had retreated across the Hellespont with Xerxes! Hordes of them still remain in Thessaly, rallying, I presume, to attack us again.”

“We are safe here at Salamis for the time being, and if I thought what you have said was the true cause of your listlessness, I should not worry, but I have feared lately that you consider seriously the attentions of Icetes, may Pluto take him!”

Persephone colored to her temples at these words. “Icetes is a sincere and lovable friend. He is no more to me than an elder brother and I will not hear his name so defiled.”

A sneer curled the handsome lips of the Greek but his expression changed quickly to one of passionate adoration. “I have loved you ever since I first saw you, Persephone, and I will not allow another to come between you, the rare object of my affections and me. Your father has consented to a betrothal, has he not?”

The maiden looked away quickly. “Father does not wholly approve of you, Ephialtes, if the truth must be known. You know father has strict ideas and I am his only daughter!”

“Of course you are,” the young man responded irritably, “but he must expect you to wed sometime, and where will he find a better suitor for your hand outside of royalty? I have wealth,” here Ephialtes touched the rich border of his costly garment and the jewel in his dark hair, “good looks, and prospects of political favor.”

Persephone hesitated to state that the doubtful source of Ephialtes’ wealth was one of her father’s objections to him as a prospective son-in-law. Also the fact that he spent his money lavishly upon personal comforts and luxuries, but had failed to donate toward the sum being raised for the rebuilding of Athens, was against him.

“Do not press me for an answer now, Ephialtes. The Persians have not yet been expelled from Greece, and you may have to don helmet and cuirass once again before our beloved country is safe from the oriental invader.”

“When the Athenians return to rebuild Athens will you give me your answer?” persisted Ephialtes.

“I will consider seriously at that time,” replied the girl smiling demurely into the handsome face now close to her own.

Persephone was a true Greek in that she believed that physical beauty was the index of the rarer qualities of mind and heart. The youth who sat opposite possessed physical beauty to an unusual degree. The soft breezes from across the water stirred his dark thick locks, and the dazzling reflection of the late afternoon sun on the dancing waves was reflected a second time from his dark eyes whose light fluctuated even as that upon the oscillating surface of the water.

“Tell me again of your heroism at Thermopylæ,” whispered the maiden.

“No, I would not seem to brag of my gift of valor. It is enough, is it not, that I have told you of my attempt to save the life of Leonidas?”

Persephone smiled at him in approval, then her features became serious as she asked: “Has the traitor of Thermopylæ yet been discovered? But for him, our city would not now be in ashes and thousands of lives would have been spared including that of my dear brother, Phales.”

She raised tear-dimmed eyes to her companion: “Ephialtes, seek the traitor and deliver him to us, that through the agency of man, God may avenge that foul act of treason. Could you do this, Greece would honor your name as it did that of Miltiades.”

The man turned his face away, his mood quickly altered by the girl’s words.

“Humanity is fickle,” he replied with a peculiar air of detachment. “Miltiades did not enjoy public favor for long, you remember. Just because he went on a little trip to avenge a personal wrong, immediately the populace forgot his heroism at Marathon and convicted him for that minor offence.”

“But,” replied the girl, “Miltiades became arrogant and forgot public interests for his own. Zeus always punishes insolence by having Justice recompense in due season.”

Ephialtes was obstinately silent, unmoved by Persephone’s words. He dared say no more for fear of betraying himself. Persephone, he loved to as great an extent as it is possible for one of such selfish instincts to love. She did not possess great wealth, and conscious of his own mercenary nature, he wondered that he could so love where money was no object. He had great respect for her mental superiority, while at the same time he feared it, but it was her physical loveliness which appealed to him most. He longed to possess her, body and soul, and the usual patience with which he could await the attainment of his desires, was becoming depleted. He had always prided himself on his ability to bridle his impulses if he felt that they interfered in any way with the ultimate attainment of a desired goal. Where self-restraint is lacking, there is no order, and no one knew this any better than Ephialtes.

It was that magical hour between daylight and dusk that is of such short duration in the countries of the south. Away to the west stretched the hills of Salamis, the setting sun shedding a flood of glory upon the picturesque undulations. Then one by one the stars began to appear and soon the canopy of the heavens was studded with myriads of twinkling lights.

“Let us hasten back to the island,” said Persephone shivering slightly. “The air is chill and I brought no wrap with me.”

The young man removed his cape and placed it around the shoulders of his companion. Persephone seemed despondent. Even the beauty of the evening on the water beneath the stars did not cheer her. The barge was now, at the request of the maiden, turning its prow toward the promontories of her temporary home.

“Persephone,” pleaded the youth once more, “will you not give me an answer now, and if in the affirmative, I shall be the happiest man in all Greece.”

Persephone smiled a little, but was still troubled.

“Dear Ephialtes,” she said, “you have it in you to be so brave as you proved at Thermopylæ, but before I consent to a marriage between us, I want one more accomplishment that will bring glory to your name. Discover for our country Thermopylæ’s traitor.”

Ephialtes’ brow clouded. “That is a very difficult task. Will not proof of heroic valor in the next conflict with the Persians suffice to bring you to my arms, a willing bride?”

The barge now glided into a cove near the city, and Ephialtes rose to assist his fair companion in alighting from her seat at the prow. As she yielded her arm to his, she raised to his face a countenance, though outwardly serene, yet strangely determined.

“On the day that you deliver to Greece the traitor of Thermopylæ I will become your wife.”

CHAPTER VI.
Athena Speaks Through the Olive Branch.

“We climb the ancient steep, which chief and sage

Mounted before, through many a changeful age;

Where Cimon blessed the gods that Greece was free,

And Thrasybulus shouted ‘Victory.’”

Nicholas Michell.

At the top of the long rugged path by which one mounted the Acropolis, stood a young man of martial bearing. Upon his features contempt and yearning curiously mingled. At his feet lay a city now silent and deserted, which had once teemed with active humanity. Whether he looked to north or south, to east or west, there crowded upon his memory in rapid succession, incidents that brought to him the convincing reality that this city was associated with all that was dear to him.

The fleeting memories that crowded in and out of his mind came from a diversity of experiences. Now there came to him thoughts as he looked toward the Agora[2] that brought a wistful smile to his lips. He was once more a mischievous boy running through the busy market to escape the wrath of the pursuing vender whom he had angered by the theft of a tempting bit of fruit. Then—and his brow clouded while a blush of shame flushed his cheek—he was a wild youth arrogant and proud, and steeped in sin, how deep, he did not realize till later! Then had followed the excitement of war—his father as commander of the Greeks had won a great victory over the Persians at Marathon! His father the great Miltiades, whose name was on every tongue and whose praise was sung throughout Greece, returned, the idol of the hour, and Cimon, though too young to have participated at Marathon, commemorated his parent’s triumph with a sumptuous feast, the like of which had never before nor since been celebrated in Athens. And then—here Cimon’s head sank upon his breast—had followed the disgrace and death of that father whose bravery had been extoled throughout the land. His courageous father who had stood firm before the darts of Datis and Artaphernes, yielded to a desire to avenge a petty, personal wrong, and fell with an arrow in his heart. But after all, Cimon considered, had not the father’s disgrace brought the son to his senses? His former friends shunned him in a way that he knew was due not alone to the paternal disgrace, but to the former arrogance with which he had flaunted his pride of social standing in the faces of his associates.

The blush of shame which mantled his brow gave evidence of the remorse which the young Cimon had suffered. Suddenly he stood erect and held his head high, a triumphant gleam in his blue eyes. Yes he had made a real man of himself after all and had won the respect and confidence of his fellows, not through his poor father’s achievements, but through virtues of his own. He would do what he could yet to bring this beloved city back to her former splendor. The Persians though defeated at Salamis, would he knew, rally for another attack, for they had not left northern Greece, and he, Cimon, would exert himself to the utmost to save the land which his father had so bravely defended ten years before.

His eyes glowed with enthusiasm while visions of the future held him in absorption. What Miltiades had been to Greece, he would be, and more. His father had been all soldier, but in him, Cimon, were there not mingled some of the qualities necessary to the making of a statesman as well? He turned and viewed with grief the ponderous slabs that had once composed the temple to Athena. Would not Athens soon need another such edifice, grander and of more beautiful proportions than the one which had recently occupied this site? Some leader would arise after this war, why not he? Of course Themistocles, here his brow puckered to a frown, was a great man and had been the savior of Greece at Salamis, but Themistocles would soon be past his prime, whereas he was young. He drew himself to his full height, unconsciously placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword and gazed beyond the north horizon in which direction he knew the Persians rallied for another attack upon the stronghold of Attica.

His mind returned again to the statesman, Themistocles. He had been the last person to see Ladice alive, and it was known for certain that she was among those who ascended the Acropolis with Kyrsilus. Although it was first reported that all of that brave little band had been slaughtered, rumor had been rife that some of the younger women had been spared—but only to meet a worse fate; that of captivity in the harems of the Persians. If that had been Ladice’s fate, far better that she had met death with the others on the Acropolis! But Ladice did not love him. Oh, the sting of that realization! Ladice knew of the wild life that he had led and of the drunken orgies in which he had participated. Perhaps it was presumptuous for him to think with love upon a girl of such stainless character as Ladice, but had he not vowed by all the gods that he would live an upright life and had he not kept that vow for nearly four years?

Slowly he advanced among the ruins which lay about him, mute evidences of a destructive power as yet unconquered.

“She probably offered a last prayer to Athena here,” he surmised as he sadly surveyed what had once been the sanctuary of that goddess. Vainly he strove to suppress the violent agitation of his soul. At last with a despairing cry he sank to his knees, and with uplifted hands prayed to the goddess: “Oh Athena, thou who knowest what took place at thy sanctuary, even though thou wert unable to defend it against the hordes of Xerxes, did Ladice die among the followers of Kyrsilus or was she taken captive by Persian soldiers? If she is now a prisoner among them, is there a chance for her rescue? Is there a chance for this city that is named for thee O Athena? Give me a sign, O Goddess, that is all I ask, a sign that I may set forth with renewed hope and vigor to aid in expelling the dreaded foes from our boundaries!”

Cimon staggered to his feet, his eyes resting wearily on the debris that was piled about him. Presently among the fragments of a demolished pillar he saw something that caused him to doubt the truthfulness of his sight. Here on the top of the Acropolis where destruction through the agency of fire and sword had been followed by chaos, was a bit of living green vegetation! Cimon approached in awe and bewilderment, then he uttered an exclamation of joy, for the sacred olive tree which had been planted in honor of the patron goddess years before, had sent forth a new green shoot a cubit in length. The young man knew as he gazed upon this miracle of life sprung from the ashes of death, that Athena spoke by the olive-branch the promise that Athens should arise from her despair and ruin. With a lighter heart than he had felt for many a weary day, Cimon descended the path, and in his heart not only hope, but a grim determination to help in the restoration of his beloved city, found lodgment.

CHAPTER VII.
The Banquet of Attaginus.

“How oft when men are at the point of death

Have they been merry!”

Shakespeare.

After the defeat of the Persians at Salamis, Xerxes retreated across the Hellespont to Asia, but Mardonius was not so easily disheartened. With three hundred thousand men he wintered in Thessaly making thorough preparations for a second attack upon Athens the following summer. What was his utter amazement upon re-entering the city to find it completely deserted, its citizens having remained at Salamis, Troezen and Aegina. Thereupon he retreated to Thebes in Bœotia there to await the Greek offensive which was to be strengthened by aid from the Spartans.

On a certain evening in spring, ten months after the destruction of Athens, Zopyrus and his friend Masistius, sat outside the entrance of the latter’s tent in the Persian encampment near Thebes. The night was cool for that time of the year, but the chill was warded off to some extent by a brightly blazing fire.

“What think you of this sumptuous feast to be given by the Theban Attaginus, on the morrow?” asked Zopyrus.

“I expect I shall enjoy the feast, but I do not admire the Bœotians,” replied Masistius. “They are unfaithful to their country’s cause, and above all things I loathe a traitor. Of course our outward appearances must be those of friendship, for they are of inestimable service to the Persian cause, but how different from the traitorous Thebans was that little band of Athenians who tried to defend their Acropolis!”

Zopyrus’ brow clouded at memory of that tragic scene. “By the way Masistius, what became of the girl whom Xerxes gave to Artabazus when the latter was forced to surrender the maiden to whom I laid claim?”

Masistius gazed silently into the bright flames and tossed a twig into the fire, watching it a moment before he spoke.

“Her young life will be consumed just as that twig. She was taken away by Artabazus and is now a captive in his harem.”

Masistius paused a moment impressively, then he asked without even glancing in Zopyrus’ direction: “And the other maiden, what of her? But that is a rude question,” he added, laying an affectionate hand upon the other’s shoulder. “I presume by now she is safe with her people.”

Zopyrus turned quickly and sought his companion’s gaze. “Friend Masistius,” he said, “I have kept locked within my breast these ten months, a secret, so precious that I hesitate to share it, and I would not do so were it not approaching the eve of battle, but to you who throughout this entire campaign, have been the only friend whose ideas of life coincide with mine, I will disclose that which I had not thought to reveal to mortal man. Although my acquaintance with the maiden of whom you speak was of short duration, it was, nevertheless, long enough to convince me that I want her for my wife.”

The Persian cavalryman expressed no little surprise at his friend’s disclosure.

“Was the infatuation mutual?” he asked.

“If I possess any ability in interpreting a maiden’s thoughts through her eyes, my love is reciprocated,” said Zopyrus, the color mounting to his temples.

“If that be the case,” spoke Masistius heartily, “may Ahura-Mazdâo bring you together after we have conquered Greece!”

“And if we cannot succeed in subduing the Greeks?”

“Then Zeus may perform the act of reuniting you,” replied Masistius somewhat bitterly.

The fire had by this time died down till only a few glowing embers remained. Zopyrus rose to take his leave.

“Farewell, Masistius, till the feast. Forget the confidences of the past hour. This love of mine can avail nothing.”

“Of that I am not so sure, Zopyrus. The vision of a certain beautiful young woman has kept up my courage that might otherwise have failed me.”

With a friendly hand-clasp, the two parted.

* * * * * * * *

The hall appropriated to the feast was part of the private home of the Theban leader, Attaginus. Through a wide entrance at one side of the hall, the guests glimpsed a court, the floor of which was of variegated mosaic tiles forming intricate designs and patterns. In the center a marble fountain tossed up its silvery cooling spray. Among the potted palms and ferns, birds of bright-colored plumage flitted about adding their sweet notes to that of cithera and flute. Rarest flowers of every hue glowed from sculptured vases among the green foliage of the plants, and sweet spices burned in guilded tripods.

Within the hall the cedar-wood tables[3] groaned under the weight of gold and silver dishes filled with tasty viands. There were thrushes browned to a turn, fish, lentils, olive-oil, cheese, fruit, cakes baked in the shape of Persian and Greek soldiers, and many desserts and dainties to induce thirst for the wine which was to come later.

The astute Attaginus had arranged his guests in such a manner that a Bœotian and a Persian occupied the same couch. In this way he hoped to stimulate the fraternal spirit between Persian and Greek. Thus Artabazus found himself occupying a couch with a Theban cavalryman by the name of Timegenidas, Masistius discovered his companion to be a certain Theban, Asopodorus, while Mardonius and Attaginus were partners.

Zopyrus being an inferior officer to those mentioned, sat among others of equal rank with himself at an end of the hall. In spite of the revel and festivity about him, he labored in vain to throw off a sense of depression. To one of his nature it was impossible to forget the probable tragedies of the morrow in the carousal and merry-making of today. These men about him were trying to veil sorrow with levity; a thing that men have done for countless ages and probably always will; a last expiring effort to enjoy life while it is still in their possession; a desire to crowd out of consciousness the possibility of oblivion by a present rapturous delight in the reality of existence.

The Greek who sat with Zopyrus observed his nonchalance and endeavored to encourage conversation. He plied Zopyrus with questions as to his native city, the details of the campaign from Sardis to Thessaly, until the Persian was forced to make similar inquiries in regard to the Bœotian, who he learned was a citizen of Orchomenus, by the name of Thersander.

At the close of the above mentioned courses servants entered and moved noiselessly about, putting wreaths on the heads and around the necks of the guests and pouring upon them sweet-scented ointments. At this point in the feast Attaginus arose and all eyes were turned in his direction.

“We will appoint a symposiarch[4] by lot,” he explained, “so that Greek and Persian will be treated fairly.”

“I believe my companion here would make an excellent symposiarch,” said Timegenidas, laughingly indicating Artabazus. “I think he would be sparing in the use of water. Am I right, my friend?”

“Where wine, revelry and women, though the latter are sadly wanting here, are concerned,” said Artabazus in a loud voice, “there I am willing to take a prominent part.”

“I am sure you would prove an excellent symposiarch,” courteously replied the host, “but we will tonight follow the usual custom and cast lots for that service.”

The lot fell to Masistius before whom the servants placed a large ornate mixing bowl upon a handsome golden salver. In accordance with his practice of moderation in all things, Masistius used three parts of water to two of wine, much to the disgust of Artabazus and a few others present.

“Masistius,” called Artabazus, “this may be the last wine we drink here on earth, so beware of mixing frog’s wine. Make it strong enough for us to forget in it the threatening dangers of tomorrow. Add some more of that which our host says comes from Lesbos!”

The symposiarch ignored the latter’s remarks. His large, well-built frame, as he performed his task, attracted the attention of all the banqueters.

“If he attains such superb physique with three parts of water and two of wine, we can do no better than to follow his example,” said one.

“It is said there is none braver among the men of the cavalry,” remarked another.

To all this conversation, Zopyrus was a silent listener. His eyes rested with fond approval upon the manly form of his friend Masistius. He watched closely the frank, open countenance and was well pleased with the jovial, but at the same time, dignified demeanor. How would it fare with Masistius on the morrow? Of himself he did not think. He was presently aware that Artabazus was addressing the banqueters generally.

“You Greeks actually do not seem to miss the presence of women at your banquets! Now to me, for my tastes are so refined, the presence of feminine beauty adds a charm for which no amount of flowers, birds or music can substitute.”

The Greek Asopodorus now spoke, and his voice in contrast to the raucous accents of the Persian, fell pleasingly upon the ears of the feasters. “We Greeks believe in a unit of love in which love of beauty, of wealth, sensual love, intellectual love and many others are but earthly modifications of the true and the good. Thus a love which satisfies the æsthetic can take as great delight in the manly strength of a youth’s body as in the graceful, softer lines of a woman’s form.”

“Ah,” thought Zopyrus, “Many of these Greeks think and feel as Asopodorus. Their adoration of loveliness in any form is their outstanding characteristic. They love the beauty of this earthly paradise in which they dwell, yet because they love power less, they are turning over their beautiful land to foreigners. If I had only been born a Greek!”

He glanced at Thersander. “I am half Greek, and may the gods smite me if I do not look more Greek than this fellow near me! If it were not for Masistius whom I love as a brother, I believe I should not tolerate seeing this fair land over-run by such as Artabazus and many another eastern despot.”

Although the wine was not strong enough to intoxicate if taken in moderation, the spirits of many of the guests were rising as the evening wore on, owing to excessive drinking. At length six girls, whose hair was entwined with daisies, appeared at the entrance to the court. Each held a lyre and sang as she moved lightly on tip-toe between the tables. They were modestly attired so as not to offend the taste of the most fastidious, for Attaginus was a conservative man and much respected in Thebes.

“So much for your love of the æsthetic, Attaginus,” laughed Mardonius, winking at the Theban. “In accordance with your theory why did you not have some handsome youths dance with the lyre?”

“Because,” replied Attaginus, “the male figure does not appear as well in a dance, but I could have put on a wrestling match that I think would well have pleased my guests.”

“The girls will prove far better entertainers,” said Artabazus, who had overheard the conversation, “but why are their charms so hidden? They might better be a group of priestesses than dancers amid the revelry and loud clamor of a banquet!”

The evening wore on in this fashion, the feasters trying to out-rival one another in attracting the attention of the six damsels. When the singing and dancing were at an end and the maidens had disappeared, the conversation turned to the more serious matters of the approaching battle. Mardonius spoke.

“The Athenians will regret their refusal to form an alliance with us against the Peleponnesians. Remember Thermopylæ, my friend and do not forget that Salamis was a naval battle. Athens’ powerful navy will avail her naught in the approaching conflict.”

“Your great leader speaks most encouragingly, my friend,” said Thersander addressing Zopyrus, “wherefore are you so downcast?”

Zopyrus paused a moment before replying, then said in a voice low enough to be audible only to his companion:

“Since you have now partaken with me at the same table, I desire to leave with you some memorial of my convictions: the rather in order that you may be yourself forewarned so as to take the best counsel for your own safety. Do you see these Persians here feasting, and did you observe the army which we left yonder encamped near the river? Yet a little while, and out of all these you will behold but a few surviving!”

Thersander replied. “Surely you are bound to reveal this to Mardonius and to his confidential advisers!”

But the Persian rejoined. “My friend, man can not avert that which God has decreed to come. No one will believe the revelation, sure though it be. Many of us Persians know this well, and are here serving only under the bond of necessity. And truly this is the most hateful of all human suffering—to be full of knowledge and at the same time to have no power over any result.”

Zopyrus was himself amazed at his own frank outburst. Many times had he longed thus to express himself, and so he had revealed to Thersander what he dared not to his friend Masistius. The east was kindling into a glorious day as the banqueters took leave of their host, Attaginus.

CHAPTER VIII.
Masistius’ Message to Zopyrus.

“But down on his threshold, down!

Sinks the warrior’s failing breath,

The tale of that mighty field

Is left to be told by Death.”

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

Platæa lay on the northern slope of beautiful Mt. Cithæron at the foot of which wound the picturesque river Asopus. On this day in midsummer, four hundred and seventy-nine B. C., three hundred thousand Persians and fifty thousand Greek allies were encamped on the north bank of the river while the confederate Greek army which numbered one hundred and ten thousand, waited for the Persian attack on the slopes of Cithæron. Because of unfavorable advice from soothsayers, both sides hesitated to commence the assault.

After several days of suspense, Mardonius summoned his soothsayer to his tent, the same tent occupied by Xerxes before his return to Asia. The general sat before a table gazing steadfastly at a parchment which was spread before him. The soothsayer bowed and approached Mardonius.

“Did you send for me, my lord?” he asked.

Mardonius lifted a face that was strangely pale and haggard. “Aye, Hegesistratus, I would know the latest signs.”

“It grieves me that the signs are all unfavorable, especially in the case of an initiative on the Persian side,” replied the soothsayer.

Mardonius frowned. “Can you not tell us what it were best to do? If you can not I shall find a man who can.”

“My lord,” replied Hegesistratus, “I have examined closely the entrails of every sacrificial animal, and the signs are the same. Would you know the truth? I am here to tell you, no matter what that truth may be.”

Mardonius leaned forward clutching the table until the knuckles of his hands were white. “Tell me, Hegesistratus, am I in imminent danger?”

The seer turned his face slowly away and made no reply.

“Speak, dog, or your head will be forfeit!” cried the wrathful general.

“Then if you must needs know,” responded the reluctant prophet, “you are in grave danger.”

“Is there no hope?” asked Mardonius turning very pale.

“All men pass through certain periods of danger and such a one is now imminent for you, my lord, but the time of no man’s death is absolutely fated and mayhap this crisis will pass!”

“Depart and send Masistius to me at once,” said the leader in great agitation.

A few moment later the tent folds parted, admitting the gigantic form of the cavalryman. The sight of the heroic figure seemed to cheer Mardonius, for in place of his customary tones of peremptory command, he spoke informally, even affectionately to the brave Persian.

“Masistius I have decided to delay no longer, for provisions are low. It is my wish that you lead the Persian cavalry in an offensive. We number three times the enemy, therefore why delay longer?”

“All that a true soldier wants to know is that he understands his orders. Your slightest wish is a command, Mardonius. I shall go at once.”

“You are a brave man, Masistius. Ask what you will after this encounter, and it shall be granted you. I will show Hegesistratus what little faith I put in his soothsaying!”

A few hours after this Masistius approached Zopyrus, calling him away from a group of soldiers with whom he was conversing.

“Zopyrus, I go shortly to charge the enemy and if the gods will that I do not return, read this and obey its instructions.” So saying he thrust into his friend’s hand a bit of parchment. A few seconds fraught with emotion and Masistius strode off to obey his superior’s orders.

When the Athenians observed the approach of the Persian cavalry they descended to the plain below. Zopyrus stood, a tense figure, behind the barracks. His bosom swelled with pride as he watched the manly form of Masistius mounted on a black charger, likewise of huge proportions.

“Now if I but knew the secret power of the maiden’s prayer!” thought he.

Riding rapidly at the head of the Greek cavalry was the Athenian Olympiodorus, a white steed bearing him to the scene of conflict. He was not a man of large frame, but his attitude of calm self-reliance and his military bearing gave promise to Masistius that here was an opponent worthy of the utmost exertion of belligerent mettle. On came the two principal antagonists, the distance between them steadily decreasing. At last they met with a clash of weapons.

