Chapter V: Preface (5)

The next moment Hipyllos was on his way to Thuphrastos. It was just the hour between the time to go to market and the time of visiting the gymnasia. As the young man expected, he found the old captain at home. The latter received him kindly and listened to him attentively but, when Hipyllos mentioned his real errand, Thuphrastos frowned and gave him a flat refusal.

“What do you ask?” he said in his rough way. “I am to go to Xenocles--and dictate to him to whom he shall marry his daughter? Make myself a laughing-stock for him and others? No, young man, you don’t know Thuphrastos.”

Hipyllos bent his head and fixed his eyes upon the ground. His last hope was destroyed.

There was a moment’s silence, in which the dog was heard rattling his chain outside.

Thuphrastos straightened his grey robe, rubbed his bald pate, and absently pulled his beard. Hipyllos felt ashamed of his request and looked thoroughly disheartened. At last Thuphrastos laid his hand on his shoulder and sat down on the couch by his side.

“Don’t lower your eyes like a woman,” he said, and then added in a kinder tone: “Pluck up your courage! There are other ways and means.”

“What do you mean?” asked Hipyllos, raising his head.

“Listen--I’m going to give you a piece of advice. The old general Stratocles once saw some of his heavy-armed troopers turn pale when about to meet the foe. He instantly shouted: ‘If any of you have forgotten anything in the camp, you can go and get it!’ One man sneaked timidly out of the ranks, followed by five or six others. ‘Good!’ cried Stratocles, ‘the cowards have gone! Now we have only brave men among us.’ Then he rushed forward, and the enemy fled.... But, young man, you don’t yet fully understand?”

Hipyllos made a gesture of denial.

“Well then,” Thuphrastos continued with a certain impetuosity, as though he could not utter what he had to say quickly enough, “I think your rival, Acestor, is a chatterer and a coward--I mean--that, like those slaves, he must be brought to show himself in his true colors. Then Xenocles--without asking anybody’s advice--will let him go.”

“Splendid! Excellent!” cried Hipyllos, clapping his hands. “Men don’t praise your clever counsel without cause. But how is this to be managed?”

“By Zeus, there’s no difficulty about that. Make yourself small as he makes himself great--feign to be timid, and let him show himself brave. Then, when he has puffed himself up well, give him a real fright. Pretend that the meetings of the hetaeriae are discovered, that the house is surrounded by bowmen, and when he is trembling with terror and doesn’t know where to hide, do as Stratocles did with the cowards--give him an excuse to slip away, and he’ll speedily show the hollows under the soles of his feet.”

Hipyllos laughed. The pair talked together some time longer, and when the young man went away all anxiety and doubt had forsaken him.

XV.

Hipyllos’ letter was a joy and comfort to Clytie, but it did not soothe her. Five days was so short a time! Amid tears and caresses she confided in her mother, and described Hipyllos with such loving eloquence that Maira (her mother) was won over to her wishes. Though Clytie had little faith in her intercession, she went to her and by entreaties and persuasions induced her to promise to tell her story to Xenocles. Two of the five days had already passed, so there was no time to lose.

The next evening, when the husband and wife were supping together, the husband comfortably extended on a couch and the wife sitting humbly on its outer edge, Maira--not without a secret tremor--ventured to mention the subject; but the hot-tempered little man scarcely understood what she was talking about, ere he started up and repulsed her in such a way that she dared not revert to the matter again. Every hope of Maira’s assistance was thus cut off, and to speak to her father herself did not even enter the young girl’s mind. She could do nothing but fix her last faint hope on Hipyllos.

Yet, when the day before the wedding arrived without any prospect of deliverance, Clytie ceased to weep and fell into a state of dull insensibility, like a person who is utterly hopeless. “What is the use of pretending to be ill?” she thought. They will say: “It is nothing--it will pass off! Can I oppose them all? Can I keep the bridal procession waiting? No, even if I complain of sickness, they will lift me into the chariot and let that man carry me to his house.”

From that moment she felt as though she had no will in anything.

When evening came, the last evening she was to spend under her parents’ roof, her mother and a few female slaves were busied about her in her maiden-bower. It was a small room with reddish-brown walls, lighted by a clay lamp which stood on a brass tripod. Clytie sat on a low chair, with her face turned from the lamp, and Doris stood behind her in the act of fastening her hair into a knot. At the back of the room Maira and a middle-aged slave, who had been Clytie’s nurse, were busied in examining robes, kerchiefs, girdles, and over-garments, which they spread out on the young girl’s bed, a small maple-wood couch, covered with embroidered pillows and coverlets.

A sorrowful, troubled mood prevailed. Even the atmosphere of the little room was heavy, as though saturated with the peculiar damp freshness of women’s clean garments, mingled with a penetrating odor of ointments and Median apples, the latter being laid between the stuffs to perfume them. Now and then Clytie’s mother and the nurse exchanged a few words, but as softly as if they were trying not to disturb some sick person. Clytie resigned herself in perfect silence to the care of her favorite attendant, and even the latter’s nimble tongue was still.

Suddenly a girl’s merry voice was heard outside. According to ancient custom the bride, on her marriage eve, bathed in water brought from the Fountain of Enneacrunus.

This water must be brought by a virgin, and a young neighbor, Coronis, the daughter of a rich basket-maker, who from childhood had been Clytie’s friend and looked up to her with admiration, had gone with her slaves to the fountain to fetch the water.

