CHAPTER XI.

Dietel, the waiter, had at last been released from his confinement in

the cellar, and instantly began the search for the thief in the garden

with twofold zeal.

Without considering how long a time had passed since he first tried

to bring the culprit into the clutches of the law, he had resumed the

pursuit where it was interrupted. As a thoughtless child whose bird has

flown from the cage looks into the water jug to find it, he had turned

the light of his lantern upon places where a kitten could not have

hidden itself, and had even been to the meadow on the bank of the Main

to seek Kuni with the widow of the thief Nickel; but here the sacrament

was just being given to the sufferer, and to interrupt such a ceremony

would have been a great crime. His eyes were keen, and the red pinks had

gleamed from the straw on which the dying woman lay in the light of the

lantern, whose long pole the sexton had thrust into the soft earth of

the meadow. Those flowers must have come from the garden of the landlady

of The Pike, and she valued her pinks more than anything else. The

ropedancer had gathered them for the sick woman, and certainly had not

stopped at that one act of theft. How far these vagabonds' impudence

went! But he, whose duty it was to look after the property of The Blue

Pike, would spoil their pleasure in thieving.

The dog Phylax had soon put him on the trail, and before any of the

gentlemen could reach the groaning person Dietel's triumphant shout rang

from behind the oleander:

"Now we've caught the pilferer, and we'll make an example of her!"

His first glance had fallen on the little bunch of pinks in the girl's

hand, and the vein on his forehead swelled with wrath at this damage to

his mistress's favourite flowers.

But when he shook the culprit by the shoulder and, to his surprise, met

with no resistance, he threw the light of the lantern upon her face, and

what he saw there suddenly troubled him, for the girl's lips, chin, and

dress were covered with bright blood, and her head drooped on one side

as if it had lost its support.

This frightened him, and instead of continuing to boast of his success,

he called for help.

The Nuremberg gentlemen soon surrounded Kuni, and Doctor Hartmann

Schedel told the waiter to carry her, with the aid of his assistants,

summoned by his shout, into the house and provide her with a comfortable

bed.

Dietel obeyed the command without delay--nay, when he heard the famous

leech whisper to the other gentlemen that the sufferer's life was but a

failing lamp, his feelings were completely transformed. All the charity

in his nature began to stir and grew more zealous as he gazed at Kuni's

face, distorted by pain. The idea of giving up to her his own neat

little room behind the kitchen seemed like a revelation from St. Eoban,

his patron. She should rest in his bed. The wanderer who, a few years

ago, had scattered her gold so readily and joyously for the pleasure

of others certainly would not poison it. Her misery seemed to him a

touching proof of the transitory nature of all earthly things. Poor

sufferer! Yet she ought to find recovery on his couch, if anywhere; for

he had surrounded it with images of the saints, pious maxims, and little

relics, bought chiefly from the venders who frequented the tavern. Among

them was a leather strap from St. Elizabeth's shoe, whose healing power

he had himself tested during an attack of bilious fever.

The burden which he shared with his assistants was a light one, but

he was not to reach his destination without delay--the little bunch of

pinks fell from the hand of the unconscious girl, and Dietel silently

picked up the stolen property which had just roused his wrath to such a

degree, and placed it carefully on the senseless sufferer's bosom.

The second hinderance was more serious. Cyriax had heard that Kuni was

dying, and fearing that he might be obliged to pay the funeral expenses

he stuttered to the bystanders, with passionate gestures, that an hour

ago he had discharged the cripple whom he had dragged about with him,

out of sheer sympathy, long enough. She was nothing more to him now than

the cock in the courtyard, which was crowing to greet the approach of

dawn.

But the landlord of The Pike and others soon forced Cyriax out of the

way. Kuni was laid on Dietel's bed, and the gray-haired leech examined

her with the utmost care.

The landlady of The Pike helped to undress her, and when the good woman,

holding her apron to her eyes from which tears were streaming, opened

the door again and the Abbot of St. AEgidius approached the couch,

to render aid to the dying for the second time that night, he saw by

Hartmann Schedel's face that he had not come too soon.

The ropedancer had recovered consciousness, and the kind prelate's

presence was a solace to her. The confession lasted a long time, and the

story which she had to confide to the priest must have been as strange

as it was interesting, for the abbot listened eagerly and with evident

emotion. When he had performed the duties of his office he remained

alone for a time; he could not immediately regain a mood in which

he cared to rejoin the others. He did not ask for the gentlemen from

Cologne; those from Nuremberg, whom he sought, had returned to the table

in front of the tavern long before.