The Greek was successful in parrying the stroke of the Persian. With exceptional agility he dodged now this way, now that, bringing to naught the superior strength of his antagonist. At length Olympiodorus began losing ground. His muscles were tiring under the continued strain of warding off his opponent’s thrust. Just when it would seem that Masistius could make the final stab, another horseman rode up to the assistance of Olympiodorus. In this unequal conflict Masistius felt himself a loser. He wondered why his friends did not come to his aid, but was vaguely conscious that they were busily engaged in battle. Still he labored on parrying each thrust till he relaxed in complete exhaustion and a second later fell as the sword of Olympidiorus’ helper pierced his vitals. So perished Masistius, one of the bravest of Mardonius’ soldiers.

From his position behind the bulwarks, Zopyrus witnessed the death of his dearest friend. He stood for a moment as one in a stupor. His consciousness seemed gradually to weaken, flicker and die out, then a new spirit appeared to take hold of him and slowly gain predominance. After struggling for months with indecision which was gradually destroying his willpower, the right course for him to take became unquestionably apparent. He realized that since the defeat at Salamis, Masistius had been the only bond that held him to the Persian despot whose many acts of atrocity he had viewed with growing aversion. The influence of his Greek mother had at last gained undeniable supremacy. She had taught him while it is manly to love one’s country, it is God-like to love the world.

It was a new Zopyrus who turned and with resolute steps sought the seclusion of his tent. With deferential fingers he touched the note which his departed friend had given him and perused it with eyes moist with unshed tears. It ran as follows:

“To Zopyrus greetings—When you read this, my dear friend, you will know that I am no longer among the living. My one regret is that I can not carry out in the body that which I planned. Would it be asking too much of you, my friend and comrade, to undertake that which death makes impossible of accomplishment? Do you remember the eve of the Theban’s banquet when you confessed to me that you loved a Greek maiden, whom you returned unharmed to her people? I did not then tell you that a somewhat similar experience has been mine. But to make this clear to you, I must go back to that moment upon the Acropolis in Athens when Xerxes gave to you the girl whom Artabazus had seized. If you were not too busy with your own affairs you will remember that after granting this maid to you, Xerxes then told Artabazus to take the other girl. I happened to be standing beside Artabazus at the time, and never shall I forget the agonized expression upon the Greek maid’s face as she felt herself seized by the Persian. I understand and speak Greek but poorly, yet I knew what she said. Observing that I did not enter into the course jests of the other soldiers, she pled with me to save her from Artabazus, a thing I would willingly have attempted had it been at all possible.

“The memory of her naturally fair face distorted in the agony of fear, haunted me and I resolved to attempt a rescue. I knew she was confined in a tent to the rear of that of Artabazus where a number of Persian women were kept under guard of a eunuch. I passed by the tent often that evening under pretext of official duty beyond. At last I was rewarded by the sight of a piece of parchment slipped under a fold of the tent. I placed my foot upon it while I looked about to be assured no one had witnessed the passing of the note which read:

“‘I am a prisoner in the harem of Artabazus. Can you save me? Artabazus has promised not to harm me till after the encounter between Greeks and Persians. This promise was wrung from him principally through the efforts of a jealous Persian woman who threatened my life. He and she made a compromise, the result of which was that I should be forced to surrender myself to him immediately after the next conflict regardless of which side came through victorious. If you can rescue me before the close of another battle, I will owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay—Ladice.’

“As you are aware, Zopyrus, this occurred at Phalerum, and since then Persians and Greeks have not met in conflict until now. I have had other occasions during the ten months of our sojourn in Thessaly to secretly communicate with Ladice, and in each of her messages she has assured me of the strict manner in which his favorite mistress forces Artabazus to abide by his word. During this time I felt my heart undergoing a change from pity to love for this Greek girl who was so dependent upon my mercy, and upon one occasion I grew bold enough to write in words my adoration and hopes for the future. Her answer the next day contained the happy news that my love was returned, and I planned on a rescue during the next conflict, stating that I believed our communications had better cease in order to decrease the possibility of further danger. She told me that she believed Pædime, the jealous paramour of Artabazus, had suspected the exchange of our notes, but realizing it to be to her advantage to allow Ladice to escape, she had maintained a discreet silence.

“This then is the situation that I leave and that I trust my friend Zopyrus to take up where fate has forced me to leave it. May the good-will of Ahura-Mazdâo follow you in all your efforts throughout life—Masistius.”

The changed Zopyrus sat a moment buried in deepest thought. Without he heard the noises which accompany preparation for battle. He hurried forth into the open.

“What are Mardonius’ orders?” he asked of the first soldier he saw.

“Look for yourself,” cried the fellow excitedly, “and you will know what his orders must be.”

Zopyrus turned his gaze to the slopes of Cithæron and saw that the Greeks who had held back reservedly were now, emboldened by the death of a prominent opponent, pouring down the verdant hillside. The well-aimed arrows of the Persians, however, kept them at bay.

Zopyrus spied several of the Persian leaders in heated argument. As he approached, the Theban, Timegenidas, was speaking.

“You know well, Mardonius, that their water supply from the Asopus river is completely cut off. Where are they able to get water?”

“I have just been informed,” replied the leader, “that they are getting water from a fountain called Gargaphia, yonder,” and he pointed to the east. “Will you, Zopyrus, investigate this fountain? Take another man with you this very night and see if it will be possible to fill the fountain with dirt and stones. If we can do this we may well be sanguine of success.”

The commander turned to Artabazus. “Does the plan meet with your approval, Artabazus?” he asked.

“Entirely, Mardonius. I am weary of warfare and only too glad to try any plan that may bring the quickest results.”

To Zopyrus only did this remark have any special significance. He knew that Artabazus was thinking of the fair captive whom he was to possess as soon as the battle was over.

“There,” cried Zopyrus, “the Greeks are retreating. Our arrows have held them in check. At this time tomorrow there will be a surprise in store!”

It was true. The Greeks were fleeing from the open plain to the shady recesses of the mountain, there to rally for a renewed defense on the morrow.

* * * * * * * *

On the silken covers of a couch in a remote corner of the tent which was occupied by the women of the harem of Artabazus, lay the grief-stricken form of the Greek captive, Ladice. She had been informed of the death of Masistius, and with that realization had come also the awful knowledge that soon she would be the property of the Persian Artabazus, whose lewdness was the common talk of the camp. Her brows were delicately arched and her long lashes swept her cheeks meeting the flush of color brought to her face as a result of hours of feverish weeping. Her hair, brown with a gleam of copper, hung over her partially bare shoulders.

Hovering above her with contemptuous gaze, was the Persian girl, Phædime, the reigning queen of Artabazus’ harem until the close of the battle of Platæa. Her full lips were twisted into a sneer, and there was a venomous light in the almond-shaped eyes of jet. Her blue-black hair was parted above a low white brow and hung in long, thick, glossy braids over her shoulders.

“So your lover is dead!” she said tauntingly. “You can not regret that fact more than I, for I had hoped to see him take you away from Artabazus, but Artabazus is mine, do you hear? Do you think I can bear to see you in his arms? I have promised not to kill you, but I will try to assist you to escape if you can do so without these others knowing what I have done.” She indicated the other women in the tent.

“It is impossible,” sobbed Ladice. “The eyes of that hideous eunuch are forever upon me and there are armed guards without.”

Phædime bent over the prostrate form in a more menacing attitude.

“I believe you do not want to go,” she said between closed teeth, “but I will make it so unpleasant for you here that you will be glad to go even if suicide offers the only hope for escape. Mark my words well, for I make no idle threats!” With which words she left the unhappy Greek prisoner.

CHAPTER IX.
The Rescue of Ladice.

“... Beyond the Theban plain

Stretches to airy distance, till it seems

Lifted in air,—green cornfields, olive groves

Blue as their heaven, and lakes, and winding rivers.”

James Gates Percival.

Now in the fitful lurid glow of a hundred campfires, now in the gloomy shadows of tents or trees, Zopyrus crept stealthily toward the tent of Artabazus. It was approaching midnight, and with the exception of the occupants of Mardonius’ tent, the Persians slept, many of them for the last time before their eternal rest. Less than fifteen minutes had elapsed since Zopyrus had quitted the tent of Mardonius, leaving the Persian and Theban leaders in a heated discussion pertaining to the morrow’s battle. He felt assured that affairs of war would detain Artabazus for at least a half hour and possibly longer. The tent of Artabazus, though at no great distance from that of Mardonius, was difficult of access, and Zopyrus realized that his work must be accomplished not only swiftly, but silently as well.

A guard walking back and forth before the entrance to the women’s tent was the only living soul visible; his measured tread the only sound audible. Zopyrus stood like an inanimate object beside a low bush near the tent. He watched the guard for some time, studying the opportune moment to spring. Now the fellow’s march brought him so close to the hidden figure that the latter had but to reach forth his hand—A muffled cry of bewilderment, a brief struggle, a suppressed groan of agony, and Zopyrus leaped over the prostrate form and entered the tent of the women.

The eunuch, a creature of repulsive form and malignant countenance, stood just within the entrance. The noise of the struggle, brief and silent though it was, had reached his ears. With the stealth and agility of a panther he approached and leaped upon his prey as the latter entered. With dagger raised aloft he would have dealt a fatal blow had not Phædime with the strength of an Amazon, held his arm as it was about to descend.

“Wait, Amorges,” she cried, “do not harm this man till we learn his mission!” Turning to Zopyrus she said, “Speak stranger, what would you in the harem of Artabazus?”

Zopyrus glanced quickly about him at the silken hangings richly broidered; at the heavy woven tapestries which adorned the sides of the tent; at panels composed of the variegated plumage of birds, and gloriously flashing jewels; the beautifully gowned women who surveyed him with unabashed curiosity, their shining black eyes flashing their appreciation of the unusual over the tops of fans of ostrich feathers. He turned again to Phædime.

“I seek one Ladice by name, a Greek girl brought here against her will.”

“Just a moment, I will bring her.” To the eunuch she whispered aside, “I will fetch a gag. Do not touch him yet.”

She returned shortly with Ladice whose appearance of unutterable wretchedness wrung Zopyrus’ heart.

“This officer says he has come to take you away, Ladice,” said Phædime giving a sidelong glance at the girl to observe her reception of the news.

The Greek maiden took a step forward, gazing earnestly into Zopyrus’ face. “It is not he, no it is not he! But tell me he is not dead!”

Zopyrus spoke gently, “I must confirm the ill news, fair maiden. Masistius died heroically on the field of battle and I am to succeed him in an attempt to rescue you.”

Amorges and Phædime exchanged glances, the former intimating by a nod that it was time to produce the gag, but Phædime still hesitated, for the girl, Ladice, flung herself with a sob at Zopyrus’ feet.

“It can’t be true,” she cried, “I loved him and he promised to return, oh tell me it isn’t true!”

Zopyrus gazed with compassion into the tear-stained face as he replied: “It is indeed true, but tell me, do you really wish to escape from the clutches of Artabazus?”

The girl glanced furtively about her in horror as if she expected to see the odious form conjured before her at the mention of his name.

“Yes, I will do anything to escape from him and if——” but her words were cut short by a muffled cry of terror.

Phædime had seized the eunuch and forced the gag into his mouth. “Come, help me bind him!” she called loudly to Zopyrus.

It was the work of a few moments, and when they were finished, poor Amorges lay in one corner of the tent, prone and helpless.

“You may depend upon me to help you in this project,” Phædime said to Zopyrus. “It is necessary to lay bare to you the secrets of a woman’s heart. I love Artabazus, and in his affections I have held first place till this Greek girl,” (here she cast a scornful glance at Ladice), “was brought here, and after this battle was fought she would have been his. You see it is to my interest to get her away and to that end I will lend you my assistance. Perhaps we had better kill the eunuch to be assured of our safety. What say you?”

Amorges’ eyes fairly started out of their sockets as the two approached. Seeing that the threat had proved effectual, Phædime spurned the defenceless body with her foot and asked: “Will you intimate to Artabazus upon his return that violence was done you by the soldier who rescued Ladice, and that I tried to help you?”

The wretched fellow indicated affirmation as well as his bonds permitted and Phædime turned to Zopyrus and Ladice.

“Now go and may success crown your efforts.”

“Before we go,” said Zopyrus to Ladice, “you must don this garb to facilitate our escape.”

He held out to her a bundle of dark clothing. The girl withdrew to an adjoining chamber and soon appeared in the uniform of a Persian foot-soldier.

“Your disguise is excellent,” exclaimed Zopyrus delightedly, “now let us hasten,” and with a brief expression of gratitude to Phædime for her share in the escape, he and Ladice took a hasty departure.

Only the glowing embers of camp-fires remained. The flickering deceptive shadows that had annoyed Zopyrus in his approach to the harem-tent had disappeared, and in their stead the encampment lay around the fugitives in the tranquil light of a full moon, the white tents gleaming like snow-covered hillocks. Already the Persian felt that this omen presaged success. They threaded the narrow alleys which separated the tents in silence so as not to betray their presence, and arrived without mishap at an intersection of alleys, about thirty yards from the tent of Mardonius.

“Let us turn to the left here,” whispered Zopyrus, “and thus avoid passing Mardonius’ tent.”

Scarcely had the words escaped his lips when the sound of footsteps and low talking broke the silence.

“What is your hurry? Why will you not abide the night with Mardonius till we decide whether or not it is advisable to attempt to cut off the Greek reinforcements?” questioned the voice of Asopodorus.

Then to the horror of the fugitives, the voice of Artabazus made answer.

“Tomorrow will be time enough for that. I am weary of consultations of war, and who knows if I be living tomorrow at this time! I have a fair Greek captive who will this night help me to forget the dangers of the morrow, and to her I now go despite my promises to await the close of battle.”

It was now too late to turn without arousing the suspicion of the approaching Artabazus. Zopyrus could feel the trembling hand of the girl upon his arm.

“Have courage,” he whispered, “and say not a word.”

Artabazus’ features expressed surprise at meeting anyone at this time of the night.

“Well if it isn’t Zopyrus! Have you turned somnambulist?” he asked jocosely, but with a hint of mistrust in his voice.

“You forget, Artabazus, the task I am this night to perform at the fountain of Gargaphia. By the time I reach its vicinity the moon will be low.”

“To be sure I remember now, but whom have you with you?” questioned the officer curiously.

“Mardonius bade me take a man with me, and this youth wished to go,” replied Zopyrus with an air of indifference.

Artabazus looked disapprovingly at the slight figure of the foot-soldier.

“He doesn’t look very capable,” he remarked.

“Nevertheless he is courageous, and though young, I decided to try him out.”

“What is your name?” asked Artabazus of the silent figure.

The question took Zopyrus completely by surprise, but with joy he observed that Ladice maintained discreet silence.

“His name is Ladisius,” answered Zopyrus, “and now if you will permit, we must be on our way, for a great deal depends upon this mission.”

As soon as Artabazus was out of hearing, Zopyrus said to his companion. “That was indeed a narrow escape and now we must hasten with all possible speed, for Artabazus will begin pursuit as soon as he learns of your escape.”

“Halt! Give the password,” demanded the sentry at the edge of the encampment.

Zopyrus easily made known his identity to the sentinel who was apprised of his mission to Gargaphia. Once beyond the confines of the camp the two breathed more freely. The soft breeze which fanned their cheeks was laden with the vernal odors of field and forest. The meadows through which they sped, were dotted with field lilies and asphodel, myriads of them, their white blossoms gleaming from the grass like the stars from the heavens till it seemed to the fugitives that in their flight earth and sky had changed places and that they trod the milky-way.

“How far is it to the fountain of Gargaphia?” asked Ladice after they had gone for some time in silence.

Zopyrus paused a moment, scanning his companion’s face to ascertain whether or not she had put her question seriously. Assured that she was in earnest, he continued his pace, talking the while.

“You are not with a Persian soldier as you suppose, my little friend. Zopyrus, the Persian, ceased to exist when he witnessed the death of his comrade, Masistius. My father was a Persian, satrap of Sardis, my mother a Greek whose parents were Athenians. My environment forced me to don uniform and follow the Persian king, but the natural heritage from my mother, and her early tutelage, caused my soul to cry out continually against the actions of my body. For months I was a prey of weakness and indecision. My every act was accomplished after agonizing periods of vacillation. My will-power was being destroyed and though cognizant of the fact, I seemed powerless to retrieve the volition I once possessed. With the death of Masistius all bonds of honor with the Persians seemed severed, and I pledged myself to save Athens if it were not already too late. If I seem a traitor in your eyes, judge me not too harshly. Gold is not my motive, for I shall be poorer for this choice I have made; safety is no object, for I intend to make atonement by wielding the sword in the Greek cause. Have I convinced you, fair maid, that my incentives are pure, and that I do well to allow this determination to supercede my former hesitancy?”

He was satisfied with her ready nod of assent. At last they reached the entrance to Oak Heads pass, by which means they would be enabled to cross Mt. Cithæron. Their progress was greatly impeded by the dense tangle of underbrush. The branches of trees met overhead, forming a canopy of foliage so thick that the moon’s beams could not penetrate. For hours the crackling of twigs underfoot, and an occasional hoot from some night-owl were the only sounds that disturbed the tranquility of the night.

Suddenly Ladice stopped and asked abruptly: “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” replied her companion, “I heard a slight sound, but I think it is a prowling beast on some nocturnal journey. Stay close and keep your hand upon your dagger for you may have to use it.”

Scarcely had he ceased to speak before a command in Greek was given to halt and give the password. Before Ladice could realize what had happened, she heard the sounds of struggle. Her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, could faintly discern the gleam of weapons, but she dared not strike for she could not distinguish between the antagonists. She soon realized that they were not fighting near her, and a sudden fear seized her; they might miss their footing and slip over the edge of the declivity! She decided to raise her voice in warning, when the unmistakable sound of breaking twigs and loosened stones rolling down the precipice, convinced her that her worst fears were an actuality. Stunned with horror she stood for some time unable to decide what to do. At last dreading that Artabazus might by now be well on his way in pursuit of her, she pressed on in an agony of fear. The foliage was now a little thinner and she could see the first faint glow of dawn in the sky. Her physical progress was more rapid, but mentally she was stupified by the horror of her rescuer’s fate, and she did not hear the sounds of approaching footsteps till they were immediately behind her.

Her first expression was one of relief that her pursuer was not Artabazus, but she observed with chagrin that he wore a Greek uniform. Raising her eyes half fearfully to his face she uttered an exclamation of joy. It was Zopyrus!

“I am glad I did not have to kill the fellow to get this uniform, for I am a Greek. His neck was broken in the fall and as for me—” he pointed to his right arm which hung useless by his side, “I’m afraid I shall not be of much service to Greece!”

Ladice opened her knapsack and tore from her dress a strip with which she dexterously bandaged the broken member. This done, she discarded the Persian uniform for the torn dress and together they descended the southern slope of Mt. Cithæron as the roseate hues of morning gradually melted away into bright daylight.

CHAPTER X.
A Venture At the Eve of Battle.

“There nature moulds as nobly now,

As e’er of old, the human brow;

And copies still the martial form

That braved Platæa’s battle storm.”

William Cullen Bryant.

Artabazus’ steps were directed to the tent of the women. With heavy tread he strode in the panoply of war. At the corner of the tent his foot came in rough contact with a soft object and to his amazement he discovered it to be the body of his guard. A hasty examination assured him that the body was lifeless. Filled with forebodings, he hastily parted the flaps and gazed within the tent. His eyes first fell upon the prostrate form of his eunuch, then with a swift glance he surveyed the women, and he knew what had taken place during his absence.

White with fury he cried, “Where is the Greek girl?”

His appearance in his wrathful state was so forbidding that not one of the women ventured to make reply. Upon receiving no response, Artabazus turned to Phædime, whereupon his favorite, with an assumption of her usual self assurance, made bold to answer.

“A Persian officer killed the guard, bound Amorges here, and bore Ladice away with him. Is it not so?” Phædime turned to her fair companions to confirm her words, confident in her position as favorite.

All readily affirmed the escape as stated by Phædime with the exception of a small oval-faced beauty with shining black hair and ruddy lips, that would not refuse to smile at her master even in his state of demoniac anger.

“What say you, Parysatis?” questioned the officer, noting her refusal to corroborate Phædime’s words.

“If my master would know the truth,” smiled Parysatis, “Phædime herself allowed the Greek girl to be taken away.”

An ominous silence of horror pervaded the tent for a moment while all eyes were turned to Artabazus, who in livid rage seized the hapless Phædime.

“You are hurting me,” she cried in abject terror. “Can you not know that what I did was because of love for you? Oh, my Artabazus, if you but commanded it, I would crawl from here to the Hellespont, where I long to cross with you back to the land where we meet no Greeks either in warfare or in love.”

The Persian commander laughed wildly, a laugh that froze the blood in the veins of his hearers. “You will never cross the Hellespont nor even leave this tent alive!”

There was a flash of gleaming steel, a hissing sound, and the headless trunk of the Persian beauty sank before its murderer.

* * * * * * * *

During the time that Zopyrus and Ladice made good their escape from the Persian encampment and were beginning to pursue their precarious way across Mt. Cithæron, the Greek encampment lay in the stillness of sleep. Above the tents rose the gentle, picturesque slope of the mountain, where beyond the space which had been cleared, the forest stretched in black silence.

In one of the tents well toward the forest edge of the encampment, three young men sat around a small table upon which a candle sent forth its flickering light. Presently one of them arose with an impatient gesture and strode back and forth with restless energy.

“What ails you, Cimon?” questioned one of the two who were seated. He was a thin wiry fellow, whose face showed the tan of continued exposure to the elements. His nose was aquiline, his lips thin and his eye penetrating, but withal, kindly.

“Nothing new, Icetes, but before tomorrow’s battle I should like to know if Ladice is confined in the harem of one of the Persian leaders as I have heard.”

“Wait till the battle is over, and if Zeus grants us the victory, demand the return of the girl. The harems of the Persians will be ours then, and to such a brave soldier as you have proved yourself to be, Pausanias will gladly give first choice of the spoils,” said Icetes, rising from his chair and placing a friendly hand upon the other’s shoulder.

Cimon smiled wanly. “Perhaps you are right, my friend,” he acquiesced “but you can not know how I suffer! Has Eros never found you vulnerable here?” Cimon placed both hands upon his heart and smiled with a questioning glance at Icetes.

“If Eros has ever found him so, it was not for the love of a maiden who possesses a heart of stone as does this Ladice whom you adore,” remarked the third youth who up till the present moment had remained a silent observing listener.

“Be still, Ephialtes,” said Icetes gruffly. “Cimon suffers enough without your reproaches.”

“Let him suffer,” said the youth indifferently. “If he wants her badly enough let him go to the Persian encampment and get her! He does not know nor do you, Icetes, what the result of tomorrow’s struggle will be. What if the enemy comes out victorious and the Persian leader carries the fair Ladice across the Hellespont? No doubt she has already yielded to his kisses and is beginning to enjoy the luxurious ease of an oriental harem. Women are—”

With an oath Cimon rushed at Ephialtes, but Icetes interposed himself.

“My friends,” he pled in a hoarse whisper, “your altercation will be heard by Pausanias himself. Let us sit down quietly again and maybe we can arrive at a definite conclusion.”

Icetes and Ephialtes seated themselves, but Cimon began to put on his armor piece by piece till he stood before them fully armed. They watched him wonderingly but ventured no inquiry. Then he strode toward the entrance and turning to face them, said, “I am going to find Ladice and bring her back.”

Ephialtes smiled in a contemptuous manner, but Icetes was on his feet in an instant.

“By Zeus,” he cried, “you shall not attempt such a rash undertaking. You, the son of the brave Miltiades, are needed for the morrow’s battle. Your counsel and advice are indispensable. Next to Pausanias we need you, just you, to show these barbarians that they can no longer abide within our borders. Think of it, my brave Cimon, Mardonius killed and the other leaders routed at Platæa! Make it the last battle of the last war with them! Don’t leave us at this critical period to satisfy a personal longing. Your father did that, Cimon, but not till he had fought Marathon!”

The words of Icetes had an enervating effect upon Cimon. He drooped perceptibly and then slowly he began to disarm. When the last piece of armor had been cast aside, he dropped into his chair again, and folding his arms upon the table, buried his face in them. His broad shoulders heaved, and in the silence that followed, an occasional groan was heard. Even Ephialtes’ supercilious air left him in the presence of this real grief of a fellow-man.

Cimon’s agony was too much for the kind-hearted Icetes. Rising and bending above the bowed form of the son of Miltiades, Icetes said in earnest tones. “Let me go this night and search for Ladice. I am acquainted with her father, Mamercus, who as you know perished at Salamis, probably unknown to his daughter who will now be alone if she returns to Athens.”

Cimon made a sign of remonstrance before he was able to speak. “No, my friend,” he said, when he had found voice, “I can not think of endangering the life of another in the performance of a task which concerns me so personally. I will give up what you consider a foolish enterprise, but I fear I have lost the zest for the morrow’s battle.”

“I will go for you Cimon,” Icetes cried eagerly, as he went for his armor, “My part in tomorrow’s conflict will be indirect, but it will be a vital part nevertheless. If by putting heart in you through this service, I thus enable you to fight bravely tomorrow, I shall indeed feel that I have helped to expel the Persians from Greece.”

Cimon saw that opposition was useless. His eyes met for an instant the ironical gaze of Ephialtes.

“I imagine that rendering a real service to a fellow-man is quite foreign to your nature, Ephialtes,” Cimon could not resist saying.