As she entered, a breath of gayety and life seemed to come into the silent room. Coronis was a merry little maid, with a childish face, whose dark eyes, lips, cheeks, dimples--all laughed. She was dressed entirely in white, and carried the laurel branch used for purification. This she instantly put down by the door, as if to say: “Stay there, you useless, solemn thing.”

She had so much to tell that she scarcely took time to greet Clytie and her mother. She had met at the fountain two other bride-maids; they had talked together, and Coronis therefore knew all about the weddings which were to take place the next day; she knew the fathers, mothers, brides, and bridegrooms, and had a great deal to say about the marriage garments, bridesmen, and nuptial banquets.

When her story was ended, preparations were made for a ceremony which the art of those days has represented upon many a vase.

Doris placed a bath-tub shaped like a mussel-shell in the middle of the floor, and set the full hydria beside it. Then, kneeling before her mistress, she loosed her girdle and unfastened the clasps on her shoulders. Two slight pulls were sufficient to make the garments fall around the hips, and from a cloud of white folds appeared the whole upper portion of the maiden’s slender form, whose fairness, seen against the brown wall, became doubly dazzling and seemed created to ensnare both eyes and hearts.

Now began the familiar talk that always takes place among women on such occasions.

“How beautiful you are, dear!” exclaimed little Coronis, pressing a light kiss on her friend’s shoulder. “What a complexion--what is the finest Syrian stuff compared with its smoothness!”

“Yes,” said the middle-aged nurse, with as much self-satisfaction as though she considered Clytie her own work, “I know that even Leda’s bosom was not more beautiful, ... no breast-band is needed here.”

Doris glanced with a smile at Coronis and the nurse.

“What you praise deserves the highest compliments,” she said, “but it is not what I value most.” With a look of earnest affection she knelt before Clytie, took her hand, and kissed it. “What I value most is my beautiful mistress’ goodness. I have served her daily ever since she was a little child--and never in that long time has she uttered a single unkind word.”

“Believe me, my Clytie,” the mother added, not without a certain pride, though her eyes were full of tears, “you will be fortunate and happy. What husband can fail to love you--so good and so beautiful!”

Coronis now took her friend by the hand. As Clytie rose, the garments slipped lower and remained lying around her on the floor like a broad white linen garland. An instant, but only an instant, the young girl, faintly illumined by the lamp, stood in the white beauty of her snowy limbs in the dusky room; then, with a swift movement, she stepped out of the folds of her robes into the bath-tub.

Coronis, with a mischievous expression, raised the full hydria.

“Prepare to shiver, Clytie,” she said laughing. “I’m going to do what is written in Lamprus’ bath-song.” And holding it so that the water trickled down over the shining, supple body, she chanted in a low tone:

“Slowly pour the fountain’s water
O’er the white neck of the bride;
Brow and bosom let it moisten,
Hand, and foot, and back, and side!
Soon the fair one will perceive the
Cooling freshness of the bath,
As her fair limbs’ marble whiteness
The pink bloom of roses hath.”

While Doris was wiping her mistress’ back with a soft woollen cloth, the latter’s eyes followed the quivering drops of water that chased and mingled with each other on her white neck before trickling in waving streams over the smooth skin. Clytie was not vain of her beauty; but when, as now, she looked down over the soft slope of her shoulders and the chaste curves of her bosom she could not help receiving an impression of something uncommonly pretty. The water had not only strengthened her body, but given fresh vigor to her mind. A multitude of thoughts darted through her brain. Did not Homer himself tell the story of a bloody war waged for a fair woman’s sake? So woman’s beauty must be something precious. And for whom was _she_ destined?

She saw in imagination her bridegroom Acestor--stately and boastful, but without a trace of Attic refinement, heavy and dull. She had only cast one hasty, timid glance at him, but a woman’s glance is like a flash of lightning, and she had caught him fixing his eyes on her with an expression she had never seen. She felt that it was monstrous, a desecration, to be given to this man, and secretly vowed to shun no means of escaping so bitter a fate.

This resolve was soon to be tested.

XVI.

Scarcely had Maira, accompanied by the nurse, left the room to go with Coronis to the door and make a final survey of the house, when a noise like a pebble flung against the wall was heard outside. Faint as the sound was, Doris started and Clytie, who was in the act of putting on her tunic, stopped, blushed crimson, and held her breath to listen.

Doris ran to the peep-hole and drew the red curtain aside. A voice whispered a few words which sounded like a question.

Before Doris replied, she turned towards Clytie and said: “It is his slave Manodoros.... He asks if you are alone.”

Then she put her head through the hole and answered in a smothered tone: “Yes, entirely alone. But what do you want? Speak. My mistress’ mother has just gone out, and will be back directly.”

Again there was a whisper outside.

Doris stretched her arm through the opening as far as she could. At the same moment her neck and ears grew crimson, and she stamped her foot impatiently. “Let go!” she cried, “let go! This is no time for trifling.” When she again turned, she held in her hand a letter written on a papyrus-scroll.

“Read it, dear Mistress,” she said as she took the bath-tub and carried it away. “I’ll keep watch outside.”

Clytie seized the letter with a trembling hand and broke the seal. The dull expression of her features had vanished, and her lovely face was radiant with expectation and hope.

The letter contained the following lines, which seemed to have been hastily written, for here and there a word was erased and changed for another.

“DEAREST CLYTIE!

“You are alone against many; I fear you may let yourself be
over-persuaded. You must fly; it is the only way of escape. The
priestess of Sabazius is willing to receive you. Doris must go,
too, or she will be tortured and confess everything.

