“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.