“On the contrary,” replied the young Greek unruffled, “I recently rendered a very great service to a very illustrious person.”

“And no doubt you were handsomely paid for your efforts, the agreement having been made before hand,” answered Cimon as he rose to bid farewell to Icetes who stood ready to take his leave.

The sight of the brave fellow clad in the panoply of war, about to risk his life for a friend, moved Cimon deeply. Words seemed inadequate to convey the gratitude he felt. The two parted after a warm embrace.

CHAPTER XI.
A Hero of Platæa.

“Here where the Persian clarion rung,

And where the Spartan sword flashed high,

And where the Pæan strains were sung,

From year to year swelled on by liberty!”

Felicia Hemans.

The market-place of Platæa was the scene of rejoicing over the victory of the Spartans. Pausanias, the Spartan leader, nephew of the brave Leonidas, conducted solemn sacrificial services.

Their victory had seemed almost a miracle, for the Athenians and Spartans had begun a retreat to an island formed by two forks of the river Oeroe. The Persians, when they saw that the Greeks were retreating, pursued them. The Athenians were ahead, and the Spartans being behind were overtaken by the disorderly Persian horde. The Athenians learning of the encounter, decided to return to the assistance of their allies, but were attacked by the Thebans before they could act upon their decision. From behind the breastwork of shields the Persians shot their arrows bravely, and for awhile the outcome was doubtful but Pausanias and his brave Spartans succeeded in killing Mardonius. With their leader dead, the Persians lost their fervor and fled in disorder.

In the meanwhile the encounter between the Athenians and Thebans became more serious. When the battle had reached its crisis, both the Athenians and the Thebans observed a tall figure in the garb of a Greek soldier fighting amid the Thebans like a fiend, and what amazed the Greeks most was that he fought with his left arm only, the other being supported by a bandage which hung from his shoulder. He seemed to bear a charmed life. Before his sword the Thebans fell, and the Athenians pressing around him were able to work havoc in his wake.

Suddenly a Theban sprang in front of the one-armed fighting warrior and cried as he crossed swords with him, “I swear you are the Persian with whom I dined and exchanged confidences at the feast of Attaginus. You shall pay for your treason with your life.”

The other smiled grimly but said not a word as he entered into the encounter, and before long this antagonist like the others, lay with the point of the Athenian’s sword at his throat.

“Now Thersander,” cried the victorious one, “do you surrender to Zopyrus the Athenian, or do you meet death at his sword?”

The Theban surrendered as had many another of his countrymen on that day, and history tells us that among the captives was Attaginus, the only one of the number who succeeded later in making his escape. The wicked Artabazus instead of coming to the aid of the Persians after Mardonius fell, fled with his troops through Phocis to Thessaly, Macedonia and the Hellespont, and the fair Parysatis accompanied him.

So it was no wonder that Platæa was the scene of much rejoicing upon this occasion. Pausanias, though enthusiastically lauded by both Spartans and Athenians, did not accept the great honor bestowed upon him alone. He said that if he were the hero of the Spartans over the Persians, so likewise was the stranger who fought with but one arm, the hero of the Athenians over the Thebans. When asked who he was, Zopyrus merely stated that he was a loyal Athenian who had been away from Athens for a number of years, which statement he could make without distorting the truth.

Pausanias stood surrounded by the booty acquired in the victory over Mardonius. The vast cables of papyrus which had composed the bridge of Xerxes when he first crossed the Hellespont, were here displayed; likewise the silver-footed throne and the cimeter of Mardonius and the sword and breastplate of Masistius.

Many beautiful women who had been in the harems of the Persian leaders were either sold or given to those who had displayed exceptional bravery. Of these Zopyrus was offered first choice, but to Pausanias’ surprise he politely declined. Stepping over to the pile where were stacked the swords, breastplates, shields, helmets and smaller articles of pillage, Zopyrus drew forth the sword of Masistius and made the statement that this would be a most acceptable portion of the spoils to him. The Greeks wondered at his choice, but no one made so bold as to question him concerning it.

As Zopyrus was about to leave the market-place someone placed a detaining hand upon his shoulder. Turning, the former looked into the face of a young man of about his own height and physique but a few years his senior, who smilingly offered his hand.

“I wish to commend you for your bravery in the recent battle and to welcome you back to Athens, as I understand you have not been there for some years past. I am Cimon, and this,” he indicated a slender man by his side, “is Polygnotus, an artist of no mean reputation. We are both residing in Athens and shall be glad to have you meet others of our friends in the city.”

Zopyrus was greatly pleased. From the handsome countenance of Cimon he turned to look at the artist, Polygnotus. Although in Greek military dress, Polygnotus did not appear a soldier. His features were thin, almost delicate, his nose aquiline and his mouth super-sensitive. His hair of light brown, very smooth and straight, was dressed on the prevailing style with the braids crossed at the back of the head and fastened in front. His eyes were searching and possessed a mild lustre indicative of a fine degree of intellectuality and a broad sympathetic understanding of his fellow men. Zopyrus recognized in him at once a kindred mind.

“As you no doubt know,” said the artist, “our homes are in ashes but we are returning to rebuild them, determined to lose no time in mourning our losses, but rejoicing that the enemy is forever expelled.”

Cimon had turned away and with another soldier sought the platform where beautiful women, many of them Greeks, stood exposed to the rude gaze of the soldiery. Zopyrus’ eyes followed the retreating form of Cimon and a question arose to his lips which was anticipated by the quiet Polygnotus who said: “You wonder at Cimon’s interest in the women and I can assure you his motives are pure. He is searching for the girl he loves who was taken captive by one of the Persian leaders and confined in his harem.”

“What was her name?” asked Zopyrus tensely.

“Ladice,” was the anticipated, but at the same time astounding reply.

“The maiden has been rescued from the harem of Artabazus,” said Zopyrus quietly.

“Are you absolutely certain?” cried the artist incredulously.

At the other’s nod he cried, “Come with me, I must inform Cimon of this.”

Cimon saw the two approaching and hastened forward to join them with the words: “Ladice is not among the captive women, so it is reasonable to believe that Icetes effected a rescue.”

“The stranger can confirm our hopes,” said Polygnotus. “He has told me that Ladice was rescued from the harem of a certain Artabazus.”

Cimon turned to Zopyrus, his face white with the effort to conceal the agony of suspense.

“Is she now on her way to Athens with her rescuer?” he asked tensely.

“I do not quite understand you,” replied Zopyrus. “I, myself rescued an Athenian maiden by the name of Ladice from the tent of Artabazus. I conducted her in safety across Oak Heads Pass. She then suggested that I go to the Greek encampment on Mt. Cithæron, insisting she could make her way alone to friends in safety since she was away from the Persians.”

“Zeus is merciful!” exclaimed the overwrought Cimon, “but tell me saw you aught of a soldier while you were crossing Oak Heads Pass? You must have met him a little this side of the summit. It was he whom I thought had delivered Ladice from the hands of the Persian.”

The face of Zopyrus grew deathly pale at Cimon’s words.

“Alas!” he cried, “I did meet a soldier on Oak Heads Pass who took me for an enemy without a chance for explanation. We fought together, and in the dark we missed our footing and rolled down a steep embankment. I sustained this broken arm,” he pointed to the sling which supported the broken member, “but my unknown antagonist was killed.”

“Oh my poor Icetes!” cried Cimon greatly distraught. “To think that you met your fate thus, and for me!”

Polygnotus touched his friend’s arm gently; “Icetes would probably have lost his life in the battle, for he was very daring. His was a noble though useless sacrifice, but let us rejoice that Ladice has been saved. You owe much to our new friend.”

“I am truly grateful, Zopyrus,” said Cimon grasping the hand of the other, “but how did you come to rescue the girl whom I love?”

There was a note of distrust in his voice though he strove to conceal it.

“That is a long story that I will tell you at some other time,” replied Zopyrus.

As the three walked away from the public square, Cimon placed an arm across the shoulder of Zopyrus, for he was involuntarily drawn toward this attractive stranger, in spite of his former suspicions. But Zopyrus was pained by his own duplicity as he thought of how recently he had been in Persian uniform. When he would tell his new friend “the long story, some other time,” his conscience would be clear, but for the present it hurt him to realize that Cimon’s arm had been laid in brotherly affection upon that same uniform, when not he, but the dead Icetes, had worn it.

CHAPTER XII.
The Prophet At Delphi.

“There is but one such spot; from heaven Apollo

Beheld; and chose it for his earthly shrine!”

Aubrey de Vere.

Instead of returning immediately to Athens, following the expulsion of the Persians, Zopyrus and his new-found friend, Cimon, turned their faces northward. Tempted by the beauty of the starry nights and the absence of wayfarers, the two usually journeyed after the golden orb of the sun had disappeared beyond the watery horizon of the Corinthian Gulf. Along this road that skirted the gulf, the hordes of Xerxes had marched.

The contrast between his journey southward and northward filled Zopyrus’ heart with stirring emotions, and in the dewy silence of the nights that followed their departure from Platæa, Zopyrus revealed to Cimon his peculiar identity and laid bare to this sympathetic friend the emotions that had at first stirred and finally swayed his soul from the time that he had left his native Sardis up to the present moment.

Cimon was a sympathetic and wondering listener. This young man’s experiences were so antipodal to his own that they interested him exceedingly. A week passed in this pleasant exchange of ideas and confidences until toward sundown of the eighth day, the purple crown of Mt. Helicon loomed in the distance and the two knew that in another day their journey would be completed.

“I do not believe that Melpomene sits alone on Mt. Parnassus now,” remarked Zopyrus meditatively, more to himself than to his companion, as the two caught their first glimpse of the lofty dwelling place of the Muses.

“What did you say?” asked Cimon, puzzled.

“Oh,” replied the other with a short laugh to cover his confusion, “I was just giving expression to an extremely fanciful idea that occurred to me when I passed through this gorge on my way to Athens. I imagined that surely in the face of an invading foe, no Muse but the sorrowful Melpomene could occupy yonder height.”

“You were surely mistaken, friend Zopyrus,” said the other with a seriousness that proved how highly he esteemed this young man’s opinions. “Would not Clio, for instance, have been there to record events that will go down in history, and surely you can not imagine that Callio was in hiding when Aeschylus wrote his inspired verse so soon after the victory of Salamis! Aye, and Thalia too, had a vision of the future and knew that ere a year had passed, two friends, one who had helped in his infinitesimal way to swell the ranks of Xerxes, and one who, insignificant as compared with the many heroes of Hellas, would pass together in the bond of a lasting friendship beneath her very abode! I do not believe that any of the Muses or any of the gods ever desert mortals, but we finite beings are incapable of comprehending their plan for us in the process of its unfolding.”

Zopyrus thought of the monotheistic belief of the Hellenic maiden whose act of supplication he had witnessed on the promontory overlooking the Bay of Salamis, but he said nothing, for he had an inner feeling that the stalwart, aristocratic Greek who walked beside him was as yet unready for a belief in but one ruling Divinity. That he loved the deities of Greece was evident from the rapt gaze which he now turned to the lofty summit of Mt. Parnassus. Was he aware that there were Greeks of the purest blood who were turning from the ancient gods and exalting Zeus apparently out of all due proportion? Strange emotions filled Zopyrus’ heart, for he too marveled at the thought that belief in the gods might no longer sway the destinies of the Greeks.

The two young men perceived that the road turned away from the water-side and zig-zagged across a picturesque ridge. It was now broad daylight and they met occasional pedestrians who were returning from consultations with the oracle of Apollo. What sorrows and ambitions, what joys or what despair were locked in the heart of each one? Very likely these travelers had sought the oracle upon personal matters since their national crisis had so recently passed to their great advantage. Here an old man with slow and feeble steps probably wished to know the time yet allotted to him upon earth; there a mother with anxious care-worn countenance whose boy had not yet returned from Platæa, and beside her a young wife whose husband might have perished on the field of battle.

Cimon and Zopyrus did not stop to converse with any of the wayfarers for they desired to return to Athens as quickly as possible after their interview with the Pythoness. Presently they found themselves in a rugged and romantic glen, closed on the north by the wall-like cliffs of Mt. Parnassus, on the east by a ridge similar to the one they had just crossed, and on the south by the irregular heights of Mt. Kirphis, and in this glen stood a simple Ionic temple surrounded by many smaller buildings; the treasuries of various cities and islands of Greece. Their outlines were softened by vines and shrubbery in abundance. The tall trees and towering crags of the mount of the Muses allowed the entrance of only such sunlight as filtered through the less leafy trees. The air was cool and laden with the dank odor of growing things.

The two suppliants at the shrine of Apollo, after passing by the treasury of Thebes, approached that of Athens which was a beautiful little Doric temple of Parian marble, containing and partly built from the spoils of the battle of Marathon. Cimon paused to read an inscription engraved on a low parapet that supported armor captured from the Persians in that great battle. His heart swelled with pride at the consciousness that it was his father who had so successfully routed the Persians on the plain of Marathon. He ventured a glance at Zopyrus and was convinced that a loyal Greek stood by his side.

The long low edifice just beyond the Treasury of the Athenians was the Bouleuterion above which rose a rough mass of rock, the Rock of the Sibyl. A priest of Apollo at the entrance of the Bouleuterion gave each of the young men a wax tablet and stylus with which it was intended that he write the question that he wished answered by the Sibyl whose duty it was to make known the will of the god whose organ of inspiration she was. The question that appeared on the tablet of each was the same; “Shall I win the maiden I love?” The priest took the tablets and withdrew to the rock where the priestess, a virgin clad in white, having chewed the leaves of the sacred laurel and drunk from the prophetic underground stream, Kassotis, sat upon a tripod above a fissure in the rock from which a mystic vapor arose by which she soon became inspired. Her mutterings and ravings were interpreted by the priest who wrote them below the questions in verse.

As was customary the men did not remain near during the trance of the medium, but sought the Castalian Fountain which was east of the sacred precinct at the head of a wild and picturesque gorge. The fountain was in front of a smooth face of rock, the water issuing from a rock at the right and being carried through a channel to an opening at the extreme left.

Cimon and Zopyrus seated themselves beneath a plane tree and surveyed with delight their romantic surroundings. It was no wonder Apollo had here chosen a location for one of his shrines! The very breeze which brushed against their cheeks was like the breath of unseen spirits. The leaves of the plane trees whispered unintelligible secrets and the mountain stream murmured of mysteries as it moved majestically onward.

Suddenly the two became aware of a figure seated near the edge of the fountain nearly within touch of its cooling spray. It proved upon closer observation to be that of an old man with wrinkled countenance and long flowing beard. From under his shaggy brows he had surveyed the new-comers with searching eyes. His hands were folded across the head of a knotty walking-stick. Cimon, the true Greek, to whom goodness and purity were synonymous with outward beauty, turned away from the unlovely figure of the old man with an exclamation of annoyance, signifying that he disliked having the loveliness of the scene marred by the presence of the elderly stranger. But Zopyrus was differently affected by the sight of the aged one. Something vaguely familiar in the type of features held his gaze.

The old man continued to survey the two new-comers with a penetrating gaze till Cimon stood up abruptly and said to Zopyrus: “Our answers must be ready. Let us return to the rock of the Sibyl.”

He walked away from the fountain keeping his face averted, for he would not deign to glance again toward the aged stranger. But Zopyrus’ heart was filled with pity toward this old man whose eyes like living coals burned forth their last lustre from the ashy gray of his withered face.

“You are a stranger in Greece?” Zopyrus asked kindly.

The old man gave an affirmative nod and said, his tones seeming to issue from the recesses of a cavern, “You too, my young friend, are a stranger to Greece, but not so your companion,” with a nod toward Cimon, who now hesitated to leave the fountain side and lingered uncertainly to hear the discourse.

“You are right, father,” replied Zopyrus, bestowing upon him a look of mingled wonder and approbation, “I came over with King Xerxes, but am not intending to return to Persia. My companion here knows that though once half a Greek, I am now entirely won over to the cause of Hellas.”

“It is easy to turn over to the victorious side! Tell me did you fight for Greece before taking this step?”

“That he did,” cried Cimon who could no longer maintain his attitude of aloofness. “Next to Pausanias himself, there was no braver in the ranks of the Greeks!”

The stranger’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm and he bent upon Zopyrus a look of deep admiration. Suddenly he stood up and though he leaned on his cane, the young men were surprised at his lofty stature.

“Do you intend to worship the gods of Greece? I see you have made a start by journeying here to this shrine of pagan idolatry.” He looked about him, his sharp features expressive of scorn and disapproval.

Cimon took an aggressive step toward the two, but Zopyrus stretched forth his hand deterringly.

“Tell me what you mean,” Zopyrus asked, a suspicion of the truth beginning to dawn upon him.

The ancient pilgrim dropped his staff, and raising his arms toward the heavens, cried, “And the Lord shall be king over all the earth; in that day shall there be one Lord, and his name one. For the idols have spoken vanity, and the diviners have seen a lie, and have told false dreams; they comfort in vain.”

He turned and pointed with one outstretched arm in the direction of the oracle, and with the other extended heavenward he continued: “Thus saith the Lord of hosts: ‘In those days it shall come to pass that ten men shall take hold out of all the languages of the nation, even shall take hold of the skirt of him that is a Jew, saying, “We will go with you; for we have heard that God is with you.”’”

The last words trembled into a silence that neither of the men dared to break. The awful solemnity and stern conviction of this prophet of a foreign race filled them with indescribable fear. They stood in reverent attitude before this worthy seer whose inspired words caused the possible utterances of the demented Pythoness to sink into utter insignificance. When the young men ventured to look up, the aged one was disappearing around the edge of the fountain in the opposite direction from which the two had come.

“Wait a moment,” called Zopyrus. “Who are you, worthy sir, who have only strengthened convictions which I already possessed?”

The prophet smiled and his face seemed alight with an inner radiance as he replied, “They call me Zechariah.”

CHAPTER XIII.
The House of Pasicles.

“For now at least the soil is free,

Now that one strong reviving breath

Has chased the eastern tyranny

Which to the Greek was ever death.”

Lord Houghton.

Most conspicuous among the few houses left in the city after the departure of the Persians was one that stood at no great distance from the Acropolis. It was a typical home of the upper-class Athenian citizen. Its narrow stone front with a massive door and its two closely barred windows at the second story did not present a very imposing aspect, but if one desired admittance and felt disposed to make use of the polished bronze knocker with which the door was equipped, his impressions of inhospitality were immediately dispelled by the appearance of a slave who courteously bade him enter.

Looking down a short hallway one beheld an open court surrounded by a colonnade and in the center of this court stood an altar to Zeus. It was here on pleasant days that the family assembled for worship, partook of its meals, entered into friendly discussions or played games. The women’s apartments were above, theirs being the barred windows which looked out on the narrow winding street. The kitchen and servant quarters occupied the rear, but by far the most interesting room was that which adjoined the court to the left; the library. As if by a miracle this room remained intact. Its shelves were filled with hundreds of rolls of manuscript, some slightly charred but undamaged by fire. At intervals about the room, upon marble pedestals stood statuettes of the muses, for this was the library of a poet, and could he not thus readily summon the muse he desired?

If one were able to tell the time of day by the shadow-pointer in the nearby public square, he would know that it was shortly past the noon hour. Four men were seated in the library, three of them young, the fourth, slightly past middle-age, was the master of the house, the poet Pasicles.

As he sat facing his friends, surrounded by his beloved muses and scrolls, he appeared the personification of dignity and aristocracy. His features were clearly and delicately cut, his face thin, his forehead high and intellectual. The folds of a white linen chiton draped the long lines of his figure. The three younger men were Cimon, Polygnotus and Zopyrus. The soft notes of a flute came from the direction of the court.

“Your young son plays the flute remarkably well. May I ask who is his teacher?” asked Polygnotus.

“The pedagogue, Niceratus, has given Mimnermus instructions in flute playing. It is an art in which I wish the lad to become proficient. The Bœotians have ever excelled with the flute and I would not have Mimnermus less skilled in the art than his grandfather for whom he is named.”

“In my opinion,” said Cimon, “a youth can spend his time more profitably than with music. Think you that with the Persian expelled, all warfare is past? Remember Athens is an object of envy to Sparta, Thebes and Corinth, to say nothing of such islands as Aegina, Samos and Naxos, and who knows what may take place when Mimnermus is in his early manhood!”

“I believe all sciences and arts should form a part of every man’s education,” replied the poet quietly, “but to each one should be allowed the privilege to specialize in that particular phase of culture which is dearest to his heart.”

Cimon laughed good-naturedly. “I confess my tastes are one-sided too, but I truly believe that our new friend, Zopyrus, is equally skilled with the sword or the pen. I swear by the gods I never saw mortal man fight more heroically than he at Platæa, and yet he can recite the works of Homer, Hesiod and Sappho, and is well acquainted with the histories of Persia, Babylonia, Assyria and Egypt!”

“Nevertheless,” remarked Zopyrus to whom all eyes were now turned, “I admire a specialist and will say that I hope to cultivate the arts more assiduously. I do not enjoy fighting, but God has given me a strong body and I hope the ability to judge correctly between right and wrong.”

Pasicles leaned forward in his chair and looked with peculiar interest at the young stranger.

“Do you know the tragedian, Aeschylus?” he asked.

Zopyrus replied in the negative, wondering at his host’s question.

“Your statement that God has given you a strong body,” continued the poet, “is a peculiar one. Among the numerous friends of my profession, Aeschylus alone speaks frequently of ‘God.’ Does it not seem strange that he exalts Zeus so far above the others, each one of whom has his or her interest in the affairs of men?”

“No it does not appear strange to me, for I have often wondered at the petty jealousies existing between the gods and even between them and mortals,” answered the Persian.

“But,” said Pasicles earnestly, “the envy of the gods is just and divine. Have you never noticed that if a mortal rises to too great heights here below, some god will surely cause his downfall?”

“That, my friend,” said Zopyrus, seriously interested, “is not the envy of the gods, but the natural result of arrogance and pride.”

“As I can well testify,” said Cimon sadly, “for was not my father Miltiades, the greatest man in all Greece after Marathon? And did he not at the very summit of his glory, stoop to avenge some petty wrong and thus die an ignoble death? It seems that with complete success, passes that good judgment which is ever present as we strive to attain some worthy end.”

“The fate of your hapless parent,” said Pasicles, “should prove a warning, but alas, man is little content to profit by the sad experiences of his forefathers. Each one must learn for himself in the school of life, and many there be who, in the realization of success, do not lose their power of judgment, and such as these are partially rewarded by the gods here on earth.”

“What do you think of our statesman, Themistocles?” asked Polygnotus. “Is he not of the type likely to lose his head over his popularity, for truly one must admit his advice about Salamis was a turning point in our affairs with Persia.”

“In truth,” replied Pasicles, “I like not this blustering statesman any too well. My sympathies have always been with his rival, the just Aristides whose policies are not for the purpose of display, and whose reserved manner has won the confidence of the refined, thinking people.”

“Themistocles has the interest of Athens truly at heart, and the people have just awakened to a realization of this,” said another voice from the doorway.

Zopyrus looked up and saw a stranger, to him at least, whose gaze after it had fallen upon each of his three companions, rested in final friendly curiosity upon him. His waving hair and short beard of rich chestnut brown framed a face of surprising manly beauty, the face of a man about the age of Pasicles. His forehead was smooth and broad, the brows rather prominent, the eyes meditative, but containing indications of a hidden fire which might leap forth were their owner challenged to uphold a conviction.

“Welcome into our midst, Aeschylus,” exclaimed Pasicles rising and extending his hands to the newcomer. “We will not continue to argue about Themistocles and Aristides as we have been wont to do. You are acquainted with the soldier and the artist, are you not, but here is a stranger to you I am sure, Zopyrus who fought bravely at Platæa.”

The tragedian, Aeschylus, crossed the room and seated himself by the side of Zopyrus, who wondered at his searching gaze but did not resent it. Above all things the sincerity of Aeschylus greatly impressed him. The poet seemed to be one who was forever searching after truth. Zopyrus regretted that he had read none of the plays of this great man. He knew that his fame was due principally to his powers as an advocate of the truth, painful though that truth might be, and to the fact that he did not avoid the difficult problems of life, but faced them with earnest zeal and saw them through to the finish. Of the mighty and forceful language which conveyed his ideas, as opposed to the more elaborate and artificial style of Pasicles, Zopyrus had heard, and he enjoyed the privilege of conversing with the great poet.

Two kindred souls had intercourse through the eyes and the medium of conversation. An attachment which time would strengthen sprang up between the young Persian and the older poet, such a friendship as was not uncommon among the Athenians, where a man of maturer years lived again in a younger man the joys and possibilities that might have been his, and where a youth looked with reverence to an older companion whom he worshipped as a hero.

Presently Pasicles arose, and leading the way through the court, bade his guests follow. Soon they found themselves in a garden, strolling along paths bordered with trees, flowers and shrubs, opening here and there to reveal a statue of some sylvan god reclining under the shade. An aged gardener was tending the flowers with loving care.

“Where are the women, Hagnias?” asked Pasicles as the five men approached.

“Under the arbor near the fountain,” was the reply.

It was as Hagnias had said. Upon a stone bench and a large high-backed stone chair were seated three women. The woman in the chair arose smilingly when she beheld the men and approached Pasicles who pressed an affectionate kiss upon her smooth white forehead.