“In the name of all the gods, do what I advise, my beloved. Have
you not yourself called me the lord of your life? You can easily
escape through the garden; keep concealed a few days, and all
danger will be over. I shall know how to soothe your father’s
wrath. Besides, can it be counted against the many happy years
awaiting us?”

If this letter had come earlier, Clytie would never have decided upon a step so entirely opposed to what was seemly for an Attic maiden. The idea of quitting her father’s roof would have appeared to her the most impossible of all. Yet, now that her aversion to Acestor had become as intense as her love for Hipyllos, she thought the letter very bold, but at the same time perceived that Hipyllos told the truth. The danger was imminent, and there was no escape save flight if they were not to be parted forever.

“He is right,” she thought. “I have called him the lord of my life. Should I then fail to fulfil his first command? No--I will do what he directs--happen what may.”

When Doris entered to fetch the empty hydria, Clytie stood before her with flushed cheeks and a glance which expressed firm resolution.

“When everything is quiet in the house,” she said, “I shall fly through the garden. You will go with me.”

Doris stared at her in open-mouthed amazement; the empty hydria she had taken dropped from her hand and broke with a rattling noise on the tiled floor.

“May the gods avert the warning!” she murmured, as she picked up the pieces.

But Clytie did not allow herself to be disturbed.

“When father and mother are asleep,” she continued, “you must slip into their chamber and get the key of the garden.”

Doris scarcely believed her ears. She no longer recognized Clytie. Was this the timid young girl who had been afraid to meet Ninus and whom she was obliged to lead step by step? Now it was Clytie who commanded and Doris who hesitated.

“But, do you think, Mistress...?”

Clytie raised her hand with a gesture that commanded silence.

At the same moment steps were heard outside. Clytie’s mother returned and, sending Doris away, seated herself on the edge of the couch and drew the young girl down beside her. This was the last evening the daughter would spend at home. Maira tenderly stroked Clytie’s hair, clasped her hands in her own, and talked a long time to her in a whisper. When they at last parted it was reluctantly, after many an embrace and caress, and the eyes of both were wet with tears.

Clytie felt a twinge of remorse, but it did not change her resolve.

Tearing a strip of papyrus from Hipyllos’ letter, she wrote the following lines:

“Dear Mother!

“Forgive me, I must fly--I abhor that man. But do not fear! I
shall seek a safe place, where no harm will befall me. Doris goes
with me. In a few days, when the danger is over, I will come
back. Farewell, dear mother, blessings on you for your love! I
leave my father’s house a virgin, and as a virgin I shall return.”

When Clytie had fastened the strip of papyrus with a pin to the pillow, she gathered together the few articles of clothing she would need for a short absence. Doris now came stealing in; she had been listening outside the chamber. Xenocles and his wife were not yet asleep, but were talking to each other; she had heard them utter the word “bride-man.”

XVII.

An hour later Doris again glided through the open hall of the women’s apartment, called the _prostas_, to the chamber occupied by Clytie’s parents. She listened, but heard nothing; the conversation seemed to have ceased. The room was one of the few apartments in a Greek house that could be closed by a door. Fortunately this door was ajar, but to slip in Doris was obliged to push it farther open. Scarcely had she touched it when she was startled by a loud, distinct creaking. She felt her cheeks grow bloodless, but she must go in. With the utmost caution she again took hold of the door, and this time it opened noiselessly. Silently as a shadow she stole bare-footed into the room. A sultry, heavy atmosphere greeted her. She heard the breathing of the sleepers, but there was no other sound. From the peristyle the faint light of the night-heavens shone through the open doorway. Doris saw the bed indistinctly; something light trailed on the floor beside it--doubtless a woman’s long robes hanging from a chain. She cautiously groped her way forward, fearing to knock against something and make a noise. There was a strange feeling of insecurity about her, and her feet seemed as heavy as lead. With dilated eyes she saw, or fancied that she saw, two human figures stretched upon the bed. Advancing a few steps nearer she felt paralyzed with terror and on the point of falling. One of the figures sat upright in the bed and turned its face towards her. She could not see the eyes, but was aware that the person saw her distinctly.

“Is it you, Doris? What do you want?” a voice said, interrupting the silence.

Doris knew the tones, though amid the darkness and stillness of the night they seemed to have a ghostly sound. It was Maira who spoke.

The mother was so engrossed by the thought of her daughter’s wedding, that she had not been greatly startled by seeing Doris glide in. The voice merely sounded a little surprised.

Doris could not answer; it was impossible for her to utter a single word.

“What do you want so late?” Maira said again, this time with a touch of impatience.

Doris forced herself to control her voice.

“The key....” she stammered, “I want to get the key.”

“Why?”

“The night-lamp has gone out, and I want to light it at the neighbor’s.”

“Simpleton, you can light it from Clytie’s. It is shining on the pillars outside.”

This was unanswerable--Doris thought her cause lost. But the very magnitude of the danger forced her to calm herself. She drew a long breath, and once more felt in possession of her wits. She _would_ have the key. And all the resolution and defiance that exist in a firm determination suddenly filled her soul so completely that, heedless whether she roused Xenocles or not, she went straight to her goal.

“But I must have the key,” she replied in a tone that sounded cold and strange in her own ears, “I want to pour out the bath-water.”

“Let it stand till morning.”