The waves of the Main were now reflecting the golden light of the

morning sun. Dewdrops glittered on the grass and flowers in the meadow

with the cart, and in the landlady's little garden. Carriers' men were

harnessing the freshly groomed bays to the pole. The brass rings on

the high collars of the stallions jingled loudly and merrily, and

long whiplashes cracked over the four and six-horse teams which were

beginning the day's journey along the highroad.

But even the rattling of the carts and the trampling of the horses'

hoofs could not rouse the Cologne professors, who, with their clerical

companions, had gone to rest, and slept in darkened rooms until late

into the morning. Most of the humbler guests had already left their

straw beds.

Cyriax was one of the first who followed the road. He had sold his

cart and donkey, and wanted to burden his red-haired wife with his

possessions, but as she resolutely refused he had taken the bundle on

his own lazy shoulders. Now he dragged himself and his new load onward,

swearing vehemently, for Ratz had remained with the cart in Miltenberg,

where the sham lunatic no longer found it safe to stay. This time it was

he who was obliged to pull his wife along by the chain, for she had long

refused, as if fairly frantic, to desert the dying girl who had nursed

her child so faithfully. Again and again the doubly desolate woman

looked back toward the companion whom she had abandoned in her suffering

until they reached Frankfort. There Gitta left Cyriax and accompanied

Ratz. The cart in which her child had lived and died, not its repulsive

owner, induced her to sever the bond which, for nine years, had bound

her to the blasphemer.

The travelling scholars set off singing merrily; but the strolling

musicians waited for the ship to sail down the Main, on whose voyage

they could earn money and have plenty to drink.

The vagrants tramped along the highway, one after another, without

troubling themselves about the dying ropedancer.

"Everybody finds it hard enough to bear his own cross," said Jungel,

seizing his long crutches. Only "Dancing Gundel" lingered in Miltenberg

through sympathy in the fate of the companion who had reached the height

of fame, while she, the former "Phyllis," had gone swiftly downhill. It

was a Christian duty, she said to the blind boy who begged their bread,

not to let Kuni, who had once held so lofty a position, take the last

journey without a suitable escort. When she heard that her former

companion had received the sacrament, she exclaimed to her blind son,

while slicing garlic into the barley porridge: "She will now be at rest.

We shall earn a pretty penny at the mass in Frankfort if you can only

manage to look as sorrowful when you hold out your hand as you do now!"

The monks, the dealer in indulgences, the burghers and artisans who

were just preparing to embark for the voyage down the Main, gazed

in bewilderment at the distinguished gentlemen who, incredible as it

seemed, had actually--for Dietel said so--foregone their morning nap

for the sake of a vagabond girl. The feather-curler shook his head as

if something marvellous had happened when he heard the ambassador of

the Honourable Council of his own native city, the distinguished Herr

Lienhard Groland, say to old Doctor Schedel:

"I will wait here with you, my venerable friend. Since the poor girl can

live only a few hours longer, I can join the others, if I hurry, before

they leave Frankfort."

"That's right, Lienhard," cried Wilibald Pirckheimer, and the Abbot of

St. AEgidius added approvingly:

"You will thereby do something which is pleasing in the sight of Heaven.

Yes, gentlemen, I repeat it: there are few deathbeds beside which I have

found so little reason to be ashamed of the fate of being a mortal as

by the humble couch of this vagabond girl. If, before the judgment seat

above, intention and faith are weighed with the same scales as works,

few who close their eyes behind silken curtains will be so sure of a

favourable sentence as this poorest of the poor."

"Did the girl really keep no portion of Herr Lienhard's rich gift for

herself?" asked the Nuremberg imperial magistrate.

"Nothing," replied the abbot. "She gave the whole, down to her last

copper, to the stranger, though she herself must remain here, poor,

lame, and deserted--and she had only met the sick woman by accident upon

the highway. My duty forbids me to repeat the details, and how she bore

herself even while at Augsburg, but, thanks to the confession which I

have just received, I shall count this morning among those never to be

forgotten. O gentlemen, death is a serious matter, and intercourse with

the dying is the best school for the priest. Then the inmost depths of

the soul are opened to him."

"And," observed Wilibald Pirckheimer, "I think the psychologist would

then learn that, the deeper we penetrate the human breast, the darker is

the spectacle."

"Yes, my learned friend," the abbot answered, "but we also perceive that

the deepest and darkest shafts contain the purest specimens of gold and

silver ore."