“Cleodice my wife, and my daughters, Eumetis and Corinna, this is Zopyrus who is to be a guest in our home for awhile. The others you know.”

The matronly Cleodice heartily bade Zopyrus welcome and her sentiments were echoed by her daughters. Corinna who resembled her mother, especially in the wealth of auburn hair which both possessed acknowledged the introduction and then made her way to the other side of the fountain to where Polygnotus stood gazing into the mirror-like surface, and Zopyrus as his eyes followed these two, knew that love existed between them.

The other daughter, Eumetis, who seemed the feminine counterpart of her father, was her sister’s senior by at least a year. She did not possess the physical loveliness of Corinna but her plainer features expressed sincerity and selfishness almost to a fault. One knew that the plain exterior harbored a soul that would give and continue to give for the sake of those she loved. If it is possible to possess selfishness to a fault it is where one’s greatest joy comes from seeing others happy and this was true of the elder daughter of the poet. If self is the only prison that can ever confine the soul, Eumetis was as free as the birds of the air.

“Amid such charming surroundings as these, one ought never to be sad,” said Zopyrus to Eumetis after the introduction. “It seems a miracle that this lovely home was spared. Do you happen to know why it escaped pillage?”

“Some say,” replied the daughter of Pasicles, “that it was spared out of respect to my dear father, but he modestly refutes this and claims that because of its size and proximity to the city, it was chosen as quarters for Persian officers. Even the altar to Zeus remained unprofaned and the manuscripts, many of them, were just as my father had left them.”

“Although this is indeed a lovely spot, I shall not test your hospitality to the limit. I intend to help rebuild Athens, and soon with the combined efforts of many, there will be homes for all,” said Zopyrus smiling into the girl’s serious face.

“Indeed,” she said, “we shall be delighted to have you with us. My father has spoken very well of you and says you have offered to copy some of his odes for him.”

“That is very small payment in return for lodgment in this miniature paradise,” the youth returned gallantly.

Eumetis laughed and blushed. “Our paradise on earth is a good deal what we make it. True joy comes from within, happiness from without. I have tried to cultivate the spirit of joy, but believe I have failed miserably. With Corinna it is different. She is always gay. Happiness comes to her unasked, so I believe she has a well of joy within her.”

The man and the girl looked in the direction of the fountain to where Polygnotus and Corinna sat together on the edge of the marble basin.

“Polygnotus has been a caller here for some time,” continued Eumetis. “The horrors of recent events have delayed but not altered his purpose.”

“I could wish your sister no greater happiness,” said Zopyrus, “for I admire this artist very much.”

“Yes, Polygnotus is fortunate indeed in possessing the love of the girl whom he admires, but his most intimate friend, Cimon, has not been so successful where affairs of the heart are concerned. He has not seen his sweetheart since he returned from Aegina, and he does not know what fate may have befallen her. She was not among those who fled to Troezen and Salamis.”

“That is truly most sad,” replied Zopyrus with feeling. “It may be that when the city is back again to its normal condition, she will appear. If she loves Cimon she will return to him.”

“Ah, but there lies the difficulty,” said Eumetis, “She does not love him. I called her his sweetheart wrongly, for it is purely a one-sided affair, and I fear that she will never return. Cimon idolizes her, and would have made her his wife ere this, but she refused. Can you think of anything more tragic than unrequited love?”

“It is most unfortunate, but I believe unusual, for in my opinion true love has its origin in a mutual attraction, for we creatures, of dust though we be, are conceited enough that we love those who love us. There are exceptions, of course.”

Eumetis turned away. “The exceptions often prove the rule, and unfortunate are they whose lives give proof of this.”

They joined the others as did Polygnotus and Corinna, and all entered the house to partake of refreshments.

CHAPTER XIV.
Beyond the Dipylon Gate.

“Athens, the stately-walled, magnificent!”

Pindar.

The sun sank in an unclouded blaze, but with the approach of evening the toilers did not cease. The builders of the pyramids of Egypt could boast no greater zeal than that with which the Athenians fortified their city. Men, women and children, rich, middle-class and poor worked together for the attainment of but one end; the erection of a wall about their city which would protect it from over-ambitious states and cities. Stones from partly demolished buildings, broken pieces of statuary, the debris of structures once the pride of every loyal Athenian, added bit by bit to the work of defense.

Zopyrus labored near the Diomean Gate lifting the large stones into places which had been freshly spread with mortar by the women and children. In vain his eyes searched the throng for a figure, the memory of which occupied his thoughts almost constantly since Salamis. He had worked at different sections of the wall in the hope that somewhere he would see her employed in the common task of all, but though he anxiously scanned a thousand faces during the course of his labor, hers was not among them.

A young man at his side nudged his elbow. “By tomorrow at this time the wall should be of sufficient height for Aristides and his companion to leave for Sparta to join Themistocles who awaits them.”

Zopyrus agreed with the youth’s statement and added, “It was a clever scheme of Themistocles to go to Sparta apparently to argue about the feasibility of building a wall around Athens, the while he planned to have all Athenians erect such a wall. By having Aristides delay in joining him he made it possible for us to get the wall to a height sufficient for defense.”

“Themistocles is very clever, no doubt,” replied his companion, “but the calm judgment of Aristides is not to be discredited.”

“Of course not,” said Zopyrus, “but it is the wit of Themistocles which will frustrate the ambitions of Sparta this time. Aristides is like the moon which is now rising on the other side of the city, as compared with the sun, Themistocles.”

At this moment Abronychus, a youth whom Zopyrus had met after the battle of Platæa, approached the two with a friendly clap upon the shoulder of each.

“Zopyrus and Lysimachus! I am glad to see you two together. In my mind I have always associated you as men of like temperament.”

“But,” said Zopyrus jocosely, “an argument has engaged us both up to the present moment. Your friend puts much confidence in the opinions of Aristides, while I maintain Themistocles to be the superior of the two.”

Abronychus’ smile spread into a broad grin. Turning to Lysimachus he said, “Your father wishes to talk with you at once. I met him at the shop of Aphobus where he awaits you.”

As the figure of Lysimachus disappeared in the crowd Zopyrus remarked, “A likely young fellow. I liked his upright manner, though his opinions differed from mine.”

“His father summons him,” said the other, “that he may bid farewell before leaving in the morning, at least twelve hours before he expected to make the trip. You see his father is Aristides who is to join Themistocles at Sparta.”

“Aristides his father!” exclaimed the crest-fallen Zopyrus. “Well I like him and hope he will not resent my remarks.”

“If I know Lysimachus,” said the other, “he will take no offense at what you said. I hope you will see him again. He has worked near the Diomean Gate ever since the wall was commenced. Your energies have not been so concentrated, for if I remember correctly, I have seen you at the gate of Diocharus and upon another occasion you were unloading stones at the north of the city beyond the Acharman Gate.”

“I will tell you the reason for my scattered efforts, though I maintain I have worked diligently wherever I happened to be. I began at the east side of the city, working near the different gates, a half day at a time and traveling northward. I am searching for a girl whom I met at the time of the battle of Salamis. I have not seen her since, and I know not where to find her.”

“Her name?” inquired Abronychus.

“Alas I did not ask it, but her face I can not forget! Eyes that reflect the heaven’s blue, straight brows, delicately chiseled nose, a mouth that——.”

Abronychus threw up his hands in deprecation. “I have not seen her, or I have seen hundreds of her! Which shall I say, my friend? I must be going now and I wish you success in your search for the missing lady.”

After the departure of Abronychus, Zopyrus toiled lifting rocks and pieces of masonry. It was with a feeling of ineffable relief that he heard the orders of the night-guard and saw that others were coming to take the places of those who had labored since mid-afternoon. Presently an approaching female figure caught his eye and in an instant he recognized Ladice whom he had rescued from the coarse Persian officer. She was conversing with an older woman and Zopyrus tried to attract her attention, for from her he hoped to learn the identity of her companion on the Acropolis. The tired workers in their eagerness to get to their homes for rest, pressed between him and Ladice, and he soon lost sight of her. He was pleased to know that she had reached Athens in safety, but his heart was filled with anxiety for the maiden whom he had rescued on the Acropolis.

As Zopyrus passed the Sacred Gate he glanced down the broad white road that he had followed the day he bore in his arms the unconscious Greek girl. The moon back of him shed its soft ethereal light over a scene that had recurred to him again and again in memory. Moved by an unexplainable impulse, he passed through the city-gate and pursued his course along the road that stretched luringly into the distance, bordered by the dusky shadows of olive trees.

Scarcely had he proceeded a furlong when he became aware of a figure several paces ahead. The man, for so it proved to be, was lost in thought and walked slowly, his head bent forward in meditation. Zopyrus’ first impulse was to return to the city, but something familiar in the man’s dress and figure arrested his notice, so he carried out his original intention of taking a moonlight stroll along the Sacred Way. Before the man turned Zopyrus had recognized the poet Aeschylus and simultaneously with the recognition came a feeling of joy that this much revered man could be his companion upon such an occasion. Aeschylus recognized the youth as he approached and placed an arm across his shoulders as together they proceeded to the northwest.

For some moments only the sound of their sandals on the stony pavement broke the stillness, but at length Zopyrus asked: “Did this road stretching into the distance lure you too as you passed the gate?”

“It always entices me, for it is the way to my home. I live at Eleusis.”

Zopyrus expressed no little surprise, for he had always thought of Aeschylus as a native of Athens.

“I had planned to move to Athens,” continued the poet, “so my elder son could attend the Academy, but God saw fit to snatch him forever from me in the late war with the oriental barbarians.”

Aeschylus stood a moment, his head bent forward, his attitude that of a man in complete subjection to a master. Zopyrus imagined that his lips moved but there was no sound forthcoming. Then there came to the Persian the memory of the maiden’s prayer, followed by the song from a myriad unseen throats, the mighty pæan that had saved Greece. Zopyrus as he watched the poet in silence knew that he too prayed. When the latter raised his head Zopyrus said tensely: “Your prayer is the second of its kind that I have seen. It ascends straight to God—“—then after a moment’s pause, “Tell me how do you explain the miracle of Salamis?”

Aeschylus gazed long and earnestly into the eyes of the young man before he answered.

“It was a word from the invisible, unapproachable Spirit of the universe.”

Zopyrus was greatly moved by the poet’s words.

“You believe that in great crises Zeus will help those whom He believes to be in the right?”

“Yes, but I believe that this God must have been approached by a devout suppliant, and that this was his answer to an earnest prayer.”

“Aeschylus,” said the young man, and he stood and faced his companion so that the moon shone full into his face revealing his emotion, “I was myself a witness, the only one, to the prayer that saved Greece.”

“You a witness to such a prayer!” exclaimed the incredulous poet.

Zopyrus nodded, then as the two resumed their nocturnal promenade he related to the interested philosopher in detail, trying not to reveal his identity, the facts of his meeting with the girl upon whom he had not laid eyes for a year. After his narration had been concluded he was conscious of the fixed gaze of his companion upon him.

“Zopyrus,” said Aeschylus, “I have decided to begin work on a tragedy which will present the Persian point of view and especially that of the royal family in this war, I would be very grateful would you acquaint me with many details of life at Susa.”

Zopyrus was startled. Had his words or manner of speech betrayed him to the friend whom above all others he esteemed most highly? It was apparent that even if Aeschylus did know him to be a Persian by birth, he was neither rebuking nor condemning him for that fact, but rather was he mildly assuring him that his birth need be no detriment to him in his present surroundings. Zopyrus believed that Aeschylus was convinced of his sincerity in the present interests of Greece.

“I shall be pleased to assist you in your great work,” he replied in a quiet tone. “Having spent a few months out of each year at the Persian court, I should know something of the Persian view-point.”

“Were you a servant or a member of the nobility?” questioned the poet quickly.

“Must I tell you that?” asked the younger man.

“I should like to know.”

“Very well, I am a cousin of king Xerxes. My father was satrap of Sardis and an own brother of Darius Hystaspis.”

The older man turned quickly and his brow clouded as he cried:—

“What do you mean by parading in Greek clothes and looking with love upon a maiden of Hellas? Think you that a pure lovely girl of our land would return the affections of a cousin of the profligate Xerxes?”

Zopyrus’ reply was made with becoming dignity. “I sincerely believe that the girl returns my affections, and as for my Persian ancestry, what think you of my features?”

Aeschylus’ expression of anger softened as he looked upon the young man’s face.

“There is the mystery,” he said in a puzzled voice, “I can think of no other than Theseus when I behold you. Your face is the type that characterizes our people.”

“From my departed mother have I inherited the features in which you behold a likeness to one of your national heroes, but not alone in face and form do I resemble the Greeks, but in nature too am I truly one of you. My mother was a Greek whose parents were members of the family of Ceryces.”

“Ceryces!” exclaimed Aeschylus in surprise. “Outside of the family of Eumolpidæ, I know no better in all this fair land. I bid you welcome to Greece and into our midst. I was not mistaken in my first impressions of you. Will you overlook the hasty words I spoke a few minutes ago?”

“I was not offended,” replied Zopyrus, “for I knew that after mature deliberation you would be convinced of the reality of my sincerity. My conscience has been my guide. I have always tried to obey it, thus keeping it ever sensitive.”

The poet smiled kindly into the earnest young face flushed with emotion.

“Young man, perfection lies in just that,” he said, “keeping the conscience sensitive. If you continue thus to strive after perfection in your youth you will be laying up virtues which will serve you in the crises of life which come later.”

“But I have often thought,” said Zopyrus puzzled, “that sometimes it is very difficult to determine between virtues and vices. That may sound very strange to you who consider them to be exactly opposite, but occasionally even a sensitive conscience can not discriminate. It seems to me that virtues and vices are very closely allied. How easy it is for one who is the very soul of generosity to over-step the bound and become a spendthrift! Might not one who possessed the virtue of thrift pass over the hair-breadth boundary into the vice of miserliness? Might not one of a loving nature tend toward licentiousness if not watchful, or one of self-restraint become too cold? Then again if one is neat and careful about one’s personal appearance might he not become vain if not watchful, or on the other hand if indifferent to the appearance of his body because the weightier matters of the soul concerned him more, might he not have the tendency to grow filthy and untidy in appearance? So it seems to me, my good Aeschylus, that it takes a very alert and sensitive conscience indeed to distinguish between the so-called virtues and vices, and to pass judgment correctly.”

“You are right, my boy, it does, and remember this; that in letting your conscience decide matters, you must not forget that no man lives unto himself, for everything he does affects another, but I see you are tired,” he said. “You have worked hard at the wall. In that you have done rightly, for toil is mankind’s greatest boon and life without industry is sin.”

Zopyrus glanced toward the sky, “The moon is beginning its descent and I must return to the house of Pasicles.”

“One moment before you go,” said the poet, laying a detaining hand upon the other’s arm, “You as a member of the Ceryces family should be initiated into the divine mysteries of Eleusis. Had your departed mother never mentioned them to you?”

“As a very young child I remember my mother’s having mentioned, upon several occasions when we were alone, the Eleusinian Mysteries and my childish mind nourished by an exceptionally vivid imagination, dwelt a great deal upon the probable nature of these enigmatical rites.”

“At two months from this time when the moon is again in its fullness, I will act in the capacity of mystagogue for you. Till then I will see you occasionally at Athens in the home of our mutual friend. May the God who is powerful above all others protect you.”

With these words he was gone leaving Zopyrus puzzled but greatly elated.

CHAPTER XV.
What Happened at the Theatre of Dionysus.

“Forth came, with slow and measured tread,

The ancient chorus, solemn, dread,

And through the theatre’s ample bound

Stately they took their wonted round.”

Schiller.

After the passage of a few weeks, Zopyrus became convinced of a fact which caused him great concern. It was the growing love for him which Eumetis could ill conceal. An alliance with the house of the aristocratic poet would be an honor. Zopyrus believed and rightly, that he had found favor with Pasicles and Cleodice. Still he knew that while he respected and admired Eumetis for the many desirable qualities which she possessed, he did not love her as a man should love the woman whom he chooses out of all others to be his mate. The cognizance of this unreturned affection and his inability to rediscover the maiden who was the object of his love were the only obstacles which disturbed the course of an otherwise peaceful existence.

Sparta’s pernicious ambitions were timely frustrated and Athens surrounded by seven miles of solid masonry and with Themistocles as its temporary idol, settled down to its pre-war mode of life. In the Agora the fishmonger’s bell announced the opening of fish-market, artisans went to their trade, the wealthy sought the shops and other public places or gossiped while they rested in the comfortable seats in the shady arcades. But the ordinary routine was frequently interrupted by judicial duties or public services pertaining to religious festivals, Olympiads or theatrical performances, and it was upon the latter occasion that on this day the crowds were leaving the market-place and pursuing a westward direction to the theatre of Dionysus which was an amphitheatre situated on the southern slope of the Acropolis.

Entrance was procured for the public through great gates on the right and left which opened into the orchestra or circular pit where the chorus marched and sang between the acts. The orchestra was situated between the stage and the auditorium which had a seating capacity of thirty thousand. The stone seats which rose tier upon tier were very wide and actually consisted of three distinct parts; the first as a seat, the second as a gangway for those walking, and the third part was hollowed out a little for the feet of those sitting above. The whole semi-circular structure was cut by stairs which like radii divided it into sections to facilitate the locating of seats. At the top of each division upon a pedestal stood the bust of some god or goddess, that of Dionysus occupying the middle section or place of honor.

Considerably to the right and about half way down in the section of Aphrodite sat Pasicles, Cleodice, Polygnotus, Corinna, Zopyrus, Eumetis and the lad Mimnermus. Bright colored kerchiefs adorned the heads of the women all over the assemblage, giving a gala appearance to the scene. At intervals over the theatre there were raised seats with high ornate backs, arm-rests and cushions. These were reserved for judges and officials or for any who were deemed deserving to occupy them. In one of these seats near the front of the section of Dionysus sat the tragedian, Phrynichus, so privileged as the composer of the tragedy, “The Capture of Miletus,” which was about to be enacted. Next to him was seated Aeschylus, his younger contemporary and staunch admirer.

Above the vast assembly stretched the azure sky across which an occasional fleecy cloud moved with the gentle breeze. Behind and above rose the Acropolis crowned with its marble ruins, and to the front of the audience, visible in the distance a little to the left of the stage was clearly discernible the conical outline of Hymettus, while farther to the east stretched the purple range of Anchesmus.

In his play, Phrynchius vividly presented to his spectators, the sad events of the downfall of the beautiful city of Miletus. He did not hesitate to blame certain Greek leaders who allowed themselves to be influenced by secret agents from the enemy, so that many ships treacherously sailed away at the opening of the battle. As the play proceeded the poet in gifted language put into the mouths of his actors, the tragic tale of the plunder of its dwellings, the conflagration of its peerless temples and the captivity of its citizens. There arose in Zopyrus’ memory the pale, tear-stained face of his mother when she learned from the lips of her stern husband, the fate of her native city. Sixteen years before she had been taken to Sardis as the bride of the Persian satrap, but she had never forgotten the city of her birth, nor did she ever recover from the effect of its sad fate and the probable doom of friends and relatives. Zopyrus recalled how as a lad of fourteen he stood beside his mother’s death-bed and received from her lips the request to avenge the destruction of Miletus. Scalding tears filled his eyes as he sat with bowed head. Hearing a stifled sob he looked up and saw that Eumetis was likewise in tears. Thus encouraged, to discover that he was not alone moved to tears by the memory of a past tragedy that lived again before thousands, he scanned the multitude around him, to learn that many were weeping. Scarcely was there one who had not lost a loved one, or who was not in some way painfully reminded of disasters through conflict with the Persians. In this great common grief Zopyrus felt himself to be truly one in heart with the people about him.

While in this mood he felt a light caressing touch upon his arm, and turning met the eyes of Eumetis looking up to him with sympathetic understanding, and in their violet depths he read a truth which, because he was young and life held for him the possibilities which it offers to all who are ambitious, flattered while yet it sincerely pleased him. Before he realized what he was doing his hand sought hers and held it, delighting in the thrill of contact.

At the close of the drama a resonant voice from the stage addressed the throng. It was the ex-archon, Conon.

“Citizens of Athens,” he cried, “will you let go unpunished the offender who has this day moved to tears, thousands? Is it without complaint that you listen to words which cause you to live again the miseries of the past? Has not Greece borne enough without being thus clearly reminded of past afflictions? I move you we fine the author one thousand drachmas as a punishment.”

Aeschylus was upon his feet in an instant.

“Rather should our friend here,” indicating Phrynichus, “be rewarded the sum of a thousand drachmas for the skill with which he depicted those scenes of woe.”

“Pay no heed to Aeschylus!” cried a voice. “He is a poet who probably entertains like ambitions. Phrynichus should be fined, not only for his own misdeed, but as a warning to aspiring poets that we care not to have presented to us thus our national tragedies.”

The sympathies of the group who were around Pasicles were with Phrynichus and Aeschylus, and so likewise were hundreds of others, but the majority resented the fact that they had been forced to yield to tears. The motion carried and the tragedian was forced to pay the penalty inflicted upon him.

As the crowds were leaving the amphitheatre Zopyrus espied Aeschylus and said as he approached him: “That was a good word you spoke for your elder friend. Our sympathies were with him.”

“Phrynichus I believe,” answered Aeschylus, “would rather lose the thousand drachmas than have failed to stir the hearts of the Athenians as he did today. The light of victory was in his eye, and mark you, Zopyrus, Conon has not frightened me either, for I intend to work on my ‘Persæ’ with the hope that my audience too will melt into tears! But I have unpleasant news for you, my friend. I am leaving soon for Sicily to visit Hiero, tyrant of Syracuse. My promise to escort you to the Mysteries will have to hold over till another year, however you will find in the most noble Pasicles a worthy mystagogue, and it is my earnest desire that you become initiated into the Mysteries at once.”

“Shall I not see you again before you leave?” questioned Zopyrus much agitated at the thought of his friend’s imminent departure.

“I fear not, but time does not drag on the hands of youth, and,” he added with a smile, “you may find the girl of the Acropolis! Farewell.”

He was gone and there seemed a chaos in life where Aeschylus had once been. The truth-seeking poet had meant much to him since he had first met him in the home of Pasicles. He had known personally many poets and philosophers who in parasitic fashion drew their nourishment from the court of King Xerxes. They were neither original in their ideas, fearing to arouse the wrath of the king by any deviation from customs, nor were they sincere. Aeschylus would cater to no man, nor did he bow to public opinion. The truth clothed in forceful language, was what he presented to the Athenians, and they could take it or spurn it as they chose.

The sight of Eumetis waiting for him filled Zopyrus with a pleasant consciousness that the chaos might after all be filled with a living, loving personality, and he hastily joined her. Her slender face, usually serious, lighted up with joy as she beheld the youth approaching.

“The rest have gone on,” she said, “We must hasten if we are to overtake them.”

“Is it necessary that we overtake them?” asked Zopyrus in a voice that sounded unnatural.

Eumetis blushed and shook her head in the negative. “No not if you prefer to delay.”

“I do, Eumetis, for I have something to say to you.” He paused a moment then continued: “Will the daughter of the aristocratic Pasicles deign to look upon Zopyrus whose origin is to her unknown, as a suitor?”

“You are mistaken, Zopyrus, if you think your parentage is unknown to my father. Aeschylus has revealed your identity to him, though I know not what it is and care not as long as Pasicles approves.”

For answer Zopyrus drew her arm within his own and together they crossed the Ceramicus as the shades of evening were beginning to descend.

CHAPTER XVI.
The Celebration of the Mysteries.

“Thence what the lofty grave tragedians taught

In chorus or iambic, teachers best

Of moral prudence, with delight received

In brief sententious precepts, while they treat

Of fate, and chance, and change in human life.”

John Milton.

The first rays of sunlight were gilding the pillared temples of the city as the procession for the Eleusinian Mysteries filed through the Dipylon Gate. It was the fifth day of celebration, the previous four having been spent at Athens in listening to formal proclamations, taking vows, undergoing purification and being crowned with garlands as emblems of initiation. Light were the hearts of the youths and maidens as with singing and dancing they wended their way carrying cists containing offerings to Demeter and Dionysus. At the head of the procession was carried a statue of the infant Iacchos, a form of Dionysus.

Many of the female celebrants rode in carriages as the journey was a long fatiguing one despite the many stops made. Zopyrus walked beside an open litter in which sat Cleodice and Eumetis.

“My children,” said Cleodice smiling, “these mystæ are celebrating your betrothal though they know it not! I regret so much that Pasicles was unable to be with us, but he has invoked the blessing of Hymen upon you. The nuptials will be solemnized immediately upon our return from Eleusis.”

Eumetis glanced shyly at the young man who strode beside the carriage. He had not looked well lately. There was something drawn and haggard about his features.

“I fear these days of initiation into the Mysteries are proving too strenuous for you, Zopyrus. You do not look yourself today,” said Eumetis with concern.

“It is nothing,” replied Zopyrus, “but I shall be glad when these rites are over.”

“For more reasons than one surely,” laughed Cleodice. “I remember how impatient your father,” turning to her daughter, “was when it was necessary to wait till the close of the Nemean games to celebrate our marriage.”