Doris felt with her hand over the wall near the head of the bed and found the nail with the three-toothed key, which she took quietly without any extreme haste.

“I dare not let the water stand,” she said, “my mistress ordered me to pour it out.”

Without waiting for a reply, she left the room as lightly as a feather, and breathless with joy and excitement ran back to Clytie, before whom she triumphantly held aloft the key.

Clytie clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly, then, without losing a moment, she gave her the bundle of clothes, threw a blue-striped kerchief over her head, and holding her faithful maid-servant’s hand, glided out of the room.

XVIII.

Clytie’s heart was throbbing with excitement. In passing on she raised the curtain hanging at the door of the apartment in which stood the images of the household gods, and bowing towards the little statues, wholly invisible in the gloom, murmured in a low tone:

“Do not be wrathful, protectors of my race! Do not desert me because I forsake you.”

Then, accompanied by Doris, she walked through the open hall into a large work-room set apart for women. The darkness here was so great that nothing was visible save two narrow grey streaks; these were the loop-holes in the wall, through which the room received its light by day. A warm atmosphere, the heat emanating from human bodies, greeted the fugitives, and they heard the heavy breathing of numerous sleepers. Most of the female slaves of the household spent the night here on couches made of piles of cushions or felt rugs ranged along the wall. As Doris moved towards the garden door she ran against something, probably a tall tripod. She hastily caught at it, but in the darkness missed her aim and it fell with a heavy crash, while a copper lamp which had stood upon it rattled on the stone floor. The slave women started from their sleep; the shrieks of one terrified the others till all vied in screaming. Hasty footsteps crossed the peristyle, and a man’s voice cried angrily:

“What an ado! Why are you yelling so? What is it?”

“Hush, you simpletons!” said Doris’ well-known tones, “do you take me for a thief who has lifted the door off its hinges or dug his way through under the wall?”

“What are you doing here?” asked the door-keeper of the women’s apartment; for it was he who had hurried in.

Meantime Doris had found the lock and put the key in it.

“Oh, pshaw!” she replied, as though vexed by so much disturbance, “I’m going to pour out the bath-water. In the dark I ran against a tripod--it fell, and so they screamed as if they were possessed by some evil demon.”

With these words she opened the door, pushed Clytie out, and followed herself.

The fugitives now found themselves in the garden. Here the darkness was not too great to permit them to distinguish without difficulty the paths winding between the black masses of the shrubs and trees. A damp wind blew into their faces and the odor of the flowers was oppressively strong; they heard a rustling among the leaves, like the sound of dice dropping on a copper shield, and big drops fell singly.

After the anxiety she had experienced Clytie felt unspeakable relief. It seemed as if she inhaled liberty with every breath of the night air, and she thought with a touch of joyful dread of meeting Hipyllos. Doris was still absorbed by the remembrance of the nocturnal disturbance in the house, but consoled herself by thinking that the door-keeper would explain everything.

Outside the garden gate stood two dark figures. One wore his hair cut short--so he was a slave; the other had long locks, and though both appeared like dim black outlines Clytie instantly recognized Hipyllos by the stately way in which his mantle was draped about him--in itself sufficient to mark the young Eupatride.

Clytie’s heart beat faster, and she suddenly trembled in every limb as she had done the evening she stole out to meet the priestess of Sabazius. She had scarcely stepped outside of the garden, when Hipyllos hurried towards her.

“I thank you,” he said, “blessings on you for coming.”

The young girl made no reply; she was far too much agitated and confused to be able to utter a single word.

“You saw the necessity,” Hipyllos continued, “and besides....”

He paused and, smiling, gazed into her face; he had never seen her look lovelier. The blue-striped kerchief she had thrown over her head cast a slight shadow upon her features, which lent them a mysterious charm.

... “And besides,” he added, “you wrote that you trusted me.”

Clytie raised her dark eyes to him.

Hipyllos threw his arm around her waist, and though he felt a slight movement of resistance he led her in this way the short distance to the hired house where the priestess of Sabazius lived. It was a dwelling called a _tristegos_, a three-storied house which belonged to Sauros, the armorer, and stood close beside his workshop.

At the first subdued tap of the knocker, Ninus was ready and opened the door.

Hipyllos clasped both of Clytie’s hands.

“We must part,” he said. “But, whatever happens, do not go home until you have received a message from me. And now farewell, you beautiful one, you darling, you light of my life!”

He pressed her to his breast, and ere she could prevent it he had snatched a kiss.

But Clytie tore herself from his embrace, gathered the folds of her robe around her, and fled as lightly as a deer up the steps, where her slender figure vanished in the darkness.

Hipyllos gazed after her.

“By Aphrodite,” he exclaimed, “she is like a butterfly.”

XIX.

Maira did not sleep much that night. The next morning she was surprised not to see Doris flitting about the house, and having found Clytie’s room empty, she did not doubt that her daughter was in the garden with her favorite attendant. She went there and called repeatedly; but, when silence was the only reply, a presentiment of misfortune darted through her mind. She hurried back to Clytie’s chamber, searched it, found the papyrus note on the pillow, and read its contents with breathless haste.

“Merciful Gods!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Gone--fled in the night!... Clytie, Clytie, how could you cause me such sorrow? Make our house the scorn of envious neighbors--What will your father say? He will rage and curse you....”

Suddenly a revulsion of feeling came over her.

“Well, let him rage,” she murmured, “let him rage and call down curses.... To drive my Clytie to this! How she must have suffered! But, by Hera, he shall hear the truth.”

