Title: Persephone of Eleusis - A Romance of Ancient Greece
Author: Harris, Clare Winger
Language: English
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PERSEPHONE OF ELEUSIS

A Romance of Ancient Greece

by

CLARE WINGER HARRIS


[Illustration: 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.





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