Zopyrus turned to survey the landscape which lay all green and gold about him. The familiarity of the scene at this point came to him as a shock. There to the right lay the olive-grove and there, he could mistake it not, was the same tree beneath whose gnarled branches he had laid his precious burden on that day which would live forever in his memory. Again he seemed to feel the weight of her unconscious body; again he observed the beauty, winning seriousness and refinement of her features and yet once again he imagined he heard her ask if he were not a disguised Greek soldier! It was with an effort that he forced these memories from him. A year had passed and he would probably never see her again. She must have perished during the months that followed the battle of Salamis as many Greeks had. It was folly, he resolved, to waste one’s life in vain regrets. He was about to take as his wife a chaste girl of excellent parentage, whose love was wholly his, and he would do his best to make her happy! As they passed the path to the southward where he and the maiden had turned to view the battle from the promontory, he turned his eyes resolutely to the anxious countenance of Eumetis and smiled, seeking to forget that which would force itself uppermost in his consciousness. He partially succeeded, for the eyes of the maiden, so full of loving regard, gave him a promise of undying affection. He placed his hand over hers as it lay on the side of the carriage, then suddenly he stopped as if struck by an arrow.

Upon his ears in solemn cadence fell again the hymn to Dionysus, the pæan of joy which had miraculously saved Greece. It was now being sung for the first time since that memorable event. Every voice that helped to swell the triumphal song, thrilled with irrepressible ecstasy. Only in the heart of one did sadness mingle with joy.

“What is the matter, Zopyrus? You are ill! Mother, stop a moment! I can walk as far as the fountain of Kallichoros while Zopyrus takes my seat in the carriage.”

Zopyrus quickly gained control of his emotions.

“Foolish girl,” he said with mock severity, “do you think I would ride while you walked? I assure you I am perfectly well. The fountain is just now in sight where we shall rest and enjoy a little jest and merry-making.”

The voices and innumerable instruments which had filled the heavens with harmony ceased their music. Vast masses of clouds which swept the sky, alternately unveiled and eclipsed the sun. A crisp breeze sprang from the sea, so that the mystæ proceeded along their way after a short stop, desirous of reaching the Fountain of Kallichoros before the storm which threatened should break. Their hopes were more than realized. The sun peeped out from behind a cloud just as they reached Eleusis by the sea, and shone directly above the gleaming temple to Demeter. With its magic rays it lit up the whole sacred precinct. First were visible the propolæa and the small temple of Pluto. To the left was the Telesterion, a large covered building adjoining which was the sacred temple to the goddess Demeter, where only those were admitted who had received full initiation.

“This is the sacred temple,” whispered Cleodice who already assumed the office of mystagogue, “and beyond, where you see the waving field of corn, lies the Rharian Plain where Demeter first sowed corn. Still farther is the field called Orgas, planted with trees consecrated to Demeter and Persephone.”

An official cried in a loud voice, “To the sea, ye Mystæ.”

“You must undergo further purification,” said Eumetis, “before you can proceed nearer the holy environs of the temple.”

At this point Cleodice and Eumetis left Zopyrus who was hurried on with others to the seashore and into the sea where the final purification took place. Nearly opposite lay Salamis, the view from this point differing but little from that which he had obtained from the promontory nearer Athens.

The sun had set and the stars came out one by one. As he stood upon the sand and gazed toward the hazy outline of Salamis, an ecstatic mood took possession of him. Conscious of his own impotence, he sank upon his knees and lifted his eyes to the God who had saved Greece, and who was manifest in all the wonders of nature around him.

Soon he realized that the other mystæ, bearing flaming torches, were leaving the shore and repairing to the temple. As he hurried hither he met Cleodice with a torch for him.

“We are going to the Telesterion to hear the address of the hierophant,” she explained.

The flickering, reddish lights from hundreds of torches cast grotesque shadows and produced a weird effect as they entered the enormous hall and seated themselves upon the steps which surrounded the square floor on all sides. Within this square many who had been in the procession from Athens marched and sang with the lyre, the flute and the barbiton. Upon their heads and around their shoulders rested garlands of interwoven flowers.

The revelry ended at the appearance of four men from one of the six doors which were arranged in pairs on three sides of the hall. First in order came the sacred torch-bearer followed by the altar-priest who wore the insignia and carried the holy emblems for the service. Immediately behind him came the hierophant whose duty it was to expound the truths to the newly initiated. This man, chosen in the prime of life, was selected from the aristocratic family of the Eumolpidæ. His term would last till his death, for such was the custom regarding the election of this officer. In his footsteps followed a fourth figure, the sacred herald, who together with the altar-priest and torch-bearer, was chosen for life from the sacred family of Ceryces, the family in which Zopyrus could proudly claim membership.

A hush fell upon the assembly at the appearance of these venerable men. The hierophant with outstretched hands invoked the blessing of the Mother goddess upon the celebrants. Then in a well modulated voice he addressed his words to the newly initiated.

Zopyrus sat as one in a trance, for the sentiment was similar to that of many utterances of his beloved friend Aeschylus. His thoughts wandered for a moment to his poet friend and he wondered if he were faring well on his journey to the island of Sicily. He was probably at this moment on the surface of the dark sea searching the far horizon for a first glimpse of fiery Ætna, a favorite abode of Demeter and her daughter Persephone! This brought his thoughts back again to his immediate surroundings and he listened as the hierophant spoke:—

“When I look upon yonder green fields, I call upon the faithful to give thanks to Demeter, that is, that active manifestation of the One through which the corn attains to its ripe maturity. Whether we view the sun or the harvest, or contemplate with admiration the unity and harmony of the visible or invisible world, still it is always with the Only, the All-embracing One we have to do, to Whom we ourselves belong as those of His manifestations in which He places His self-consciousness.

“The wonderful miracle of reviving vegetation, of the grain which dies in the ground and springs anew to life, illustrates man’s longing for a revival of his own life, and serves as an assurance of his hope of immortality.

“Many of you sit before me fearful for the morrow, for you know not in the day or in the night what course fate has marked out for you. But think you that any part of the self-consciousness of this omnipotent God can sink into utter oblivion? I tell you that death is but a passing out of this life into a larger, fuller existence like unto the change which takes place in a kernel of corn when it is planted in the ground. What change does Demeter work in that corn? What change will the One accomplish in you? In Demeter you see explained the mysteries pertaining to the source of life. In Persephone you behold life itself with its problems. Their relation to each other is emblematic of man’s resurrection. We are here now to win the friendship of the Mother and Daughter that we may procure a blessing at their hands in the next existence.”

The hierophant withdrew, and the sacred herald announced that a mystery play would be enacted.

Aeschylus had hinted to Zopyrus that the celebration consisted of “things said” and “things done.” The young man’s eyes were fixed in eager anticipation upon the clear space in the center of the Great Hall, around the sides of which were seated not less than three thousand spectators. The actors gained access to the pit by means of trap-doors which opened from below.

“The first scene,” whispered Cleodice, “will represent Persephone and some girl friends picking roses, lilies and hyacinths in the fields of Enna in Sicily.”

CHAPTER XVII.
Persephone.

“Yonder brook Demeter’s tears received,

That she wept for her Persephone.”

Schiller.

Scarcely had the words fallen from Cleodice’s lips than there appeared several maidens running, dancing and pirouetting. They seemed to be so many sylvan nymphs effusing the spirit of eternal spring among imaginary wooded hills, beside babbling brooks and amid fragrant meadows in search of flowers to wind in their long hair which streamed behind them or fell about their shoulders as they ran.

“The one with the richly broidered gown of pure white is Persephone,” explained Eumetis, observing that Zopyrus’ eyes were fastened upon that figure.

Seated between Cleodice and Eumetis, Zopyrus had not withdrawn his gaze from the girl in white, the Persephone. It was the maiden whom he had rescued on the Acropolis!

“She is very beautiful, is she not, Zopyrus?” questioned Eumetis with pique.

But Zopyrus did not hear.

Happy Persephone! Life that moves along with nothing to disturb its tranquility! Presently she sees a flower, a narcissus, fairer and taller than any around it, but it is far away. She leaves her companions and runs gayly to pluck it. Her hand is almost upon the fair blossom when lo! the earth opens at her feet, and a chariot drawn by two black horses emerges seemingly from the very bowels of the earth. Within the chariot stands a dark, somber-visaged man upon whose head rests a crown with a solitary dull red stone in the front. This man is Hades,[5] lord of the underworld. He seizes the hapless Persephone who struggles vainly for freedom, and placing her beside him in his magnificent chariot, vanishes with her to the nether regions.

While this scene was being enacted, Zopyrus sat as one dazed, for in the person of Hades he had recognized the traitor of Thermopylæ.

Again the pit is occupied, this time by two female figures clad in robes of mourning. They are Ceres and her faithful maid Iambe. Ceres questions every one they meet in the hope of finding some trace of her lost daughter, Persephone. Hecate, goddess of night, is approached with an inquiry regarding the possible whereabouts of the unfortunate girl, but Night has seen nothing, only heard the cry of anguish.

During the six months that Persephone dwelt with Pluto, her husband, the face of nature showed the withering touch of the mourning goddess. It was for Helios, the sun god, to reveal where Persephone was hidden, and during the remainder of the year that Persephone’s abode was with her mother, Ceres’ magic influence was made manifest in the growing and maturing vegetation.

So the mother goddess, Earth, who during her sorrow had caused all nature to be barren, produced fruit, flowers and grain in abundance. As her faithful heart pined for her daughter, Life, so do we mourn the lost lives of our loved ones until our souls are assured of their resurrection. So often from the bitterest experiences of life do the greatest blessings come.

A communion service followed the presentation of the suffering and rejoicing of Demeter, in which all the initiates drank of the same cup with the representatives of the goddesses. These ceremonies appealed to the eyes and imaginations of the celebrants through a form of religious mesmerism.

The ceremonies over, the crowds moved slowly out of the Telesterion. From the entrance to the rock-terrace, Persephone and Agne, the woman who had represented Ceres, watched the departing throng.

“An appreciative audience, do you not think so, Persephone?” asked the older woman.

“I sincerely hope so,” replied the girl. “My greatest happiness can come only from successfully convincing others that there is a future existence for all who deserve it.”

“I saw my cousin, Cleodice and her daughter, Eumetis,” said Agne. “There was a young man seated between them, and I believe he must be the one to whom Eumetis is betrothed. He will find Eumetis a worthy mate, for a more unselfish girl never lived. She loved Polygnotus, but when she realized that her sister, Corinna loved him, she stepped aside and gave Polygnotus every opportunity to pay court to her sister. But see who is coming to pay court here, little Persephone! Behold Pluto is vanished, and in his stead we see Ephialtes. I was young once, Persephone, and if I mistake not, your greatest happiness lies with him, not in revealing a future life to others. Do not misunderstand me, my dear, your part as Persephone is a noble one and may be for a year or two yet, but then younger Persephones will come to the front, and you do not want to become a Demeter!” here Agne laughed bitterly. “I once stood as you now stand and hesitated between a lover and an ambition,—and now I am just Demeter, truly a noble calling, but not life as it should be. You are life, Persephone! You personify it! Then live it, and Ephialtes will gladly share it with you.”

Persephone was amazed at Agne’s frank outburst. She had always known her as a devout, conscientious woman whose interest in her part of Ceres in the mystery-play was the obsession of her life. It was now vividly impressed upon her that Agne had once been young as she was, that Agne had once loved and been loved, and now Agne’s advice was to make the most of that love which comes in life’s spring-time.

“But I always thought you wanted me to succeed you some day as Demeter!” the girl exclaimed wonderingly.

“Maybe some day you can, but live first. Demeter was a mother, and I believe a real mother will present the truths of our belief more vividly than can one who has never known the joys and pangs of motherhood.” With these words Agne left the maiden just as Ephialtes approached.

“Come with me to the Grotto of Pluto, Persephone,” said Ephialtes. “I wish to have a word with you alone.”

The Grotto of Pluto was a half furlong distant from the Great Hall which the two now left by way of the rock-terrace. The night breeze from across the Rharian plain was warm and laden with the odors of grain fields.

“The usual cool sea breeze has deserted us tonight,” remarked Persephone, “but I love equally well that which blows from the land. It seems to bear a message from others who live in our own fair land and to unite us by its common touch.”

“I love that wind,” said Ephialtes, “which blows across the water from strange, unknown lands, bringing with it a feeling of mystery. It is characteristic, I suppose, that the woman love her native land and the familiar haunts of her childhood, but the man longs to explore the unknown.”

“Yes I love Greece, Ephialtes, and who would not? It has the richest pale-blue air, the loveliest mountain forms and silvery estuaries, sinking far into the heart of the land!”

They arrived, meeting no one, at the entrance of the Grotto of Pluto.

“Let us go in,” said Ephialtes softly. “There is a new statue of Iacchos I would show you.”

“Some other time, Ephialtes. There is no one here. Tell me what you said you wished to tell me when we were in the Telesterion.”

Ephialtes was keenly disappointed that the girl would not enter the grotto with him. His impulse was to carry her bodily there, but he knew her utterances of remonstrance would attract attention, so he silently obeyed her wish, feeling impotent rage.

“On the second night of the next full moon, there is to be a festival of Dionysus on the island of Naxos. Will you go with me, Persephone?”

He was standing before her; he clasped her hand and gazed pleadingly into her eyes. She hesitated and turned thoughtfully away.

“I will go with you if I may take Agne as chaperone,” she replied.

Ephialtes answered with well concealed irritation: “Very well, if you insist, but surely you do not mistrust a friend of such long standing as myself, and oh my dear Persephone, will you not change your answer to my question which was put to you last when we drifted together in the barge off of Salamis?”

“My answer is the same, and by the way, have you found any clue to the identity of the traitor of Thermopylæ?”

The young man glanced furtively about him and made answer: “Not yet, but you may rest assured I will find him since my future happiness depends upon it. Goodbye now, sweet Persephone, till the second night of the full moon. I shall count the hours as lost till I see you.”

He strode toward her as though to embrace her, but warned by her attitude of aloofness, merely imprinted a kiss upon her hand. He could well afford to bridle his passions so as not to offend her before the excursion to Naxos.

CHAPTER XVIII.
Agne’s Advice.

“Could love part thus? was it not well to speak,

To have spoken once? It could not but be well.”

Tennyson.

Alone in the darkness outside the cave of Pluto, the words of Agne kept ringing in Persephone’s ears:—“Live first! A mother will present the truths more vividly than one who has never known the joys and pangs of motherhood.” Was this longing which filled her being, love for the man who had just left her, or was it merely an indefinable desire to fulfill the requirements of nature in regard to her sex?

A short distance away the massive temple stood in dim relief against a starry sky. An occasional group of celebrants passing between it and the silent figure of the girl, revealed the sacred edifice and its precincts in the fluctuating lights of their torches. Life to Persephone had not been unlike that solid masonry, which had stood since it was built, unaffected by storms without, but now the flickering lights revealed it in a new aspect; showed it by the wavering illumination to contain secret nooks and crannies which had before been invisible. So had this new emotion lighted Persephone’s soul till it brought into evidence secret chambers of her being of which she had been heretofore unconscious.

Once before this yearning had taken possession of her being—she blushed with shame to think of it, but it was when the Persian officer had kissed her, after they had witnessed together the great battle. Of course it was wicked, she thought to herself, to think of that brute who had dared contemptuously to push aside the first civilities of their acquaintance, and behave in such a rude manner, for Ephialtes who was a Greek had never dared——

“Anyway,” she said half aloud, “he was probably killed at Platæa and it serves him right—only—of course—death is a pretty severe penalty just for kissing a girl, even if one has no right to do it—no, I hope he isn’t dead. He wasn’t as handsome as Ephialtes, but there was something more courageous and masterful about him, and his eyes didn’t shrink from looking right into mine—”

With her hand upon her breast, her eyes wide and bright, she said aloud:—“Live first! A mother will present the truths more vividly than one who has never known the joys and pangs of motherhood.”

The sudden consciousness of someone standing near, caused her to start violently and stammer in confusion, as she realized her last thoughts had been audible. A young man had appeared out of the shadows.

He came a few steps nearer and said humbly: “I beg your pardon for this intrusion. I came from the temple to explore the Grotto, then I saw you standing here, truly a vision to satisfactorily complete this impressive scene. I stood and watched you. I had no idea you would think aloud!”

Even in the faint light Persephone had recognized her rescuer of the Acropolis, and though her heart quickened its beat and her cheeks flushed, she resented his having heard her words, and said somewhat haughtily: “I thought all the Persians had left Greece by this time.”

“All the Persians have,” he replied. “I am a Greek.”

A contemptuous smile curled her lips. “It must be convenient to be able to change one’s nationality at will!”

Her words stung him, but he did not swerve from his purpose. He took a step closer to her and said evenly: “I have been searching for you ever since the Persians were defeated at Platæa and now I have found you. Who are you Persephone?”

She did not shrink from him at his approach, but with lips slightly parted and eyes wide with wonder, gazed steadfastly into his face. As their eyes met, his features relaxed from their severity, and once again he felt the same impulse to hold and kiss her as he had after the miracle of Salamis. All disdain had vanished from her attitude, and the words he had heard her speak and the vague yearning which they expressed, might not he—? His arms were stretched forth to take her, his lips eager to meet hers, when the vision of another face came between; the face of one to whom he had made a sacred promise of love! Was he weak, that he could change his nationality and his sweethearts to accommodate his moods? He backed away, covering his face with an uplifted arm, and uttered a sob, “It is too late, little girl! Forget that I sought you after the Mysteries, forget that I love you.”

Persephone’s lips quivered as she asked faintly: “Why is it too late?”

He did not answer, so deep was his emotion. Suddenly a new thought occurred to him and he asked roughly, “That fellow who played Pluto with you, does he—love you?”

She lowered her eyes in embarrassment as she answered, “He has said so—but—”

“That is enough,” Zopyrus interrupted rudely, “had you any—thought of accepting his attentions? This may seem rude to you,” he added apologetically, “but believe me, my motives are pure in asking you this.”

Persephone looked shyly into the eyes of the man whom she now knew she loved more dearly than any other, and desiring to entice him into an avowed declaration of his adoration of her, she said demurely: “Circumstances might favor my acceptance of the young man who played with me as Pluto.”

Zopyrus ground his teeth in secret dismay. He knew she was innocent of the fact that her would-be-lover was a traitor, but how could he, Zopyrus, who was in honor bound to renounce her, reveal her lover’s identity, and bring disappointment to the maiden’s heart whose longings he had heard in her own words but a short time ago. He could not, he felt, be like the dog in the manger of which Aesop had written. If he could not have her, he could not deny her happiness with another—but a traitor! Perhaps it was best that she should know before it was too late. He looked again into her eyes and opened his mouth to speak, then with a shrug of despair he turned and left her.

He was gone, and so were all the celebrants bearing torches. The temple was now an indistinct black blot against the sky. No cracks and crannies were revealed by wavering lights! Someone touched her arm. It was Agne!

“Did you take my advice, dear Persephone?” whispered the woman. “Did you decide to live? Did you accept him?”

“Did I accept whom?” asked Persephone dazedly. “Oh, yes—no—, I—that is he is going to take me to celebrate the festivities at Naxos on the second night of the full moon. Will you, dear Agne, go with us as chaperone?”

Agne consented and said, “I know he loves you. He seemed loath to leave you just now. Do not allow his role as Hades to prejudice you against him.”

Persephone felt relieved, for by Agne’s last remark, she knew that in the dark Agne had mistaken the stranger for Ephialtes.

“You are right, Agne, I will live while I am young. When Ephialtes asks me for an answer at Naxos, I will accept him.” Persephone’s voice faltered, and Agne misunderstood the cause of the quavering tones.

“I wish you, dear girl, all the happiness that might have been mine, had I chosen differently when I stood at the forks.”

CHAPTER XIX.
Ephialtes’ Plot.

“So drives self-love through just, and through unjust,

To one man’s power, ambition, lucre, lust.”

Pope.

It was eventide in the Agora. Booths were being closed for the night while merchants and customers were preparing to seek the comfort of their homes. Gradually the streets became quite deserted except for a few dogs whose opportunity to feast came at the close of day when some of the refuse from the meat and vegetable markets lay about the stalls.

Cimon on his way to dine at the home of Pasicles nearly collided with a figure as he turned the corner directly in front of the shop of Aphobus, a dealer in jewelry and vases. After the first moment of surprise at meeting anyone at this hour he recognized Ephialtes. With a friendly nod and word of greeting he would have passed on his way, but Ephialtes called him by name and indicated that he wished to speak with him.

“My dear friend Cimon,” he began, “excuse me if I seem to intrude where your affairs are concerned, but after having been myself a witness to the evidence of your great passion for the girl Ladice, I can not but desire to assist you and I believe I can be of some use to you in attaining your heart’s desire if you will but listen to me.”

Cimon detected the reek of wine upon the breath of Ephialtes and fought against a desire to give some plausible excuse and hasten on his way, but the words of the latter undeniably aroused his curiosity.

“Are you aware,” continued Ephialtes, glancing about to make certain they were not heard, “that Ladice is now a ward of the great Themistocles.” Ephialtes laid special emphasis upon the word “great” and looked keenly to note the affect of his words upon his listener.

Cimon made an impatient gesture. “Do you think to make me jealous of a man twice my age who has a family of ten children, and has probably taken Ladice under his protection because he was a personal friend of her brave father who was killed at Salamis?”

“Indeed you misjudge me, my friend,” replied Ephialtes assuming an aggrieved air. “I had not thought of him in the role of lover. But while she is under the protection of Themistocles her mind must constantly be impressed by his opinions, and you know, yourself, that the statesman does not love you nor did he your father before you. And why, pray tell me, does Themistocles hate you? Ah, you hesitate because of personal modesty, but I will tell you why. It is because you are likely to become his bitter rival. He sees in you not only qualities which he himself possesses as a leader, but likewise some that you have inherited from your brave father. He fears to lose public favor, and you, would you hesitate to take for yourself that which he might lose?”

Ephialtes could see that his words had touched a vulnerable spot.

“It is true,” replied Cimon, “that Themistocles would never consent to my suit, but you forget that Ladice does not return my affection.”

“With Themistocles out of the way your chances with his ward are far greater,” persisted the other. “Now I have a friend by the name of Leobotes who for personal reasons, dislikes the statesman so much that he would gladly cause his downfall. Leobotes is endeavoring to stir up public opinion against Themistocles and thus bring about the latter’s banishment. With Themistocles out of Greece forever what is to prevent you from stepping up into his place? And once there you can see realized your ambitions of uniting Sparta and the islands with us in an alliance, and at the head of hosts of faithful followers you can put down the revolts of our colonies. Do you think that with you as tyrant of Athens, Ladice would continue to treat you with disdain? My dear fellow,” laughed Ephialtes clapping him upon the shoulder, “she would gladly forget the disgrace in which your father died and would be proud to be the chosen bride of the idol of Athens!”

Cimon’s vanity could no longer resist the subtle power of Ephialtes’ flattery. In his mind’s eye he pictured himself the envy of all men. He would first win the favor of the populace by his magnanimity, then he would rebuild the temples of Athens that had been destroyed; the Acropolis must have a splendid shrine to her goddess, and as Ephialtes had said, the city must be on friendly terms with Sparta. As he realized that all this which he visioned was possible of achievement he could scarcely hold himself in restraint. Though it was already past the dinner hour at the home of the poet, Cimon continued talking and planning with Ephialtes, all else forgotten.

“Come with me now and I will introduce you to Leobotes,” suggested Ephialtes, and he was amazed at the readiness with which the other complied.

They threaded their way through the winding streets which without walks were lined on either side by the rough masonry of the houses. Since it was past the hour of the evening meal they met parties of youths singing and laughing and exchanging coarse jests, all of which was a painful reminder to Cimon of a period of his youth, not so long ago, that he would just as soon forget.

Cimon did not trust Ephialtes, but the well contrived scheme which the latter laid before him was irresistible. As they brushed by open doorways, obtaining brief glimpses of life within or heard occasional snatches of conversation, an ecstatic mood possessed Cimon. Might not he some day possess the power to change the lives of these people and to put his name upon their lips, his name spoken in praise and reverence!

As they approached one entrance, a pretty child, a girl of about ten years, sat upon the doorstep holding in her arms a very young infant. Cimon paused, for he was always irresistibly drawn toward children, and drew aside the shawl which covered the baby’s face.

“Oho,” he laughed bending over the tiny figure, “behold, Ephialtes, a future citizen of Athens, and who knows,” he added meditatively, “the possibilities that lie in that small bundle of life. What is his name, child?” pinching the girl’s cheek. “A good name means a good start in life.”

The girl’s brown eyes flashed proudly. “We have given him a wonderful name. There is no better in Athens. We call him Themistocles.”

Ephialtes laughed outright and pulled at Cimon’s tunic. “Come,” he said, “we must hurry on—to the business of naming the unborn citizens of Attica.”

The house of Leobotes was the last one before the widening of the street, where four other lanes like the fingers of a hand united at the palm, and the so-called “palm” was a small square beautified by an ornate drinking place. The two men refreshed themselves at the well before seeking to gain entrance at the home of Leobotes. The owner himself answered their knock.

It is a peculiar thing that we are sensitive at times to the proximity of extremely agreeable or antagonistic natures, though they be out of range of sight or hearing. Such a feeling of repellence Cimon possessed as he stood at the doorway of Leobotes. True he had never loved Ephialtes any too well, but there was a subtle charm of manner in the handsome young Greek that drew his victims toward him, an attraction that Leobotes with perhaps no baser traits of character, lacked.