"And were you really permitted to find such in this neglected vagabond,

reverend sir?" asked Doctor Eberbach, with an incredulous smile.

"As certainly," answered the prelate with repellent dignity, "as that

the Saviour was right when he called those who were pure in heart

blessed above those who were wise and overflowing with knowledge!"

Then, without waiting for the Thuringian's answer, he hastily turned to

the young ambassador and begged him to grant the dying girl, who clung

to him with tender devotion, a brief farewell.

"Willingly," replied Lienhard, requesting the physician to accompany

him.

The latter had just beckoned Doctor Peutinger to his side, to examine

with him the indulgence which he had found under the kerchief crossed

over the sick girl's bosom. It did not secure redemption from the flames

of purgatory for the ropedancer's soul, as the gentlemen expected,

but for another, and that other--the learned humanist and Imperial

Councillor would not believe his own eyes--was his beloved, prematurely

lost child. There, in large letters, was "Juliane Peutinger of

Augsburg."

Astonished, almost bewildered, the usually quiet statesman expressed his

amazement.

The other gentlemen were preparing to examine the paper with him, when

the abbot, without betraying the secret of Kuni's heart, which she

had confided to him in her confession, told Juliane's father that

the ropedancer had scarcely left the convent ere she gave up both the

Emperor's gift and the viaticum--in short, her whole property, which

would have been large enough to support her a long time--in order to do

what she could for the salvation of the child for whom her soul was more

concerned than for her own welfare.

The astonished father's eyes filled with tears of grateful emotion, and

when Lienhard went with the gray-haired leech to the dying girl Doctor

Peutinger begged permission to accompany them. The physician, however,

requested him to remain away from the sufferer, who would be disturbed

by the sight of a strange face. Then Peutinger charged his young friend

to give Kuni his kind greetings and thank her for the love with which

she had remembered his dear child.

The young Councillor silently followed the physician to the sick bed, at

whose head leaned a Gray Sister, who was one of the guests of The Blue

Pike and had volunteered to nurse the patient.

The nun shook her head sorrowfully as the two men crossed the threshold.

She knew how the dying look, and that the hand of death already touched

this sufferer. Yet her kind, colourless face, framed by the white sides

of her cap, quickly regained its usual quiet, placid expression.

The regular features, now slightly flushed with the fever, of the

patient in her charge, on the contrary, were constantly varying in

expression. She had noticed the entrance of the visitors, and when she

opened her sparkling blue eyes and saw the person to whom her poor heart

clung with insatiable yearning they were filled with a sunny radiance,

and a smile hovered round her lips.

She had known that he would come, that he would not let her die without

granting her one more glance.

Now she would fain have nodded to him and expressed in very, very

appropriate words the delight, the embarrassment, the gratitude

which filled her soul, but her panting chest could give no breath for

utterance. Nay, extreme exhaustion even prevented the movement of her

lips. But her heart and brain were by no means inactive. A wealth of

internal and external experiences, long since forgotten, rose before

her mind. First she fancied that she saw Lienhard, as at their first

meeting, approaching the garlanded door of St. Sebald's with his

beautiful bride, arrayed in her wedding robes. Then she was transported

to the court room and felt his hand stroke her hair. The hours at Frau

Schurstab's when she had awaited his visits with an anxious heart came

back to her memory. Then she again saw herself upon the rope. Lienhard

was toying with the little elf below. But what she beheld this time was

far from awakening new wicked wishes, for Juliane once more wore her

laurel crown and beckoned kindly to her like a dear, familiar friend.

Finally, pale little Juli appeared, as if shrouded in mists. Last of

all, she saw herself filling the jug for the sick woman and gathering

the red pinks for her and Lienhard in the landlady's little garden by

the shimmering starlight. The flowers, whose fragrance was too strong,

yet which she had not the strength to remove, lay on the coverlet before

her. They were intended for Lienhard, and as she stretched her slender

fingers toward them and tried to clasp them she succeeded. She even

found strength to hold out her right hand to him with a beseeching

glance. And lo! ere her arm fell again the proud man had seized the

flowers. Then she saw him fasten the pinks on the breast of his dark

doublet, and heard the thrill of deep emotion in his voice, as he said:

"I thank you, dear Kuni, for the beautiful flowers. I will keep them.

Your life was a hard one, but you have borne the burden bravely. I saw

this clearly, and not I alone. I am also to thank you and give you very

friendly remembrances in the name of Doctor Peutinger, of Augsburg,

little Juliane's father. He will think of you as a mistress of your art,

a noble, high-minded girl, and I--I shall certainly do so."

