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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”