Leobotes was a thin man with a pointed beard of sandy color and shifty eyes of a nondescript pale blue variety. His appearance was anything but inspiring, and Cimon felt his previous aspirations shrivel within him whenever he tried to meet the evasive glance of this friend of Ephialtes. Leobotes, as soon as he had been informed of the reason for the visit, set some wine before his guests and after taking a draught himself, rubbed his hands and smacked his lips as he turned to Cimon, whom he had known by sight as the son of the hero of Marathon.

“I am a patriotic and loyal citizen,” he began, “and I believe in promoting that which is for the good of our beloved city, and I believe equally,” he paused impressively, “in doing away with that which is a menace to Athens. Themistocles is only waiting his chance to sell our city and the freedom of its inhabitants to the highest bidder. How do I know? I was near him at Salamis and I heard the messages he sent by his slave to the Persian king, to block the Greek ships up in the bay.”

“Is it possible,” asked Cimon deeply impressed, “that he sent such word to Xerxes?”

“Not only possible,” exclaimed Leobotes, “it is a fact. As you know that was done too,” he concluded with an air of satisfaction.

“Yes it was done,” Cimon acknowledged, “but we won, did we not? Terror fell upon the Persians when they heard the loud chant of battle and the martial sound of trumpet from the Greek ranks and soon ships, Persian ships, were colliding, their oars—”

“Yes, I know all that,” Leobotes interrupted with impatience, “but that was all contrary to the way Themistocles had planned, and I believe the purpose of the deed and not the result should be the cause of punishment to the perpetrator.”

“If the truth were sufficient to convict him,” said Cimon, “I should agree with you that the motive of an act is of primal importance, but do you not think banishment a very severe punishment unless the accusers can obtain the most convincing evidence against the accused?”

Leobotes smiled as he said, “You are aware of the accusations of Medism against Pausanias. The lure of wealth and an eastern satrapy following his victory at Platæa proved too attractive. Just recently a slave sent by him with a message to the Persian king was overcome by curiosity and upon reading the contents of the missive learned that he was to be put to death as soon as his message was delivered. So had all previous messengers between Pausanias and Xerxes met their fate in order that absolute secrecy might be maintained. This slave returned to Greece and made known to the Ephors the treachery of his master.”

“What did Pausanias do?” asked Ephialtes for whom the fate of a traitor possessed a peculiar fascination.

Leobotes turned his pale eyes in the questioner’s direction, and to the latter his voice sounded like the utterance of judgment as he replied: “Pausanias fled just yesterday to a shrine of Poseidon in which place he feels secure for the present against any violence.”

All three were silent for a few moments. At length Cimon asked, “Do you believe Themistocles to be implicated in this plot of Pausanias?”

Leobotes hesitated before answering. He did not like the reluctance which Cimon showed in accepting what he, Leobotes, liked to think of as proof of Themistocles’ guilt.

“It seems to me,” he answered evasively, “that all men who have tasted success in battle and have won public favor, sooner or later succumb to an insatiable yearning for worldly riches and glory no matter at what price.”

“Now Cimon is very different,” said Ephialtes quickly, fearing that the trend of conversation was beginning to defeat the purpose for which he had sought Leobotes’ help. “If Cimon were to succeed Themistocles as the leading Athenian, he would accept no bribery.”

“No of course not,” agreed the older man, quick to comprehend the significance of the other’s remark. “There are some men whom one knows instinctively are above such deeds.”

Feeling that this was a suitable remark for Cimon to ponder, he arose and refilled the empty wine goblets.

“Well what do you propose that I should do?” asked Cimon after he had drained his cup.

“Nothing for the present but talk,” answered Leobotes. “You are popular and influential. A word from you will go twice as far as a lengthy speech from either Ephialtes or myself.”

“Do you really think my influence could be felt?” asked Cimon as he arose to leave.

“My dear young man,” Leobotes made answer, and his tone was ingratiating, while at the same time he turned and gave a knowing nod to Ephialtes, “Much is expected of you as the son of a brave soldier. Your name is on the tongues of many, and there is only one man who stands between you and the highest of mortal attainments. Need I say more?”

CHAPTER XX.
The Ward of Themistocles.

“Talk of thy doom without a sigh;

For thou art freedom’s now, and fame’s,—

One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.”

Fitz-Greene Halleck.

In compliance with a request from the hero of Salamis, no less a person than Themistocles himself, Zopyrus betook himself to the home of that personage. The two had met frequently at public gatherings, and Zopyrus, influenced by the first words he had heard fall from the lips of Aeschylus which were tributes of praise to Themistocles, had since that time looked upon the actions and utterances of that statesman with approval.

A servant admitted him and led him through the reception room to a doorway which opened into a bright and cheerful solarium. The statist stood with arms folded and head bent in reverie. Upon hearing a footfall he turned quickly and greeted Zopyrus with outstretched hands.

“Welcome, my young friend,” he cried delightedly. “You come at a time when cheerful companionship is much needed. As if the cares of a nation are not enough, the gods are giving me more than my share of personal woe.”

Zopyrus seated himself in the sun-lit room and surveyed the luxuriant growth of potted tropical plants.

“One ought never to feel sad here,” he remarked, “but tell me what troubles you Themistocles.”

“I will first tell you of my political worries, though perhaps you share the opinion of many of my former friends, and can anticipate what I am about to say.”

“I can not know exactly what you wish to say, but I presume it has to do with the turning of popular favor against you.”

“Yes, that is at the bottom of my sorrow. Once—” here Themistocles’ voice broke and he could not continue for a moment, “once I was greatly honored and deservedly, Zopyrus. Do not think me a braggart to say so—but you will remember the favors that all Athens showed me after Salamis. I was and am still sincere in my hope for the welfare of this most glorious of cities, but personal enemies have sown the seeds of mistrust, and now former friends pass me with averted faces, and many cast glances of distrust. Did I not thwart the over-ambitious Sparta? Now the populace begins to clamor for a younger man, which is good and natural of course, but this young man favors an alliance with Sparta, and even argues that such a compact will be to our advantage. This young man, do you know him?” asked Themistocles with fervor.

“I believe you mean Cimon, the son of Miltiades, do you not?”

“The same,” cried Themistocles, “the son of a veritable rascal, so what can one expect!”

“Personally I admire Cimon,” said Zopyrus quietly. “He is a warrior, every inch of him, and I favor the plan of appointing him successor to Aristides as commander of the fleet.”

“Then you too are against me!” cried the older man hotly. “I had counted on your friendship as an unswerving reality, but I realize there is no such thing as human constancy.”

Zopyrus was deeply moved. “I do not for one moment doubt your sincerity in serving Athens, and at the time of Salamis your policy was a wise one and saved Greece from a sad fate, but conditions have changed since Platæa.”

“Do you know,” asked the statesman leaning toward his young companion and lowering his tones, “that there were those who doubted me at Salamis and were ready to believe that my scheme for compelling the Greeks to fight was an act intended to favor the enemy? Had the Persians been victorious at the time my doom would have been sealed.”

“Athens is too severe, too critical,” continued Themistocles, his voice rising in excitement. “Because such men as Miltiades and Pausanias become arrogant and selfish after Marathon and Platæa, they assume that I must do likewise after Salamis. This Delean League which is proposed by Cimon would exclude the Thessalians and Argives, both as you know friendly to us, and would substitute allies of Sparta. The national spirit which made the Greeks omnipotent against the millions of Darius and Xerxes must live again! Oh, Athens is temporarily blind, blind, and I am powerless to save her now! You are young, Zopyrus, will you not fight this confederacy and clear my name of suspicions of intrigue with Persia? Seek one Leobotes, an old enemy of my family, and prevent him from pressing against me the charge of Medism. Do this, my friend, and anything that is within my power I will do for you.”

“I will do what I can,” replied Zopyrus earnestly. Changing the subject he said, “You have heard no doubt, of the fate of Pausanias?”

“I can imagine what it is, but I had not heard.”

“I was informed before coming here,” said Zopyrus, “that starvation in the temple of Poseidon ended his miserable existence. As you know a wall had been built around the temple and armed guards stationed without who watched night and day. Just before the end came he was brought forth into the open to die that he might not pollute the temple.”

“Alas poor Pausanias!” cried Themistocles, “how relentless are those who think ill of us! You were guilty of the charge against you, but by the gods I am not!”

Zopyrus was deeply impressed by the grief of Themistocles. He put his hand into his tunic and tore from his throat a talisman that had hung on a slender chain. Thrusting it into the hand of the amazed Themistocles he whispered hurriedly, “I hope you may never need it, but should it prove necessary, this will make you welcome at the court of Xerxes or his successor either at Persepolis or Susa.”

As Zopyrus finished speaking a light step was heard in the adjoining room, and a moment later Ladice entered. Upon observing another person, she turned and would have withdrawn had not Zopyrus stepped forward with the words: “Ladice have you so soon forgotten your rescuer?”

The girl hesitated a moment, then her features lit up with a pleasant smile of recognition. “I had forgotten your name but I have told Themistocles many times of your bravery.”

Both men gazed with masculine approval into the smiling gray eyes of the girl that looked out from beneath a halo of sunshine and copper colored hair.

“So Zopyrus is your deliverer!” ejaculated Themistocles, “and he is a Persian!”

“You should use the past tense there, my friend,” said Zopyrus with emotion, “for I have been an Athenian loyal and staunch ever since the death of my friend Masistius.”

At the mention of the Persian’s name, Ladice turned her head away to hide the tears which filled her eyes. She sat silently while Zopyrus related the story of his transformation. When he had finished Themistocles placed his hands upon the youth’s shoulders.

“You are worthy of your Athenian ancestry. If you can rescue me from a fate as bad in its way as Ladice’s threatened to be, you will be in my opinion, second only to Zeus himself.”

“I will do all that I can,” said the young man heartily, “and will begin with my friend Cimon who has proved too talkative of late.”

After Zopyrus’ departure Themistocles turned to his young ward and placing a hand upon her bright hair said, “It would greatly please me did you find favor in the eyes of this young Zopyrus.”

Ladice blushed in painful confusion as she replied, “For some time I feel that no one can fill the place that my brave Persian, Masistius held, besides I have heard it rumored that Zopyrus is to wed the daughter of Pasicles.”

For some moments there was silence between them. Suddenly Themistocles said fiercely, “As long as Cimon stays away from you, I care not to whom your heart may turn, even were it the son of my hated rival Aristides!”

“Father, for such you have been to me since Platæa,” said Ladice, her lips trembling with emotion, “I have wondered if Cimon’s animosity toward you is not aggravated by my coldness to him. Has it not occurred to you that he may consider that you alone are responsible for the failure of his suit? If I were to accept his attentions, is it not likely that he would discontinue his efforts to turn the Athenians against you?”

“It is possible, Ladice,” said the statesman sadly, “but I would under no consideration allow you to sacrifice your happiness for me. You are young, while I—perhaps it is better so!”

The girl touched the hand of her foster-father with loving tenderness as she said: “But what if I have found that I do love him, but have hesitated to speak before, knowing as I do your justified hatred of him!”

The hero of Salamis placed his hand under the maiden’s chin and lifted her face till he could search the eyes that sought to veil themselves beneath the sweeping lashes. His look seemed to penetrate the innermost recesses of her soul. She struggled to free herself from the gaze that held her, as she cried beseechingly: “Only believe me, Themistocles. Do you not see that I can marry the man I love and free you from the terrible disgrace which threatens you?”

The man’s arms dropped to his sides and his mighty head sank to his breast. Ladice stepped away smiling for she knew his attitude was significant of resignation.

CHAPTER XXI.
In the Shadow of the Acropolis.

“Oh, yet we trust that somehow good

Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood.”

Tennyson.

Zopyrus bade Themistocles and Ladice farewell and turned his footsteps absent-mindedly to the house of Pasicles. As it was still early in the afternoon he decided to walk to the Acropolis and view again the spoils of the late war that were there on exhibition. Thinking to avoid the busy street that passes to the front of the Theatre of Dionysus, Zopyrus sought the shady but unfrequented side of the Acropolis. He was arrested by the sound of conversation punctuated with light laughter. Something familiar in one of the voices caused him to proceed cautiously.

Seated upon a moss-grown ledge, the lofty wall of the Acropolis covered with creepers forming an artistic background, sat Corinna, daughter of Pasicles. Zopyrus gazed in mute astonishment, for this coquettish maiden seemed a new Corinna and not the sister of the serious Eumetis, or the betrothed of the artist, Polygnotus. Leaning against the ledge and gazing up at the girl with steadfast attention was a florid-faced young man, a stranger to Zopyrus. The boldness of his demeanor displeased Zopyrus greatly, and he decided to remain where he was and investigate the stranger’s intentions to Corinna.

Covering Corinna’s head was a handsome brocaded scarf. When the girl tossed back her head in laughter, the scarf slipped off and fell to the ground. The youth picked it up, shook off the dust and restored it to its owner. Corinna joyfully received it and warmly thanked the young man who assured her he would delight in rendering her a real service some day.

Zopyrus watched the two for some time and was about to conclude that it was perhaps a harmless flirtation when the man’s face suddenly lost its expression of gayety and took on a serious aspect, while his eyes gleamed with a lustful light.

“My invitation of a few minutes ago was no joke, Corinna. Will you go with me to Naxos on the second night of the next full moon? You will be the queen of all there, you beautiful girl, with your crown of auburn hair.”

Corinna drew away from the too ardent gestures.

“No, I can not do that. My parents, my sister, yes and Polygnotus,” she added with a blush, “would be horrified.”

“Do not let them know,” persisted the man. “Have you not a sick friend who might be visited that night?”

The maid hesitated. “Give me time to think it over. You say there will be other girls and that the ceremonies are beautiful?”

“Yes indeed,” he cried eagerly, laying a hand on hers, “there will be others, but none so lovely as you! As for the artist, he is too serious to enjoy life. With him, Corinna, you would soon become an old woman, but I am different. I enjoy life and I can make you so happy that the festival of Dionysus will be an event in your life that you will never forget.”

“Well I will try to arrange it so I can go. Where shall I meet you?”

“At the harbor of Piræus, an hour after sunrise.”

Zopyrus needed to hear no more. He hesitated between informing the girl’s parents of what he had heard, and on the other hand, saying nothing about it, but going to Naxos himself, unknown to her, as her guardian. After debating the problem all the way home, he decided upon the latter plan as the better, in that it might spare Pasicles and Cleodice disappointment and mortification.

* * * * * * * *

On the day following the events of the preceding chapter, Cimon was the recipient of a message the purport of which caused him to doubt the accuracy of his sight. The note was from Ladice, the ward of Themistocles, requesting him to meet her in the latter part of the afternoon at the mossy ledge on the east side of the Acropolis. Believing that it was all part of a dream from which he would awaken to miserable reality, Cimon hurried to his trysting-place with fast beating heart. His eyesight might still be tricking him, but there standing by the ledge, her figure draped in a gown of palest blue that revealed while yet it concealed the graceful lines of her form, stood Ladice, the one being who could raise him to the heights of Olympus or plunge him to the depths of Hades. The desire to take her in his arms was controlled so that he presented a calm and dignified exterior as he approached with the words: “I am here in answer to your summons, Ladice, and I am at your service.”

She raised to his, eyes that betrayed no emotion either of love or hatred, as she made reply: “I am here simply to say that if you will cease in your attempt to bring about the ostracism of Themistocles and will try to undo the evil you have already committed, I will become your wife, otherwise my former decision concerning a marriage between us remains unchanged.”

Cimon could no longer doubt the truth of his senses. This lovely maiden whom he adored was offering herself to him, body and soul, but in return for what? Ah yes, if he would discontinue his efforts to banish the one man who stood between him and the pinnacle of fame and fortune which had but recently appeared above him as possible of access. He looked about him wildly, while for a moment his mind seemed a chaos. Athens or Ladice, a city or a maid, fame or marital bliss! He could feel the blood throbbing at his temples while it seemed an eternity before he could speak.

Around him lay the city that he loved, the city for which his father had fought and died, the home of his youth and the shelter of his maturing ambitions. Before him stood a maiden in an attempt to rescue whom, a friend had forfeited his life. Revenge toward her because he had failed to awaken in her heart the love for which he yearned, had caused him to first listen to the words of Ephialtes. Later had come the other ambition. With a cry that expressed a realization of freedom after long confinement, Cimon stepped forward and took the impassive form of Ladice in his arms.

CHAPTER XXII.
A Letter From Sicily.

“... How beautiful,

Sublimely beautiful, thou hoverest

High in the vacant air! Thou seemest uplifted

From all of earth, and like an island floating

Away in heaven. How pure are the eternal snows

That crown thee!”

James Gates Percival.

Ever since Zopyrus had seen again the girl whom he had rescued from the Persian soldiery, he could think of little else. She filled his conscious thoughts and at night he dreamed of her, but he had made up his mind with stern resolution that he would be true to his promise to Eumetis who seemed to love him devotedly. The wedding had been postponed from the end of the Mystery celebrations to the third night of the full moon.

An idea came to Zopyrus while he was in the library copying manuscripts for Pasicles the afternoon following his eavesdropping near the Acropolis. If the marriage ceremonies were celebrated one night before, that is on the second night of the full moon, Corinna could not go to Naxos with the stranger, for she would be obliged to attend the nuptials of her sister. The idea had just impressed him as the best way to save Corinna, when Pasicles entered the library and placed in Zopyrus’ hands a missive, bearing upon its exterior the stamp of Hiero, tyrant of Syracuse.

“Do you know,” cried the young man with delight, “this letter is from Aeschylus! Will you not seat yourself and hear it?”

“Not now,” replied Pasicles, “I came only to deliver the letter into your hands and to tell you that the writing of an ode for the recent victor of the Nemean games, takes me immediately to Argolis and I can not possibly be back until the day of yours and Eumetis’ marriage.”

“Oh,” cried Zopyrus with unconcealed dismay, “can you not come the day before, as I wish to put the date one day ahead.”

Pasicles attributed Zopyrus’ disappointment to impatience for the approaching marriage to take place, and laying a fatherly hand on his shoulder smiled as he said: “One day is short compared to eternity, my boy, and I shall have to hasten back to get here on the third night of the full moon. Farewell and give my regards to my brother poet when you write.”

“One day!” thought Zopyrus, “yes, it is short compared to eternity, but sometimes one day will determine how we spend eternity!”

He fingered absent-mindedly the parchment which Pasicles had brought him, then broke the seal and read:

“To Zopyrus at the house of the poet Pasicles in Athens, greetings from Aeschylus at the court of Hiero at Syracuse:

“You have been in my thoughts much of the time since I left our fair land. I have wondered how you fared at the Mysteries and if in the joys and sorrows of Ceres and Persephone, you recognized life’s pleasures and tragedies. Happy is he who has seen these things and then goes beneath the earth, for he knows the end of life and its God-given beginning. Remember, my son, that death is no ill for mortals, but rather a good. Ceres, Persephone, Ares, Athena, Aphrodite, Hera, Hermes and all the others are merely personifications of the various aspects of divine truth and goodness which are in reality embodied in one supreme Being of whom every star of heaven, every wave of ocean, every leaf of the forest, every blade in the meadow, every rock on the shore, every grain of sand in the desert, is a manifestation. But I will not bore you with a rehearsal of my beliefs, for we shall have glorious opportunities when I return to Greece to discuss these things at length.

“In company with the most noble Pindar whose lofty and dignified odes have won him considerable fame, and the venerable poet, Phrynichus and Simonides, whose poem exalting the battle of Marathon took first place over mine, and the nephew of Simonides, Bacchylides and others, I crossed the Isthmus of Corinth where a merchant vessel awaited us in the gulf. There was little to break the monotony of our trip through the gulf of Corinth. We skirted the northern coast of Achaia, stopping at Patræ[6] for more food. At noon of the third day we passed between the islands of Cephallenia and Zacynthus, and from then on for many days only the vault of the heavens and the blue expanse of the Ionian Sea met our gaze. Imagine then with what delight we first beheld the misty contours of land! It was not Sicily which lay before us, but the Southern end of the Italian peninsula. We got no nearer than to behold it as a long line of purple clouds, but bore on to the southward until in the glow of a magnificent sunset, Mt. Ætna like a giant clad in crimson and gold seemed to guard the glorious panorama before us. Never, my friend, have I been so impressed with the grandeur of nature, and so it was with my friends! We stood in awe together and watched the volcano grow gradually larger and more distinct till we could discern the little homes clustered about its sloping base, each with its patchwork of vegetable gardens about it. Above these, groves of olive trees, their grotesque trunks entwined with grape-vines, flourished to add their supply of olives, oil and wine to the rich exports of this island. Lifting our eyes still higher we beheld another zone of vegetation, as beautiful in its way as the lower ones. This wooded belt was densely covered with evergreen pines, birchwoods, oaks, red beeches and chestnuts, and was a veritable forest primeval. As the forest ascended the hillside it grew thinner and more stunted in appearance till only low shrubs marked its upper boundary, beyond which was barren rock, and then as if Ætna hoped to leave a favorable lasting impression, its snow-crowned summit stood out in dazzling relief against the roseate sky which marked a dying day.

“This was truly a wonderful first impression of Sicily, but it was with no less degree of delight that we passed around the little island of Ortygia the next day, and saw for the first time the gleaming white buildings and green parkways of Syracuse. Pindar called it the fairest of mortal cities.

“We were warmly welcomed by Hiero, whose chief avocation is the patronizing of the arts of which music, sculpture and painting are as highly favored as poetry. He spares no effort to make us feel that we are at liberty to discuss pro and con any subject that may arise. So we often sit warm evenings in the garden of the palace about the silvery-sprayed fountain and listen or give voice to various opinions.

“It has been our pleasure to visit the temple of Arethusa on the island of Ortygia, where it is said the nymph for whose worship the fane was erected, was changed to a spring to escape the unwelcome attentions of the river-god Alpheus who had pursued her as she fled underground from Sicily.

“The city of Himera demanded some of our interest and attention since it was the recent scene of conflict and bloodshed. Hiero tells me that the Carthaginians under the leadership of Hamilcar were routed by the stratagem of Gelon, brother of Hiero and tyrant of Syracuse before him, on the same day that the battle of Salamis was fought. You were no doubt so interested in the affairs of Greece that the fate of her colonies was of minor importance. This was true in my case, but I have since learned that Terillus, governor of Himera, had been expelled by Theron, despot of Agrigentum, a flourishing city on the west coast. In a spirit of revenge, Terillus summoned the Phoenicians to attack Himera, but Gelon, hearing that the Carthaginians had been assured of aid by a certain traitorous Greek, sent a body of his own men to the Carthaginians as if they were the promised help. This band of Greeks turned on the Phoenicians and held them at bay till others rushed in and the city was saved. In this conflict Hamilcar was killed.

“To the south lies a city that I love; Gela, named for the brave Gelon. The fields of grain and the groves by which it is surrounded were presumably the original haunts of Ceres and Persephone. It is here that I wish my earthly body to be laid at rest when the spirit has fled.

“What of affairs at Athens? We hear that the shrine of Apollo at Delos is the center of the new confederacy. I predict that Cimon will come to be a great representative of Hellenic unity and he will accomplish much through this Delian League. All this will be in opposition to Themistocles’ opinions, but Themistocles has had his day and must step aside for those who are younger in years and newer in ideas. I sincerely hope there is no truth in the rumor that Themistocles may be ostracized. Say a good word for him, Zopyrus, even if your views differ from his.

“Of one thing more I wish to speak before I conclude this letter, and that is of my son, Euphorion, at Eleusis. You remember I told you I lost a son at Thermopylæ, but I did not tell you of my other son two years his brother’s junior. It would please me greatly to have you call and see him. I have told him of you. You will have much in common, for the lad shows the same love of poetry and philosophy that I do, and has vowed from babyhood that he will follow his father’s profession. I know you would enjoy such a visit to Eleusis especially since your initiation into the Mysteries.

“Remember me to the noble Pasicles and his family. The length of our sojourn in Sicily has not been decided, and I shall probably write you again before I leave. If you find time I shall be interested in hearing from you in regard to yourself and also affairs of state. May the blessing of the One rest upon you.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
The Festivities At Naxos.

“Now measuring forth with Attic grace

(Like figures round a sculptured vase)

The accent of some mythic song,

Now hurled, a Baccic group along.”

Aubrey de Vere.

The sun was scarcely an hour above the horizon when seven skiffs in festive regalia left the harbor of Piræus southward bound. Six of them were filled with youths and maidens bedecked with flowers. Across the serene blue where scarcely a ripple was perceptible, the voices of the merry-makers floated, returning in echoes from the temples of marble, gleaming white on the naked promontories. The seventh boat was laden with goats intended as sacrificial offerings to the god Dionysus at his temple on the island of Naxos.

Ephialtes and Persephone, accompanied by Agne, whom Persephone has insisted upon taking as chaperone, were seated in the foremost vessel. Persephone sat at the prow gazing out across the waters. Her tunic and skirt were of pale blue trimmed with golden brocade of an intricate pattern. Her brown-gold hair lay in waves over her temples which were encircled by a plain gold band from which hung a chaplet of sapphires, lying on her forehead.

