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.