She was already on her way to her chamber, when she paused.

“What am I doing!” she exclaimed. “The first thing is to conceal Clytie’s flight. No one must suspect that her room is empty.”

Calling Eunoa, the oldest female slave in the house, she said to her: “Clytie is ill. Sit down here outside of her door and let no one enter, not even her nurse. Do exactly as I tell you.”

Eunoa opened her eyes in astonishment; she had never heard her mistress speak in so curt and imperious a tone.

When Maira entered her bed-room, there was a certain solemnity in her manner that attracted Xenocles’ attention. Stretching himself on the couch, he beckoned to her.

But, instead of taking her seat on the edge, Maira remained standing before him, gazing steadily into his face. Xenocles scarcely believed his eyes. It was the first time during the twenty years of their married life that his wife had not instantly done whatever he requested.

“Sit down,” he repeated, again pointing to the seat.

Maira did not seem to hear.

“I have evil tidings,” she said coldly. “A misfortune has happened to us during the night.”

“What is it? What is it?” cried the excitable little man, and pointing to the strip of papyrus she held in her hand, he asked: “Is this the misfortune?”

“It is from Clytie,” replied Maira, and read the contents in a tone which seemed to imply that the matter was no concern of hers.

At the words: “Forgive me, I must fly,” Xenocles started and, with a stiff movement, as though both his limbs had suddenly become one, he swung himself up from his reclining posture and put his feet on the floor so that he sat erect on the couch. He seemed to have been struck speechless, and his hands fumbled with his belt, which he had not yet buckled.

He was thinking of Clytie’s childhood, of her pretty, gentle face, her innocent caresses. His eyes filled with tears--he could not believe that she had gone.

Maira was a good wife and loved her husband tenderly; but she was not more generous than the majority of the female sex. Deeply as Xenocles was moved, it did not occur to her to spare him. All that she had silently endured for years must be uttered.

“Now we have no daughter,” she said, as a sort of preamble.

Xenocles was silent, the muscles around his mouth twitched convulsively.

A pause ensued. At that early hour of the morning the house was so still that the flies were heard buzzing in the sunshine on the rush carpet inside the door.

“It would have been better,” Maira continued, “if you had not always had your head filled with your plans and measurements for buildings. Whole days passed without your saying a word to Clytie or me, and if I spoke to you about anything that disturbed you, I was so harshly rebuffed that I often dared not address you. Doris the slave-girl knew ten times as much about Clytie’s affairs. By Adrasteia, it’s an easy matter to be a father, if a man considers it enough to give his daughter home and clothes and food. But, if you had had any love for your child, had you suspected what she hoped and longed for, had you known what she feared more than death--this misfortune would not have befallen us.”

Xenocles gazed at Maira as though she were a stranger. He understood that it was maternal affection which made her so strong, and at the same time dimly felt that perhaps he had some reason to reproach himself.

He bent his head.

“What is to be done?” he murmured. “Tell me, Maira. You have always been a good wife to me.”

At these simple words all Maira’s wrath vanished. She involuntarily sat down beside her husband and, as their eyes met, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“First,” she whispered, “we must conceal Clytie’s flight. Then you must--better now than later--go to Acestor and tell him that Clytie is ill and the wedding must be postponed. You can say she is delirious and no one is allowed to see her.”

Xenocles rose.

“It will be a hard task,” he said.

Fortunately Acestor’s house stood in the Melitan quarter so Xenocles, while on his way to it, had time to clear his brain.

As he had feared, he found the slaves in the act of decorating the building with garlands and green branches.

“Take all this down!” said the impetuous little man. “The bride is ill. There will be no wedding.”

The door-keeper, who was standing at the half-open door watching the slaves, heard these words and hurrying to his master, repeated them while announcing the visitor.

Xenocles was not a man to stand waiting at an open door, especially in the house of his future son-in-law. He followed close behind, but while crossing the peristyle he started at the sound of a blow, and distinctly heard the words:

“Take that, bird of misfortune, for your evil tidings.”

Acestor received Xenocles with a sullen face and frowning brow.

“Is what this blockhead says true?” he asked, without letting Xenocles have time to speak.

“The gods have given me a bitter cup to drain,” replied the little man with dignity. “My daughter has had a sudden attack of illness. She is delirious, and no one is permitted to see her. The wedding must be deferred.”

Acestor made no reply, but stared angrily into vacancy.

“Strange!” he muttered, “A bride who falls ill on her wedding day--who ever heard of such a thing? By Zeus, this or something else seems to me a bad omen. Do not forget that you owe me compensation and, by the gods, a double one. In the first place the girl is beautiful enough for many to desire to wed her, even without a dowry, and secondly I had calculated on the amount agreed upon as a sum of which I was sure.”

“I will think of it,” replied Xenocles coldly, and went away even more displeased with Acestor than with himself.

On the walk home he recalled the events of the morning and, as Clytie’s flight, Maira’s reproaches, and Acestor’s greed passed through his mind, he sighed heavily and exclaimed:

“The gods know where all this will end.”

XX.

Two days after the hetaeria assembled at Lamon’s home. The house, where for many generations a large bleaching business had been carried on, stood on the side of the Museium. All the water used was laboriously drawn up by slaves or beasts of burden; but on the other hand the dust of the city did not rise here, so the cloth could be dried in the open air, and moreover there was no trouble with road-inspectors on account of the waste-water. It ran down the hill-side unheeded.