To Ephialtes she had never appeared more beautiful. He thought of the evening that they had glided in this manner off Salamis. He intended to ask her the same question, hoping she had long since forgotten the request she had made of him. He turned frequently with ill-concealed annoyance toward Agne who sat at Persephone’s left. Ephialtes felt that now as in the Mystery drama they were Hades, Ceres and Persephone; that Ceres strove to keep her daughter under her protection, and like Hades he desired to snatch her from the maternal arms and keep her for his own. He did not know that Agne’s advice had been favorable to his suit. Had he been acquainted with this fact he might have been more tolerant of the older woman.

As the afternoon wore on, a light breeze stirred the waters into wavelets which gently lapped the shores of various islands of the Cyclades which they passed; islands filled with sanctuaries and fanes of white marble which gleamed ghost-like in the gathering dusk. At length the moon loomed colossal beyond the island of Paros, throwing up contours into misty and spectral relief, and softening all things with its touch of silver.

The festive boats passed Paros, with its temple to Poseidon, the occupants gazing ahead in eager anticipation till the rocky promontories of Naxos arose darkly from the pathway of phosphorescence, then with one impulse from every throat burst the hymn to Dionysus. Nearer and nearer came the celebrants, loftier grew the cliffs of the island and louder echoed the pæan until at last the boats drew up one by one in a sheltered cove.

Dense foliage grew close to the steep pathway, the ascent of which was facilitated by steps cut in the soil or formed naturally by the exposed roots of trees. Through the branches the newcomers could see the lights, twinkling as people passed to and fro—then the white columns and the pleasing proportions of the temple came into view.

Persephone, Ephialtes and Agne were the first arrivals of the first boat, and made their way unhindered to the temple which they entered, mingling with the delirious throng whose acclamations rang through the great hall. It seemed to the arrivals from Athens that every inhabitant of Naxos was here celebrating.

A great gong silenced the sound of talking and laughter after all the Athenians had arrived. A curtain at the end of the cella dropped revealing the image of the god of wine and revelry and immediately a hymn of praise was sung following which the sacrifice of a goat was consummated at the feet of the idol.

Night was turned into day, wine flowed freely and many a youth’s spirits rose in proportion to the amount of wine he imbibed. To all this revelry Persephone and Agne were horrified witnesses. They had heard that Dionysus was worshipped with much rejoicing, especially at his temple at Naxos, but they had not had occasion to realize to what depths his worshippers sometimes fell. The two women looked furtively about seeking some way in which they might escape unobserved to the boats where for a few drachmas a couple of rowers would take them back to the mainland. They crouched near a pillar watching with increasing terror, wine-filled creatures who caroused around them. Many a youth lounged upon a couch or the flower-strewn floor, his head in some fair one’s lap.

Ephialtes made his way with unsteady step to where the two women cowered. The Greek blood which ran in his veins preserved his grace even in drunkenness. Laughingly he held toward each a goblet of sparkling wine which they declined. In provocation he accidentally spilled the contents of the cup proffered to Persephone. For an instant he stood dismayed watching the blood-like liquid as it flowed over the marble floor, then with frenzied determination, he forced between the lips of Agne the wine contained in the other goblet, after which he stood swaying unsteadily with folded arms, a sinister smile curling his handsome lips. Persephone determined to flee but she did not want to leave Agne at the mercies of the drunken brutes around them.

“Come, come, Agne,” she whispered wildly, “You and I never dreamed what would be the nature of this celebration—oh, Agne!”

The older woman made an attempt to answer and even to rise to her feet, but in vain! In another instant she sank in a pitiful heap, apparently lifeless. Persephone’s temples throbbed with angry passion as she turned toward Ephialtes.

“There was a narcotic in that wine! I am glad mine was spilled.”

“There was no drug in yours, Persephone. I did not bring you here to put you to sleep. It is a living maiden I want!” cried the young Greek passionately.

He lurched toward her to take her in his arms, but she eluded his grasp and he found himself embracing the fluted pillar near which she had sat. A chance observer roared with laughter, and calling to his companions cried, “A king of revelers here, my friends. What say you to crowning him as Bacchus? Down with the god of stone and up with one of flesh and blood!”

So saying he and his male companions ran to the throne where the stone Dionysus sat. With unnatural strength due to the freeness of their imbibing, they tore the god from his throne and forced the half reluctant Ephialtes upon it. The wreath of grape leaves which had adorned the head of Dionysus, was rudely snatched from it and placed upon the young man’s curls.

After Ephialtes was ceremoniously enthroned, someone cried out, “where is Ariadne? Bacchus must have his Ariadne! Where did she go? Bring her back!”

This appeal was answered by a rapturous shout, and several youths started in pursuit, returning shortly, dragging Persephone with them.

“Bacchus shows good taste,” cried one. “She is surely a rival of the maiden whom Theseus deserted on these very shores!”

“Up with her,” cried another, “she must occupy the throne with him. She shall be his queen.”

“That she shall!” cried Ephialtes, his courage returning as he beheld the beautiful frightened face of the girl whom he loved.

He stooped from the throne and lifted in his arms the form of the now unconscious girl. Across her marble-white forehead strands of loosened hair streamed. The soft blue light from the circlet of sapphires which lay on her cold brow, contrasted strangely with the ruddy brilliance of a ruby clasp which adorned the hair of Ephialtes above his passion-flushed countenance. He received a goblet of wine which had been proffered to him and put it to the lips of the fainting maiden. The draught brought her back to consciousness, and she gazed dazedly about, then suddenly the horror of her situation came upon her. With an agonized cry she rose to flee but was seized roughly by Ephialtes who, impassioned, leaned over her, covering her face and throat with burning kisses.

CHAPTER XXIV.
Dionysus and Ariadne.

“... Far in the east

The Aegean twinkles, and its thousand isles

Hover in mist, and round the dun horizon

Are many floating visions, clouds, or peaks,

Tinted with rose!”

James Gates Percival.

The second day of the full moon arrived. All necessary preparations had been made for the marriage ceremony of Eumetis and Zopyrus which would take place on the following day.

Corinna approached her mother as the latter stood near the altar of Zeus, in conversation with the prospective bride and bridegroom.

“Mother,” said the girl. “I have just learned that my dear friend Gorgo is ill and wishes me to go immediately and spend the night with her. I will be back for the wedding tomorrow.”

Cleodice’s eyes shone with maternal approval as she surveyed the eager, youthful face so like her own.

“What will Polygnotus say?” asked Eumetis.

“Oh he will recover from the effects of one evening spent outside of my presence,” replied her sister indifferently.

Zopyrus stood silently by. He had been grievously disappointed and shocked at Corinna’s duplicity, and had hoped that before the fateful day arrived she would repent of her former decision and abandon the proposed trip to Naxos with the stranger. However her present conversation with Cleodice assured him that she hung tenaciously to her original purpose.

“By all means spend the night with your sick friend, Corinna,” said a voice from the entryway, and turning the four beheld the young artist who had heard the conversation unobserved by the others.

Zopyrus greeted Polygnotus heartily. He thought at first to apprise him secretly of Corinna’s proposed trip to Naxos, but upon second thought he decided that there might be a better way of preventing the girl from committing such a folly without grieving her lover. The deep sincere eyes of the artist rested a moment in loving regard upon the face of Corinna who flushed deeply, turning demurely away. Her mother and sister each placed an arm lovingly about her, and the three women left the atrium.

When they were gone Polygnotus turned enthusiastically to Zopyrus and said: “I have good news! Cimon has just been made commander of the fleet, and is contemplating visiting Sparta with Alcmæon in behalf of the alleged confederacy.”

“Your news is pleasing to my ear, and I rejoice with you and Cimon—but,” Zopyrus glanced about and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Will you not speak well to Cimon of Themistocles and ask him to do his utmost to put down this charge of Medism against the statesman?”

“I will do what I can,” replied Polygnotus. “Cimon is more a warrior than a statesman. His methods are direct and bold, often sadly lacking in diplomacy. He believes that when a man has served his purpose in life and is no longer useful to the community in which he dwells and may even become a detriment to those whom he once served, he should be cast aside as one would shed a worn garment when its season of beauty and service is past. Cimon and others like him also believe that when maturity of age is passed and the power of decision begins to wane, the very burden of long experience perplexes the mind and engenders doubt and fear instead of confidence. Will you come with me this evening to the home of Cimon to congratulate him upon his success and to speak a good word for Themistocles? But I had forgotten—tomorrow you will wed, and possibly you have arrangements to make in regard to the ceremonies. Corinna and I are to follow your example before long, but Cleodice does not wish to lose two daughters at once, and Eumetis is the older.”

“I am delighted to hear that your marriage will take place soon. I must be going now as I have a duty to fulfill,” said Zopyrus as he turned to go.

* * * * * * * *

Not long after this conversation a chance observer might have seen a young man of aristocratic bearing, crisp blond curls and noble face, walking with elastic strides toward Piræus. He was clad in the short dress of a laborer, called an exomis, and upon his head was a narrow-brimmed, close-fitting cap. As he neared the harbor he proceeded cautiously, desirous of observing all that was taking place without being seen. To his consternation he saw that three boats with their occupants had already been launched upon the sea. Vexed with himself for having arrived so late he scanned the people who remained upon the shore waiting to be assigned to other boats. It was almost unbelievable but it was true! The sun unmistakably revealed a head of auburn hair and close to it the bullet-head and thick florid neck of a young man. Zopyrus, for it was he who clad in the woolen exomis instead of his customary linen chiton, watched the two closely, pulled the brim of his cap well over his eyes and approached the waiting youths and maidens. Several he recognized as the sons and daughters of prominent Athenians. Another filled boat was leaving, the rowers diligently plying the oars. It was apparent that Corinna and the heavy-set youth would be of the number to fill the next boat. Disguising his walk, Zopyrus made his way quickly to the waiting skiff and approached one of the oarsmen.

“Ten drachmas for you if you will let me take your place at the oars,” he said in a low tone.

The fellow looked amazed, prepared to turn his back upon Zopyrus, then suddenly thought better of the offer. He put forth his hand and when to his surprise the coins fell into his upturned palm, he sprang free of his seat and ran to the shore leaving his place at the oars free to the generous stranger.

Zopyrus took the vacant place and had not long to wait before the young people filled the waiting boat. In unison with his fellow oarsmen, Zopyrus assailed the task briskly, and soon the graceful little skiff was well out into the harbor. The first boat was a mere speck near the horizon to the south as the one in which Corinna was a passenger, emerged from the entrance of the harbor. Zopyrus was grateful for the opportunity for strenuous physical exercise. It took his mind off of his own sorrow. He realized presently that he was listening unconsciously to the conversation of two men.

“What did you say were the names of the seven boats that left for Naxos?” asked one.

“They are named for seven goddesses or nymphs,” replied the other, “Doris, Leucothea, Metis, Aegle, Amphitrite, Doto and Persephone. This one is the ‘Persephone.’”

Zopyrus let his oars drift when he heard the last statement. Was the vision or name of Persephone to haunt him throughout life? When he was on land the leaves on the trees seemed to whisper “Persephone,” and now on the water, the boat in which he sat bore her name, and the ripples that washed its sides murmured the beloved accents.

The afternoon wore on, the sun’s rays became more slanting and the boats glided across the water like silent spirits. At length night descended upon the water—but no, it was growing brighter. Where but a few moments before the hills of distant Paros had slept on the edge of the darkness, now curve on curve was silhouetted against the silvery light of the moon, and the ripple of the oars on the water made a sheet of phosphorescence in its shadowy depths.

When Paros was passed, from across the water there floated on the gentle breeze the Dionysian hymn, sung by the occupants of the four preceding boats. Those in the “Persephone” joined in the chant, and Zopyrus heard Corinna’s pure, soft tones mingling strangely with the harsh notes of her companion.

As the prow touched the bank Zopyrus sprang from his seat eager to set foot on land, but he was checked by the glances of indignant remonstrance cast upon him not only by his fellow oarsmen, but by the others as well. He turned his face quickly into the shadow fearing to be recognized by some of the youths and maidens of Athens, but his fears proved groundless. After the boat had been emptied of the Bacchanalians, Zopyrus quietly stepped ashore, sauntering leisurely till beyond the range of vision of the oarsmen, who if they intended observing the rites of Bacchus, preferred to bide their time. Once out of their sight and hearing, Zopyrus quickened his pace, keeping well protected by the bushes and tree-trunks that lined the path, till he paused in awe as there appeared in a clearing to the left before him, the white Ionic columns and chaste lines of the Temple to Dionysus. Alas that its spotless purity was defiled by the wild orgies within! Its portals were thronged with gay devotees, and the sound of laughter and singing blended with the tones of flute and barbiton.

By now, indifferent to his plebeian dress, Zopyrus traversed the moon-lit sward to the temple and mingled with the light-hearted revelers. Groups of celebrants raised their voices in jubilant song, but here and there detached couples, their faces stamped with passion and lust, made horrible the scene. Now and then a hetera with appealing glance passed close to where Zopyrus stood like a statue, too horrified too move. The muscles of his mouth were drawn and his face was haggard. He suffered complete inertia till the sight of a girl who reminded him of Corinna aroused him from his lethargic state and he set out to find her before it was too late, for he knew that she had been ignorant of the nature of the revelries.

He pressed on down the length of the cella, scrutinizing the face of every maiden, but he did not see Corinna. As he neared the throne of Dionysus, the sound of triumphant acclamations, poured from the throats of a hundred devotees and Bacchantes who stood about the throne, fell upon his ears. He pushed his way nearer to the front, receiving many rebuffs and scornful glances because of his mean attire.

“What is the excitement?” he asked of a young man.

“You can see for yourself,” was the surly reply. “Dionysus has turned to flesh and blood and shares the throne with Ariadne!”

Zopyrus forced his way onward till he could see the throne. He stood a moment as if petrified, then with a few swift strides he was alone before the royal seat, gazing with death-white countenance at Dionysus and Ariadne.

CHAPTER XXV.
A Revelation.

“Bacchus, Bacchus! on the panther

He swoons,—bound with his own vines!

And his Mænads slowly saunter,

Head aside, among the pines,

While they murmur dreamingly,—

‘Evohe—ah—evohe—!

Ah, Pan is dead.”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Zopyrus stood with arms folded, his noble head, perfect stature and dignified bearing appearing most incongruous with the exomis he wore. From across his folded arms he looked straight at the mortal Dionysus, till the latter, feeling his impelling gaze, looked up and flushed guiltily, though the man who surveyed him so coldly was to him a total stranger. Zopyrus walked to the throne, thrust the false Dionysus rudely aside, seized the amazed Persephone in his arms and tried to force his way through the crowd with her, but the indignant remonstrances of the crowd made futile his efforts.

“Down with him for violating the privileges of the god!” cried one.

This outburst was followed with vociferous cries of, “Take Ariadne from him!” “Throw him out!” “Beat him!”

By this time Ephialtes had recovered his composure. The appearance of the stranger had inexplicably discomposed him and the attack had roused his ire, but now conscious of his costly garb in contrast to his assailant’s attire, he stood before the throne and in imperious tones demanded the return of Ariadne, as he called her.

Zopyrus released the girl from his embrace and asked: “Do you wish to return to Pluto?”

For answer she stepped closely to Zopyrus’ side and clung tenaciously to his arm. He gazed long into the depths of eyes that matched the blue of her gown and the sapphires upon her brow. The color mounted to her temples, and as she bowed her head he noticed that the rosy flush likewise suffused her neck and shoulders which were partially visible through the golden strands of loosened hair.

Ephialtes was infuriated by Persephone’s refusal to return to him, and was nonplussed as to what method he had best employ to obtain the maiden, when there flashed through his mind the words of a sentence: “On the day that you deliver to Greece the traitor of Thermopylæ, I will become your wife.”

Straightening himself to his full height Ephialtes commanded the attention of the audience.

“I am about to make a revelation that will return Ariadne to me, I believe,” he said smiling with arrogant confidence. “The man to whom Ariadne clings and is no doubt one of our oarsmen, is no other than he who betrayed your country to the Persians before the battle of Thermopylæ. Greece has long sought him fellow countrymen, and yonder he stands, defiling with his touch the maiden who plays the part of Persephone at the Mysteries of Eleusis. What will you do with him?”

“Kill him!” came the cry from hundreds of throats, and with one accord the angry mob rushed toward Zopyrus.

“Just one moment please,” said Ephialtes. “I will wait for Ariadne, or Persephone of Eleusis, to join me on the throne.”

He paused impressively, but Persephone did not move.

“What,” he cried in indignation, “Did you not promise to become my bride when Thermopylæ’s traitor would be revealed by me?”

Persephone walked slowly toward Ephialtes who stretched forth eager arms to receive her, but she stopped a few paces before him and on her face was an inscrutable smile.

“Not so fast, Ephialtes. I want the proof. You dare not make such a statement without sufficient evidence against him.”

Ephialtes was confused. He had not had enough time to make up false testimony, but he knew that his future happiness depended now upon how successfully he placed the blame of his guilt upon the innocent man before him.

“Hear me,” he said, “and I will tell you the circumstances.”

“Your testimony can avail naught, for my protector here is a native Persian who knows nothing of the mountain passes of Greece,” said Persephone in a voice that rang clearly as a bell through the great hall. A death-like stillness pervaded the cella; nought was heard but the sharp intake of Ephialtes’ breath, then from his lips there burst in stentorian tones: “If this be true, a Persian in our midst is as deserving of death as a traitor! Friends will you allow him even so much as to touch the Persephone of the Mysteries?”

At this Persephone became alarmed and feared lest in her ardent desire to defend her protector, she had only made matters worse. Zopyrus, seeing her agitated countenance, smiled reassuringly and raised his arm to command general attention. A few rabid revelers rushed forward to do violence to his person but were checked by a voice in the throng: “Hear him! No man should be condemned without being permitted to say a word in his own behalf.”

The furious denunciations of the intolerant ones subsided, and Zopyrus turned and walked slowly toward Ephialtes who gradually retreated before the compelling gaze of his antagonist, till he reached the throne upon which he sat, quite unconscious of what he did. Zopyrus’ demeanor changed instantly. He bowed low before the amazed man upon the throne and said with impressive solemnity:

“O Xerxes, King of the Medes and Persians and would-be conqueror of the world, I come to you with an important message. For two days your soldiers have been defeated by the Greeks at the entrance of the pass of Thermopylæ. The Greeks are so inferior in number that right now is the time to strike, but not in the method heretofore employed. The Greeks are well trained, and if they are to be conquered, it must be by the greater forces of the enemy. Listen, O Xerxes! If you would succeed in overwhelming the enemy, you must attack from behind, but this you can not do since you are not acquainted with this wild, impassable country. I am a native Malian and well acquainted with this locality. If you will make it worth my while, I will show you a mountain pass that will lead you to the rear of Leonidas’ army unobserved.”

During the Persian’s recital, Ephialtes’ behavior had undergone many mutations. From startled curiosity to fearful apprehension, thence to genuine fright and finally to abject terror, his demeanor had rapidly changed. By the time the Persian had ceased speaking, the Greek’s face was as livid as a corpse.

Zopyrus sprang to the side of the doomed man and clutching him by either shoulder cried, “Speak, traitor of Thermopylæ. What have you to say for yourself?”

For answer Ephialtes drew from the folds of his robe a ruby handled dagger which he raised for a death-dealing thrust at Zopyrus, but the latter, free from the influence of wine, was the quicker, and caught his enemy’s arm in its lightning-like descent, thus warding off the blow that might have been fatal.

A muttering that grew to a rumble and then to a mighty roar that shook the very pillars of the temple was heard, and with one impulse an angry mob rushed toward the dais. Above the din and confusion a voice screamed: “Death to the traitor who opened the gateway to Greece! Upon his head and no other rests the loss of our homes and the deaths of our fathers and brothers.”

Zopyrus drew the half fainting form of Persephone to his side and with one strong arm gave her bodily support and with the other forced a passage through the enraged crowd down the length of the cella. At the door they turned and looked back toward the throne which was completely hidden from their sight by the oscillating wave of humanity which hovered about it and its ill-fated occupant.

Shuddering with horror they rushed out into the darkness. The cool breeze from across the water revived their benumbed senses. As they sped along the pathway which led to the shore, the drunken figure of a man emerged from a clump of bushes to their left. Zopyrus would have ordinarily paid no heed, as the man was in type a duplicate of hundreds of others within the temple, but something familiar in the drunkard’s appearance caused him to pause and take a second look, and in doing so he recognized beyond the question of a doubt the coarse companion of Corinna. His conscience smote him as he remembered that although he had come to Naxos for the very purpose of serving as Corinna’s protector, he had abandoned her to whatever fate might befall when he had seen Persephone in distress.

He seized Persephone’s hand and said hastily: “Come with me. We must find Corinna.”

“Do you mean Corinna the daughter of the poet Pasicles?” asked Persephone.

“The same,” he replied, “Do you know her?”

The girl nodded. The young man continued talking as they hurried on in the direction whence the rough man had appeared. “She came to Naxos in the company of that brutish-looking man we met and I intended to protect her, but you know the result! When I saw you, you were in dire need of help and I could no more have left you to suffer at the hands of that traitor than I did that day on the Acropolis when the Persian, Artabazus would have harmed you.”

He turned half timidly to her, ashamed of his adoration for her whom he now had no right to desire; for the image of a pure and noble maiden stood between them.

“Tell me how you knew Ephialtes to be the man who betrayed Greece at Thermopylæ,” she asked.

Zopyrus related in detail the episode of his eavesdropping in the tent of Xerxes, and Persephone was about to tell why Ephialtes had been so eager to accuse someone of being the traitor at Thermopylæ, when a white form, partially concealed by undergrowth a few paces before them, attracted their attention simultaneously.

Zopyrus sprang ahead and dropped to his knees beside the prone figure of a girl which he discovered lay in the stillness of death. Something cold seemed to grip his heart and everything about him seemed to melt into a whirling cloud! With a faint cry of anguish he lost consciousness just as Persephone ran up to him. She bent over him and looked into the lifeless face of the girl.

It was Corinna, the daughter of Pasicles!

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Home of Aeschylus.

“Gone, and the light gone with her,

And left me in shadow here!”

Tennyson.

The god Hymen did not have charge of the ceremonies at the home of Pasicles: the goddess Mors officiated in his stead! Corinna was laid away in her eternal rest, and the house and garden that had often echoed the sound of her gay laughter were silent! Even the boy Mimnermus, tip-toed about in awful solitude, gravely impressed by this, his first experience with death.

Polygnotus was a daily visitor, whose calm dignity combined with his kindly sympathy, made him an ever welcome one. For Zopyrus he felt a genuine love which had but recently developed from his former fellowship and friendly regard. One an artist, the other a poet by natural inclination, they understood each other upon the ground of their common adoration for all that was beautiful and true and good whether represented by picture or by word.

One day, several weeks after the tragic occurrences at Naxos, Zopyrus happened to come upon the letter which his beloved friend, Aeschylus, had written him from Sicily, and it reminded him of the poet’s request that he visit his young son at Eleusis, so without further delay he set out mounted upon a richly caparisoned steed, lent him for the occasion by Cimon. As he passed through the Dipylon Gate he became aware for the first time that heavy storm clouds were rapidly gathering ahead of him, but having arrived thus far on his journey, he did not wish to return. The broad road that always stretched peacefully into the distance a winding silver band, was now hazy with whirling eddies of dust; and the usually tranquil branches of the olive trees on either side were bending and swaying under the force which Boreas exerted upon them.

The storm with all it fury did not burst upon him till he had passed the fountain of Kallichoros at which place he might have secured shelter. With his eyes on distant Eleusis he pressed on toward his goal gradually becoming unmindful of his soaking garments, and of the fact that a numbness was taking possession of his faculties.

Aeschylus had once described his home to Zopyrus as being the first abode west of the great temple, and Zopyrus gasped with delight as the classical outlines of a home typical of the upper-class citizen of Attica burst upon his sight. A high wall enclosing a garden space lay between the temple precinct and the home of the poet. As he entered the gate, a life-sized statue of the goddess Demeter, bearing in her arm a sheaf of corn stood at the edge of the garden to his right, and near by in marble stood the cheerful fun-loving figure of the faithful Iambe, who sought to alleviate her mistress’ sorrow. But that which caught his eye and held it was a fountain in the center of which was a most artistic composition representing the rape of Persephone. The faces chiselled in the cold marble were so like the faces of Ephialtes and Persephone that Zopyrus stood spellbound, unmindful of the fact that a slave was approaching him and bidding him enter, saying that his horse would be placed at once in the stable.

Zopyrus approached the door and found himself gazing into the half curious, half laughing face of a lad of sixteen, who said while he gripped Zopyrus’ arm heartily: “I know who you are, for father told me you were coming. But pray why did you choose such a day as this in which to pay a call?”

“I take it that you are Euphorion, the son of my most esteemed friend. I did not expect the storm to break so soon, or I should not have undertaken the trip.”

Euphorion surveyed his guest’s wet garments with disfavor.

“You must get into dry clothes,” he said. “You are shuddering now with the cold. Lycambes,” he called to a servant, “take this man to my father’s room and give him dry clothing.”

Zopyrus emerged from the upper chamber dry but not comfortable, for his head felt as though a fire burned in his brain, while his hands and feet were numb. Euphorion had disappeared and in his stead a young girl in white sat on the edge of the marble basin of a fountain, industriously engaged in a work of embroidery. She looked up as Zopyrus entered and the latter as his eyes rested on her, thought he must be suffering delirium, for it seemed he beheld Persephone!