To reach the door, customers from the lower part of the city were obliged to pass around the longest wing of the house; this inconvenience had been endured for many generations. They followed, as it were, the customs of their forefathers and the idea of change did not occur to them.

But Lamon had understood how to help himself. By the side of the bleaching-room was one for hanging clothes which looked out upon the lower part of the city and this, for his customers’ convenience, he had transformed into an open shop, by first replacing the outer wall by a few pillars and then having a marble-topped counter built across the stone floor. On this customers laid their bundles and from it was delivered the finished work which, furnished with the owner’s mark, hung on the wall inside. In the evening the place of the outer wall was supplied by a curtain, and at night with a grating reaching from roof to floor.

In this room, next in size to the workshop, the secret society had assembled. It was late in the evening, and at each end of the counter lamps were burning on tall brass tripods. The green curtain between the pillars was drawn, and closed the apartment like a wall.

Business discussions had not yet commenced; Thuphrastos and Hipyllos were talking about armor and weapons. Xenocles had several times given signs of impatience, till at last Sthenelus laughed, saying:

“Let the weapons rest! Xenocles has something to tell and, it seems to me, something important.”

“Yes, by Zeus, I have!” cried the eager little man and, glancing cautiously around him in every direction, he whispered: “I fear we are betrayed.”

Acestor started from his couch.

“Betrayed?” he repeated with evident anxiety.

Xenocles looked enquiringly at Sthenelus, who nodded assent.

“I was talking with Sthenelus this morning at the market,” the little white-haired man continued. “We were standing in front of the arcade of Zeus the Liberator and, when we parted Sthenelus called after me: ‘You know we meet this evening at Lamon’s.’ The words were spoken by the statue of Zeus the Liberator. As I turned to go, Sthenelus pointed to the ground. A little round shadow, like a man’s head, appeared in the great one cast by the pedestal. Urged by the same fear, we both hurried behind the statue and saw a thin man with tangled hair walking rapidly away. He was scarcely ten paces from us.”

“Who was the man?” asked Acestor breathlessly.

“Cephisodemos.”

“One of the most dangerous informers.”

“It’s all over with us!” murmured Lysiteles rising.

Drops of perspiration stood on Acestor’s brow; nevertheless he strove to appear calm, and proposed that the meeting should break up and each person go to his own home.

Thuphrastos took a different view of the matter. He wanted to judge for himself, and therefore asked one question after another. Had the market echoed with shouts and cries or was the time for buying and selling over? How far from the statue were the speakers standing? He put these and several more questions, then when he had learned what he wished to know he shrugged his shoulders saying:

“No one can judge with certainty whether the spy heard anything or not, but an empty fear ought not to put men to flight. Let us go on as though nothing had happened.”

There was such perfect calmness in Thuphrastos’ manner that it communicated itself to the others. Only Acestor and Lysiteles seemed undecided for a moment; but, when the others remained, they were ashamed to go and stayed also.

It was easy to see that Acestor had had some great plan in view. He was clad in all the splendor with which he appeared in the popular assemblies; his long, carefully arranged hair was perfumed, he had donned a dazzlingly white chiton, adorned around the neck and at the bottom with an embroidered blue border, and on the fore-finger of his right hand he wore a large seal ring.

XXI.

Acestor did not instantly commence what he had to say. Calmness must first be restored to the minds of the assembly so, glancing with a smile around the circle, he began in a tone intended to command attention.

“Is it not true, oh! my friends, that you would be greatly amazed if I said: ‘You have never seen Athens.’”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Xenocles, who was always too impatient to like riddles.

“You know,” Acestor continued, “that some faces, to appear beautiful, should be seen from the front, others from the side. That is the way with cities--some should be seen from the sea, others from the land....”

“And whence shall Athens be seen?” asked Xenocles, to whom this introduction seemed too long.

“By Zeus, from this spot.”

Lamon smiled.

“Why yes,” he said, “Pythocleides from Ceos, Pericles’ first teacher in the arts of the Muses, came here in his old age. He was perfectly bewitched by the view of the city, and used to say afterwards: ‘No one has seen Athens save he who has beheld it from Lamon’s house on the Museium.’”

“Well then, show us Athens!” cried Sthenelus. “By Pan, you have made me very curious though, having been born in the Street of the Sculptors, I thought I knew the city.”

Lamon made a sign to Acestor and the two men, each from his own side, drew the green curtain apart between the pillars.

The first impression was so overpowering that no one found words to praise it. Beyond the dark frame formed by the roof, pillars, and floor of the apartment the whole space was filled with a subdued light, like a bluish mist. The moon itself was not visible; it was obliquely behind the house. The transition from the lamp-light had been so sudden that at first the group could see nothing; but scarcely had the tripods with the lamps been moved farther back ere the outlines of stately houses and the dark tops of trees began to appear.

In front of the house, towards the brow of the hill, was a stone balustrade, on which stood vases containing large-leaved plants. Behind these, far down in the valley, were seen like a forest the wide-stretching kēpoi or gardens, amid whose dark poplars and cypresses shone here and there a curve of the Ilissus, glittering like molten silver. Not far from the foot of the hill spread the low Limnae with its labyrinth of buildings, and the ancient sanctuary of Dionysus, which seemed buried in the shadows of the night. Farther away red specks of light gleamed through the dusk; they moved very slowly, meeting, crossing, and moving away from each other--they were the torches carried by pedestrians along the way leading from the citadel to the market. Beyond this tract the ground rose in three or four lofty undulations, on whose crests appeared houses and trees, among the latter single palms, but distant and small, like delicately carved toys. Between the largest of these hills the flat top and steep sides of the Acropolis towered dark and frowning into the air. Close against the cliff, as if comparing itself with it, stood the vast Theatre of Dionysus, over whose encircling wall the eye pierced the dark gulf formed by the steeply-rising seats. But on the summit, towering over the low Limnae, glimmered the white marble temple, with its delicate, shadowy rows of columns, above which again rose the colossal statue of the patron goddess of Athens, visible for miles away, as in motionless grandeur it seemed to both rule and watch.

A strangely sublime impress rested upon this whole landscape, where the gods had once wandered and where, so to speak, each spot was sacred. Upon the height Pallas Athene had planted the olive-tree sacred to her, and yonder, by the shore of the Ilissus, almost on the very spot where his altar stood, Boreas had borne away the Princess Oreithyia. Sometimes a cool evening breeze, following the course of the stream, swept through the valley. A distant, confused sound, the breathing of the half slumbering city, then reached the ear; but when the wind died away everything was still, and houses, trees, and mountains, steeped in the melancholy lustre of the moonbeams, once more rose before the eyes in majestic silence.

“Magnificent! Marvellous!” exclaimed little Xenocles, extending his arms towards the city as though he would fain embrace it.

“Friends,” said Acestor, but paused while his glance wandered around the room as though in search of something.

Sthenelus’ eyes twinkled; he knew all Acestor’s tricks of art.

“Why,” he said, “Acestor wants the bema.[L] But if you are willing, Lamon, surely he can speak from the marble counter.”

[L] Orator’s stage.

Lamon, who was again drawing the green curtain between the pillars, made a sign of assent.

Sthenelus, spite of his lameness, dragged a bench up to the counter.

“The bema is ready,” he said, offering Acestor his hand.

The latter took it, and stepped clumsily upon the bench and from the bench to the counter. He was apparently no adept in physical exercises and, when he visited the gymnasia, doubtless did so only to meet orators and poets in the arcades.

After having thrown back his head and shut his eyes to collect his thoughts, he extended both hands.

“Friends,” he said, and his powerful voice filled the room so that it gave back a resonant echo, “what the eye-ball is to the eye, Athens is to Hellas. As an orator and teacher of the art of oratory, I have travelled through many lands and visited many cities. I don’t say this to pride myself upon it, but to show that I am competent to judge. I have seen what great cities are, and how they are governed. Now I say to you: Athens is going to her destruction! If I--which perhaps I am not quite unworthy to do--stood at the head of public affairs, I should know well what was needed. Then, like a second Pericles.”

At this comparison Thuphrastos knit his brows; the blood rushed to his brain and, clenching his hands, he rose from the couch. Every one was aware that he had known Pericles and admired him with his whole soul.

There was perfect silence in the room. All eyes rested on Thuphrastos, who walked straight to the counter, seized Acestor by his bare leg, and shook him, saying:

“Come to your senses, Sacas! You forget how wide is the gulf between you and a Pericles.”

At the slave name of Sacas Acestor sprung heavily down on the tiled floor. He was deadly pale, his eyes sparkled with a fierce, gloomy light, and he raised his hand to deal a blow.

Thuphrastos did not make the slightest movement to parry it; folding his arms across his chest, he held his furious antagonist in check with his cold glance, as though he had been a vicious dog. For a moment the two men stood motionless, gazing into each other’s faces, then they felt a grasp on the arm that seemed like an iron band.

“No quarrelling!” said Lamon’s deep voice and, as the simplest way of restoring peace, he seized Acestor round the loins and lifted him on the counter as easily as if he had been a child. “Talk on!” he added curtly, and returned to his seat without looking at him as though it was a matter of course that he should be obeyed.

Acestor passed his hand across his brow several times, and it was long ere he could control his voice.

“If we desire to save Athens,” he at last resumed, “we must manage to have the friends of the rulers kept away from the popular assemblies. Then it will not be difficult to destroy them; for they have many foes.”

Lamon and Sthenelus uttered a murmur of disapproval.

It was a special agreement that the hetaeria should labor only for the advantage of fellow members, and not meddle in affairs of state. After exchanging glances with Hipyllos, Thuphrastos, to the surprise of every one, made a gesture as if he were not yet weary of hearing what Acestor had to say. Still, the latter felt that his listeners were not in harmony with him; he paused abruptly, as if his thoughts were eluding him, and then added, raising his voice louder and louder as though trying to deafen himself with his own words:

“Charicles and Aristocrates ought to resign their offices, Peisandros must be banished and Phanos, who has made so many citizens wretched by his pursuit of the hetaeriae, should not only forfeit his position as clerk, but have erected in some conspicuous place a pillar of infamy bearing his name.”

Here Acestor suddenly stopped and stared with dilated eyes at the curtain between the pillars, as though he had beheld through an opening all the horrors of Hades. Without adding another word, he jumped down from the counter and pointed with trembling hand to the threshold between the columns.

All followed the direction of his eyes.

Under the green curtain was seen on each side a pair of feet. The sight of these motionless feet aroused an indescribable excitement among the men. At first no one believed his eyes; then all rose from their couches. It was so still that, for the first time in the course of the evening, the water was heard trickling in the fulling-room adjoining.

“Dunces of slaves!” muttered Lamon, shaking his clenched hand towards the interior of the house. “You have forgotten the garden. They have come upon us from the hill.”