Zopyrus moistened his lips and he cleared his throat so that his voice would be audible.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked scarcely above a whisper.

The girl laughed coyly and toyed for a moment with her piece of fancy-work while Zopyrus advanced toward her a step. Then she raised her blue eyes in whose depths Zopyrus read the same love-message that he had at Salamis and at the Mysteries.

“I am exactly who I appear to be,” she said. “I am Persephone of Eleusis. This is my home and—”

Zopyrus, eyes bright with the unnatural luster of a fever, echoed her words as she finished: “Aeschylus is my father.”

She threw back her head and tossed her curls and before she realized what was about to happen, Zopyrus held her in his arms, kissing her again and again the while he murmured: “I love you Persephone, but I am a Persian and must return to the encampment at Phalerum. Salamis is saved—listen to the Hymn to Dionysus! Can you find your way in safety to your people?—Hear the chant—”

Persephone felt his hold upon her relax, and though she tried to keep him from falling, he slipped from her grasp and sank unconscious to the floor.

“Euphorion! Euphorion!” screamed the terrified girl. “He is ill! Call Lycambes and together you must carry him to father’s chamber and there make him comfortable till I can summon a physician.”

His exposure to the storm, and the shock of finding Persephone and learning her identity, had proved too much for Zopyrus in his state of mental depression and low ebb of vitality due to the Naxian tragedy. For days he lay upon the couch of Aeschylus alternating between chills and raging fever. In his delirium he raved, and his listeners wondered at the names of Persephone and Eumetis heard interchangeably to fall from his lips. Pasicles, Cleodice and Eumetis were frequent visitors till the crisis was past and Zopyrus was a convalescent.

Upon one occasion a few days before Zopyrus expected to be able to undertake the journey back to Athens, he and Persephone were seated in the garden. The statues of Ceres and Iambe stood in their accustomed places, but the Hades and Persephone had disappeared. Zopyrus asked no question for he felt that Persephone was fully justified in her dislike for that particular work of art, beautiful though it was.

“Tell me,” he said as they gazed across the ivy-covered wall to where the sun’s rays illumined the top of the temple, “is your name really Persephone, or are you so called because of your part in the Mysteries?”

“My parents named me Persephone, hoping even at my birth that some day I would play the part of Persephone in the temple. I have fulfilled their hopes in that respect.”

“You are adorable in the part, little Persephone, and some time a real Pluto will come and carry you off to his realm. If I—that is—sometime—Oh, Persephone, I have no right to say it, but I adore you, and if you will consent to marry me, I will arrange other matters that might interfere.”

“I believe I know the ‘other matters,’ Zopyrus,” said the girl, not daring to meet his gaze. “Eumetis loves you, and there has been some understanding between you. Go to her—but, oh my dear, my dear, how can I stand it—yet I have said it. Go and keep your vows to her. She will make you a good wife.”

“‘A good wife,’” groaned Zopyrus in mental agony. “I don’t want ‘a good wife.’ I want the woman whom I love heart and soul!”

He rose and though weak and unsteady of step he advanced toward her with outstretched arms, but she evaded his touch.

“Think Zopyrus,” she entreated. “Can you not recall your advances of love to Eumetis? They were promises, and must not be broken!”

He stood with head bent upon his breast and hands clenched till the nails pierced his palms. When he looked up his passion-distorted features were calm and his voice was steady.

“You are right. My first duty is the happiness of the pure girl who lost her sister through my neglect. And you Persephone,” his voice and features again showed deep agitation, “do not know that you lost a brother, not through my neglect, but by my intention. Your brother fell at Thermopylæ pierced by my sword! The first time I ever saw you I knew that you were his sister.”

“Phales!” cried the poor girl, raising tear-dimmed eyes to heaven, “my twin brother! Why did your spirit not warn me that this man who dared think of me in love was your murderer!”

“Not murderer,” cried Zopyrus in deep anguish. “Do not say that! I did it in the heat of battle and in self-defense. I am no murderer and my conscience does not reproach me for what happened at Thermopylæ. Listen—Persephone!” But he stood in the garden alone.

CHAPTER XXVII.
The Allied Fleet Sails.

“And still from morn till eve I’ve scanned

That weary sea from strand to strand,

To mark his sail against the spray.

In vain! In vain! The morning ray

Shows not his bark ’mid all the seas.”

Thomas Davidson.

The opportunity for meetings between Cimon and Ladice had been very rare since the former wished as far as possible to avoid meeting Themistocles. The young man had conscientiously endeavored to rectify the harm that he had done against the older man, but the populace preferred to believe the evil charge which was still vigorously promoted by Leobotes and other newly-won conspirators.

One afternoon Cimon walked briskly into the curio shop of Aphobus. The little merchant was dusting with loving care, delicate vases in ivory and bronze of intricate designs.

“This vase,” he said, picking up a small urn in terra-cotta with figures and designs painted in black, “has depicted upon it in minutest detail the story of the siege of Troy. Here we see Paris presenting Aphrodite with the apple. There he is carrying away the beautiful Helen. And here,” he added delightedly, “is the wooden horse of Ulysses. How very—”

“I did not come here to discuss the Trojan war,” said Cimon abruptly. “I came to find out if there is any truth to the rumor that Themistocles has disappeared.”

Before Aphobus could reply, the entrance to the shop was darkened by another figure. Both men upon looking up perceived it to be Lysimachus, son of Aristides.

“Have you heard the news?” he cried, and upon receiving negative responses, continued. “Themistocles has left Greece and it is believed that he has gone to Persia!”

Cimon could venture no response but he listened dully to the details as related by the son of Themistocles’ former rival. But one question kept throbbing in his brain: “Will she marry me now that Themistocles has gone?”

He realized presently that Lysimachus was addressing him personally. “I hear that the allied fleet leaves tomorrow on its first expedition since the formation of the Delian Confederacy, with you as its commander in which capacity you succeed my father.”

“Yes we set sail on the morrow for Thrace to free from Persian rule the town of Eion on the river Strymon.”

Aphobus gazed with approbation at the manly form of Cimon.

“I have known you since you were a little boy,” he said, “and I am proud to see you the first man in Athens. This expedition is a noble enterprise, but take care that while you are gone others right here in the city do not arise to seek your position. I have in mind a certain youth named Pericles. To be sure he is not the soldier that you are, but he is a patron of the arts and is interested in beautifying Athens, as very little of that has been done since the war.”

“I do not fear Pericles,” answered Cimon. “Athens is more interested at present in the results of the recent formation of the Delian League which pertain more directly to our colonies. After these troubles are settled there will be time for the future rebuilding of the city.”

Cimon took his leave of Aphobus and Lysimachus and had gone but a few steps when he met Leobotes. He wished to hurry on after a short nod of greeting, but Leobotes stopped him with the words: “Congratulations, Cimon, Themistocles has fled and now there is none before you in Athens.”

“In my opinion Themistocles is fortunate to be away from the immediate influence of the intrigues of certain so-called ‘loyal citizens.’ The fate of Ephialtes should prove a warning to such,” with which words he walked away from Leobotes who was too much astonished to reply.

At last he had opportunity to think! So the fiery statesman, Themistocles, was gone, and he, Cimon, had been instrumental in bringing this about! Well he knew that he had done his utmost to prevent this toward the last. He had humbled himself that Themistocles might not be thought guilty of treason, and all this was for the purpose of obtaining the girl he loved. He realized that whether by force of will or unconsciously he was drawing nearer and nearer to the home of Themistocles. He paused before the entrance, ascended the steps and lifted the bronze knocker. There was no response, so he gently pushed open the door and entered. All was still. He proceeded cautiously to the solarium and found it empty, but from this room the faint sound of voices came to his listening ear. They proceeded from the garden, so thither he betook himself. From the top of a short flight of stone steps which led to the garden, he surveyed the abundance of plants and shrubbery which he thought surpassed even those in the garden of Pasicles. He caught sight of two female figures seated upon a bench at the farther end of the garden. They were Ladice and Asia, the youngest daughter of Themistocles. The girls seemed to be indulging in mutual consolation.

A vague uneasiness that foreboded no good hovered about Cimon as he approached with the words: “Do I intrude?”

Ladice shook her head while Asia arose, hastily excused herself and entered the house.

Cimon took the place that Asia had occupied and said gently: “Ladice, you can not believe how I regret what has happened. Believe that I did all within my power to prevent this ever since our meeting in the shadow of the Acropolis. I have come to take you with me, Ladice. I sail in the morning for Thrace.”

“And you will go alone,” she replied drawing away from him. “Do you think for one moment that I will be the wife of the man who helped to cause the ruin of one whose home has sheltered me for many months? You failed in accomplishing your part of the agreement; I do not have to abide by mine!”

Cimon’s face grew pale and his jaw acquired the peculiar set appearance of indomitability.

“The trouble with me,” he cried, “is that I have been too gentle, too lenient with you. My patience is exhausted and I am going to take you by force.”

He caught her and held her close, though she struggled to free herself from his almost brutal kisses.

“I am going to take you as the men of the mountain countries take their wives,” he whispered fiercely, and she felt his hot breath upon her cheek.

Frantically she struggled to gain her freedom, succeeding at times in striking sharp blows upon his face, but still he held her in a vise-like grip. Her desperate struggles merely strengthened his determination to conquer her, but when she realized the impotence of her resistance, she resorted to the use of the most effective weapon a woman can employ. In scathing tones she reminded him of the dissipations of his youth, of the disgrace of his father and ended with a direct accusation of the ostracism of Themistocles, thus denying any belief in the assurances with which he had opened conversation with her upon entering the garden. Suddenly his hold relaxed. He pushed her from him and arose from the bench and there was a cold glint in the eyes that a moment before had burned with the light of desire.

“Very well,” he said, and his tones were clearly cut and even, “the fair Agariste to whom my attentions are not unwelcome will accompany me to Thrace.”

He turned and left her, a pitiful drooping figure. Her posture remained the same for some moments after he had gone, and so preoccupied was she that she did not hear Asia re-enter the garden and seat herself beside her.

“My poor dear girl, that man is a brute,” remarked Asia indignantly. “At any rate you can rejoice that he will molest you no more. I could not help hearing some of the things he said, and I hope he and his Agariste will meet no delays in getting away from Athens. Why do you not laugh at your good fortune, foolish girl? One would think from your crestfallen appearance that you loved the man!”

Ladice looked up and smiled faintly through her tears as she said, “Asia, I believe I do!”

“You do love him! that beast that makes three-headed Cerberus look like a lamb!” cried Asia. “Ladice, you must be crazy! Grief over my poor father and the excitement of the past hour have unbalanced your mind. Come let me get you to bed, though there is yet another hour before set of sun.”

“No Asia, I could not rest,” said the grief-stricken girl. “Please leave me. The garden is so beautiful and I wish to be alone with my thoughts.”

Asia left her reluctantly making her promise to retire early.

Once more alone Ladice marvelled at the change that had come over her. From a cold, indifferent girl she had changed into a passionate, loving woman. The love must have come when she lay helpless in his arms, she reasoned, but it was not a vital thing till he spoke the words that stung her pride. How different was this love from that which she had felt for the Persian, Masistius! That had been like a clear and steady light; this was a fire that leaped wildly while it consumed. At times she smiled at the memory of his kisses, then clenched her hands as she thought of the unknown Agariste.

Darkness fell but she took no food, and worn out with weeping she dropped into a dreamless sleep. She awoke with a sense of depression. It was dawn and birds were twittering in their nests about her. It was apparent from the silence that the household was still wrapped in slumber. Gathering her shawl more closely about her she made her way cautiously through the house to the street. Along narrow lanes she threaded her way with unnatural rapidity. She ran between mud-colored walls that rose on either side, punctuated with doors out of which stared disheveled women. Piles of rotting garbage lay in her path and she was forced to dodge now this way, now that, to avoid the slinking forms of dogs that were seeking food among the piles of refuse. As she neared the vicinity of the harbor she met men and women who looked at her curiously. Then she realized what an aspect she presented; wild-eyed and with unkempt hair, but she cared naught for her appearance. She was obsessed with one idea; to present herself a willing companion to Cimon on his journey.

On the quay she approached a woman, apparently of the upper class, who with many others was gazing steadfastly out at sea, with the words, “When does the fleet said for Thrace?”

For answer the woman pointed to the distant horizon where a few indistinct blots were barely discernible.

“It sailed before sunrise,” said the woman. “I came to see it off because the great commander Cimon honored our family by taking my daughter Agariste with him as his bride.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.
The Hand of Fate.

“Before he mounts the hill, I know

He cometh quickly; from below

Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow

Before him, striking on my brow.”

Tennyson.

Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months. The fate of Corinna had lost none of its horror, but time had mollified the poignancy of the tragedy. Zopyrus still served as secretary to Pasicles and in his spare moments he wrote a series of essays entitled, “Memoirs of the Persian Court,” which he intended to present to the great Aeschylus as an aid to that poet in his poem the “Persæ” upon which he was working.

Considering himself to be unworthy because of his secret passion for the daughter of Aeschylus, he had for some weeks delayed speaking to Eumetis upon the subject of marriage, but one bright afternoon in March when the bird-winds blew across Attica from the Mediterranean, he asked her to join him in a stroll to the Acropolis. She gladly consented, and together they sauntered along the winding street westward toward the hill which rose in majesty before them, the pride of every loyal Athenian.

“Let us rest on yonder moss-covered ledge,” suggested Eumetis as they neared the eastern end of the Acropolis. “Later we can ascend.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Zopyrus hastily, recognizing the very place where he had seen Corinna and the base creature who had accompanied her. “Let us to the Theatre of Dionysus where we sat together and witnessed ‘The Capture of Miletus.’ It was there you first—” but he could not conclude the sentence and walked along by Eumetis’ side, his eyes downcast with shame that his tongue had faltered just at the moment when he desired to bring up the subject of their betrothal.

They entered the eastern gate of the theatre and before them rose the stone seats, tier upon tier, dazzling white in the heat of the sun. They were impressed by the awful silence which here reigned supreme. What a vast difference between the theatre now and as it was on that day when thousands of spectators had thronged its gates and had sat in gala attire upon its benches! Then it had surged with human life; now the only living things visible were occasional lizards darting in and out of crevices.

Zopyrus and Eumetis without a word, but with a mutual impulse, sought the section of seats at the head of which stood the statue of Aphrodite. For some moments they sat in silence with eyes fixed upon the stage as if before them they saw again enacted the great play of Phrynichus. But her hand did not touch his arm as upon that former occasion. There existed an inexplicable estrangement, and Zopyrus as he noticed her pensive mood revealed in her pale features, was smitten with remorse that he had neglected and undoubtedly wounded her.

“Eumetis,” he said softly, “do not think that I have been willfully neglectful of you. Much has occurred to turn our minds from our—our—happiness. Will you now once again set the date for our wedding?”

There was no response from Eumetis. He seized her hands which lay passively folded in her lap. They were cold. Her attitude was listless.

“Speak, Eumetis,” the youth implored with growing alarm. “Have I offended you?”

At his words of entreaty the girl turned her face toward him and smiled—but not as a maiden would smile at her lover, but as a mother would gaze upon a beloved but willful son.

“You have not offended me, Zopyrus, and I sincerely hope that what I am about to say will not hurt you. Do you believe, my friend, that I honor you most highly?”

He nodded affirmatively and she continued, her thoughtful, sincere eyes resting upon him contemplatively: “Then I will tell you why I have seemed strange. I love Polygnotus who returns my affection, and but for the fear of wounding you, a friend whom he holds most dear, would wed me now at any time.”

The stage, the theatre, the Acropolis, and even the fleecy clouds floating dreamily above, seemed to whirl about in a colorless eddy. Only the eyes of Eumetis remained stationary. At one moment they seemed to be accusing eyes, at another, reproachful, then pitying, but his last impression of them was that they portrayed peace and happiness. His conscience would not permit him to play the heroically sacrificing lover, nor did he really experience any elation because of his freedom. He simply clasped her hand and murmured: “I understand.” She looked at him quickly with a questioning glance as they rose and turned their faces homeward.

Before they reached the western limit of the Agora, the familiar figure of Polygnotus suddenly turned from a side street and came toward them. Zopyrus imagined that a fleeting expression of pain passed over the artist’s kindly face at sight of them.

“Eumetis has something important to say to you,” said Zopyrus laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder as the three met. “It is only good news,” he added at the startled look of inquiry upon Polygnotus’ face.

“Then I shall be glad to hear it, but will you not join us on our homeward way, Zopyrus?” asked the artist as Zopyrus turned to leave.

“Not for the present,” Zopyrus replied evasively. Then moved by a sudden impulse he seized a hand of Polygnotus and of Eumetis in each of his. He desired to invoke the blessing of the gods upon this couple whom he loved so dearly, but so deeply was he affected that he was unable to speak, and turned his back in the direction of the theatre, scarcely realizing what he was doing.

Before reaching the Acropolis he turned northward, pursuing as direct a course as possible along the winding, closely built streets, till at last the dwellings became more interspersed with garden-plots, and finally between two spreading acacias he spied the massive masonry of the Dipylon Gate. He turned back for one last look at the Acropolis. There it stood in its solitary grandeur, its ruined temples resembling a circlet of irregular pearls. Although this was the fifth time that he had passed through the great gate and along the Sacred Way, never until now had he known that this road led to the girl he loved. Unmindful of the scorching rays of the sun which beat down upon him, he pressed on thinking only of the goal. When, however, he was overtaken by a farmer in a cart who was returning to his farm near Eleusis after leaving his produce at the Athenian market, he gladly accepted an offer to ride.

The sun was approaching the horizon a little to the left of the travelers, and stretching into the distance were the fertile fields which the driver designated as his own.

“Here is where I live, my friend, but I can drive you on to Eleusis if you wish,” said the farmer.

“I would prefer to walk from here on,” replied Zopyrus hastily, “but I am truly grateful to you for driving me this far on my journey.”

He bade the man a friendly farewell and with eyes alight with anticipation, set forth to cover the remaining two miles which lay between him and the abode of the girl he loved.

* * * * * * * *

In the garden that was divided from the Temple of Mysteries only by an ivy-covered wall, reclined Persephone upon a cushion covered seat by the fountain. She did not sleep, but lay fully conscious, with her hands upon her bosom as it rose and fell regularly with her breathing. Her whole frame was wrapped in languor. But her face was not as expressive of peace as her body, for an occasional frown puckered her smooth brow and she opened her eyes with a wistful expression only to close them again as if to shut out the reality of her loneliness. Between two cypress trees the white roof of the temple showed the first rosy tinge that followed the passing of Phœbus Apollo—Persephone rose to a sitting posture; a figure in white had passed the gate and was coming toward her along the flower-bordered path. With a cry she sprang from her bench and ran into the outstretched arms of her lover.

“What of Eumetis?” she asked, attempting to draw away from the arms that encircled her.

“Eumetis has found happiness in the love of Polygnotus. It was inevitable that the artist could be such a frequent visitor at the home of Pasicles and not grow to love the sincere, unselfish, pure daughter who lives there. Oh—Persephone, have I your forgiveness for the death of your brother?” asked the young man with growing agitation.

The maiden’s face lit up with a divine radiance as she said: “My brother Phales clad as I last saw him with helmet, cuirass and greaves, and carrying his sword, quiver and shield, appeared to me in a dream and told me not to hold you guilty of his death. He praised you highly, Zopyrus—and then he said one more thing.”

“And what was that?” questioned her lover eagerly.

“He said, ‘There is but one God who controls and directs the universe.’ That is all he said. I would have asked him more, but he vanished.”

“Then the prayer to God saved Greece at Salamis, and incessant prayers to the one God have given me you, Persephone!”

She raised her lips to his as they stood together before the statue of Ceres, whose maternal countenance seemed to smile down benignly upon them despite their words concerning the Deity.

There was one other witness to that kiss; a man of middle-age with thick waving hair and beard of chestnut brown, who came forth from the house and, unobserved, stood with arms outstretched toward the two as if pronouncing a benediction.

CHAPTER XXIX.
After Twenty Years.

“How terrible is time! his solemn years,

The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears,

In silent horror roll! the gorgeous throne,

The pillared arch, the monumental stone,

Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes,

Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes,

Where Wisdom taught, and Valor woke to strife,

And Art’s creations breathed their mimic life,

And the young poet when the stars shone high

Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky,

Naught now remains but Nature’s placid scene,

Heaven’s deathless blue and earth’s eternal green.”

Winthrop Mackworth Præd.

To Themistocles in Magnesia, greetings from Zopyrus at Gela in Sicily:—

After a silence of many years I write you again of affairs of state and even of many personal things which I know will be of interest to you. I want to assure you, my friend that I have never doubted your true loyalty to Athens, and I write you freely knowing that Greece is dearer to you than Persia. Your memory is and always will be in the hearts of the majority, for who can forget the glories of Salamis and the hero to whom we owe that victory!

Would that you could once more behold Athens—our Athens—and yet not as she was in the years that you, my dear friend, walked her streets, stood in her buzzing mart, or ascended her divine hill. The crystalline air, the song of the nightingale in the olive groves, the shaggy peak of Hymettus, the blue of the bay, and the familiar rose-tinted rock of the Acropolis—these the Persian has been unable to destroy.

Your once hated rival Aristides is dead. I know that though bitter enmity once filled your heart, you will regret to hear that he died so poor that he was buried at the public expense. After his death Cimon became undisputed leader, and greatly has Athens been benefitted by the rule of this brilliant man whom we knew well as a youth. But alas, for the brevity of popular favor! But a few years ago he was ostracized by the most talked of man in all Athens today, Pericles, son of Xanthippus. On the eve of the battle of Tanagra, Cimon left his place of banishment and fought bravely with the Athenians against the Spartans. This so pleased Pericles that he proposed a measure recalling Cimon from exile and it was passed by the assembly. Cimon has succeeded in putting down many revolts, and you know of his great victory over the Persians in Asia. From the proceeds from the spoils of this battle he had planned to build a temple to Athena, but this work is being carried on by Pericles. It is plain that Cimon, however sincerely he had the welfare of his city at heart, was too fond of personal praise and worship. He failed in his attempt to unite Athens and Sparta. Pericles stands for the independence of Athens and for pure democracy.

During the Thasian Revolt about ten years ago, Mimnermus distinguished himself by bravery, but he confided to us that he did not relish the task of overseeing the Thacians tear down their walls at the command of the Athenians, for his brother-in-law, Polygnotus, was a native of Thasos. Mimnermus is now at Aegina helping to suppress a similar revolt.

And now I will tell you of Polygnotus. He and other artists adorned the interior of the Painted Porch with mural pictures of great beauty representing scenes from the myths and from recent history. Polygnotus married Eumetis, the daughter of Pasicles, and to this union were born three daughters, Corinna, Cleodice and Neobule. Pasicles resides with his daughter and her husband, but his wife, Cleodice, whose health failed rapidly after the death of her daughter, Corinna, died within a few years after that tragic event.

I know it will interest you to hear of Ladice and Lysimachus, both of whom spoke of you affectionately whenever we met while in Athens. Their son, Aristides, in whom they feel the usual pride common to parents of an only child, gives promise of exceptional ability along the lines of his grandfather, and if I may say so, his foster-grandparent.

Yesterday I stood at a newly made grave on the banks of a river which pours its waters into the African Sea. In the distance to the north stretched the wheat-bearing land of Gela. Before I could give my thoughts wholly to the honored dead, I gazed with pride and happiness upon the family with which I have been blessed. My eldest son Phales, stood by my side, stalwart of body and thoughtful of mind, not unlike his grandfather, Aeschylus. Persephone, our eldest daughter is very like her mother was at her age, so it is needless to mention here the pride I feel in her. My second son Masistius, at times reminds me of my father, Artaphernes, but the loving guidance of his mother has softened the severity that was his grandfather’s. The youngest child, a daughter, Protomache, stood upon this occasion with tears in her usually laughing eyes. She clung tightly to the hand of her mother whose eyes rested lovingly upon each member of the little group in turn.

Then in low tones and with head bent in a reverent attitude, Persephone my dear wife, read this epitaph which was engraved upon the tomb:

“This tomb the dust of Aeschylus doth hide—

Euphorion’s son and fruitful Gela’s pride;

How famed his valor Marathon may tell,

And long-haired Medes, who knew it all too well.”

As the last word trembled into a silence that seemed to permeate Nature all about us, a few lines that had been composed by Aeschylus on the subject of death, came to my mind, and I could not but repeat them upon this occasion:

“Smitten by Him, from towering hopes degraded,

Mortals lie low and still;

Tireless and effortless works forth its will

The arm divine!

God from His holy seat, in calm of unarmed power,

Brings forth the deed at its appointed hour!”

The End.

FOOTNOTES

[1]This was an older Parthenon which existed before the one erected at the time of Pericles.

[2]Market-place.

[3]Each two guests were furnished with a small three-legged table on which the food was served already cut up.

[4]One who mixes the wine and presides at the symposium.

[5]Better known by his Roman name, Pluto.

[6]The modern city of Patras.

Transcriber’s Note

Silently corrected obvious typographical errors.

Left idiosyncratic use of commas and non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.

I don’t think “selfishness” means what the author thinks it does.