Hipyllos exchanged a significant glance with Thuphrastos and, pointing to Acestor, said in a very low tone:

“It has turned out differently from what we expected. The jest has become earnest.”

XXII.

Scarcely had the sudden silence warned those standing outside that they were discovered, when the curtain was drawn back.

The clerk Phanos, the persecutor of the hetaeriae, entered the room, while his companion, a subaltern officer of the city police, remained standing at the entrance.

“The house is surrounded!” cried the latter in a loud voice. “No one can escape.”

With these words he pulled the curtain farther aside and beyond it appeared, like a living wall, the dark figures of the toxoternae or bowmen, whose helmets, spears, and shields flashed in the torchlight.

All eyes were fixed on Phanos, a small, stout man, with a pale, handsome face. A lock of black hair hung low on his forehead, but the most remarkable thing about him was his eyes--a pair of clear, light-blue eyes, sparkling with intelligence, whose gaze was doubly piercing because he bent his head a little and looked out from under his eye-brows. It was evident that those eyes forgot no one, and that each person on whom they rested might as well have been recorded in a book. He wore a plain white robe, entirely without ornament, and had thrown a brown mantle around him.

At sight of Phanos Acestor made a movement as though he were about to escape through the peristyle. “Where are you going?” whispered Thuphrastos. “You will run directly into the arms of the archers. No, hide, hide!--Phanos has heard every word.”

“In there!” added Xenocles hastily, pointing to the door of the bleaching-room. “He hasn’t seen you yet. Perhaps you will be forgotten.”

Acestor crept behind the counter and stole like a thief into the bleaching-room, closing the door carefully behind him.

It was quite time. Half a score of the slaves of the city police pressed in from the peristyle and watched every exit, among them the door through which Acestor had slipped.

While this was happening Phanos had gazed sternly around him, but at the sight of Thuphrastos and Xenocles his face brightened. Approaching Lamon, the owner of the house, he held out his hand.

“Lamon,” he said, in so loud a tone that the officer and slaves could hear, “it is fortunate for you that I meet men like Thuphrastos and Xenocles here. I know them--they are plotting no evil. Your hetaeria does not seem to be of the sort we so rigidly pursue. You are office-seekers, not men striving to usurp the government. I have now seen with my own eyes.... Yet--did I not hear a chatterer shrieking among you? He has shouted intolerably long; I’ll close his lips.”

“If you heard that,” replied Lamon, “you must have heard our disapproval.”

“Well then,” continued Phanos, “speak frankly. To what places do you want to be elected?”

Lamon--and then the others--obeyed the command without hesitation.

“Very well!” Phanos then continued, “promise to break up the hetaeria, and you shall lose nothing. The places of which we dispose are not dependent upon election, but are appointments. But there must be no more meetings of the hetaeria. If, in spite of your promise, you secretly assemble, woe betide you! No punishment will be too severe for us.”

Without bending an inch, or condescending to flattery, Thuphrastos thanked the clerk for his consideration and, after having exchanged glances with Lamon and the others, promised, in the name of himself and his friends, to disband the hetaeria.

Phanos now turned towards Hipyllos, the youngest of the group.

“Bring me that shrieker,” he said to him, “the only one of you who fled.” And, with a smile that showed he had noticed everything, he pointed to the door of the bleaching-room and added, “You’ll find him in there.”

No command could have been more welcome to Hipyllos. His heart throbbed with joyous anticipation; he had a presentiment that he was near his aim.

XXIII.

The sentinel at the door made way at a sign from Phanos, and Hipyllos hurried into the bleaching-room.

A suffocating odor of sulphur, mingled with a horrible smell of urine and soap, greeted him. A copper lamp was burning on a tripod placed near the wall, and he scanned the whole apartment with a single glance. At the back were five recesses in the wall containing reservoirs of water, where lay soaking the material to be stamped by the slaves on the morrow. In the middle of the workshop stood a large stone table, on which lay some batlets. On the left, over a pole under the ceiling, hung a purple robe, in whose lower folded part was flung an iron teasel. Behind this article of clothing one could see the drying-room, where Hipyllos noticed hundreds of garments hanging on long poles. He was going to creep under them, when he heard a smothered sound from the opposite direction. Here, ranged along the wall, stood a number of wicker baskets, the height of a man, which resembled hen-coops. Clothes were spread over five or six where, as the vapor in the room showed, sulphur had been recently lighted to give them the requisite whiteness. From one of the centre ones issued a strange stifled moaning.

“I have him!” murmured Hipyllos smiling, as he took hold of the handle on top shaped like an owl, the sacred bird of Athens. When he had removed the basket, Acestor sat crouching before him with half-closed eyes, panting and groaning, almost fainting. The sulphur under the clothes had nearly smothered him, and Hipyllos found it difficult to lift him upon his legs.

But how entirely transformed was the stately Acestor! A couple of small metal jars filled with powdered sulphur had been placed under the basket, ready for the next day’s bleaching. In his confusion and terror Acestor had overturned them and, as he had afterwards pressed his hands on his head, he had filled his hair, eye-brows, and beard with sulphur, besides yellow spots on his nose, forehead, and cheeks. He had no sooner taken a few long breaths when he began to sneeze as though his head would burst. He seemed to be completely stupefied; his limbs tottered under him and he allowed himself to be led like a child.

Without wasting a word upon him, Hipyllos brought him before the waiting group.