He clasped her burning hand as he spoke; but at these words she felt

as she had probably done a few hours before, when, hidden behind the

oleander, she listened to the conversation in which he mentioned her

kindly. Again a warm wave of joy seemed to surge upward in her breast,

and she fancied that her heart was much too small for such a wealth of

rapture, and it was already overflowing in hot waves, washing all grief

far, far away.

Her gift had been accepted.

The red pinks looked at her from his doublet, and she imagined that

everything around was steeped in rosy light, and that a musical tinkling

and singing echoed in her ears.

Never had she experienced such a feeling of happiness.

Now she even succeeded in moving her lips, and the man, who still held

her little burning hand clasped in his first heard his own name very

faintly uttered; then her parched lips almost inaudibly repeated the

exclamation: "Too late!" and again, "Too late!"

The next instant she pressed her left hand upon her panting breast. The

rosy hue around her blended with the red tint of the pinks, and another

haemorrhage bore the restless wanderer to that goal where every mortal

journey ends.

A QUESTION

By Georg Ebers

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford

PRELUDE.

In the Art-Palace on green Isar's strand,

Before one picture long I kept my seat,

It held me spellbound by some magic band,

Nor when my home I sought, could I forget.

A year elapsed, came winter's frost and snow,

'Twas rarely now we saw the bright sun shine,

I plucked up courage and cried: "Be it so!"

Then southward wandered with those I call mine.

Like birds of passage built we there a nest

On a palm-shaded shore, all steeped in light,

Life was a holiday, enjoyed with zest

And grateful hearts, the while it winged its flight.

Oft on the sea's wide purplish-blue expanse,

With ever new delight I fixed my eyes,

Alma Tadema's picture, at each glance

Recalled to mind, a thousand times would rise.

Once a day dawned, glad as a bride's fair face,

Perfume, and light, and joy it did enfold,

Then-without search, flitted from out of space

Words for the tale that my friend's picture told.

CHAPTER I.

THE HOUSE-KEEPER AND THE STEWARD.

"Salt sea-water or oil, it's all the same to you! Haven't I put my lamp

out long ago? Doesn't the fire on the hearth give light enough? Are your

eyes so drowsy that they don't see the dawn shining in upon us more

and more brightly? The olives are not yet pressed, and the old oil

is getting toward the dregs. Besides, you know how much fruit those

abominable thieves have stolen. But sparrows will carry grain into the

barn before you'll try to save your master's property!"

So Semestre, the ancient house-keeper of Lysander of Syracuse, scolded

the two maids, Chloris and Dorippe, who, unheeding the smoking wicks of

their lamps, were wearily turning the hand-mills.

Dorippe, the younger of the two, grasped her disordered black tresses,

over which thousands of rebellious little hairs seemed to weave a veil

of mist, drew from the mass of curls falling on her neck a bronze arrow,

with which she extinguished the feeble light of both lamps, and, turning

to the house-keeper, said:

"There, then! We can't yet tell a black thread from a white one, and I

must put out the lamps, as if this rich house were a beggar's hut. Two

hundred jars of shining oil were standing in the storehouses a week ago.

Why did the master let them be put on the ship and taken to Messina by

his brother and Mopsus?"

"And why isn't the fruit gathered yet?" asked Chloris. "The olives are

overripe, and the thieves have an easy task, now the watchmen have gone

to Messina as rowers. We must save by drops, while we own more gnarled

olive-trees than there are days in the year. How many jars of oil might

be had from the fruit that has dropped on the ground alone! The harvest

at neighbor Protarch's was over long ago, and if I were like Lysander--"

"There would probably be an end of saving," cried the house-keeper,

interrupting the girl. "Well, I confess it wasn't easy for me to part

with the golden gift of the gods, but what could I do? Our master's

brother, Alciphron, wanted it, and there was a great barter. Alciphron

is clever, and has a lucky hand, in which the liquid gold we press from

the olives with so much toil, and keep so carefully, becomes coined

metal. He's like my own child, for I was his nurse. Here in the country

we increase our riches by care, patience and frugality, while the city

merchant must have farseeing eyes, and know how to act speedily. Even

when a boy, my Alciphron was the wisest of Dionysius's three sons, and,

if there was anything sweet to be divided, always knew how to get the

largest share. When his mother was alive, she once told the lad to give

her the best of some freshly-baked cakes, that she might take it to the

temple for an offering, and what was his answer? 'It will be well for

me to taste them all, that I may be certain not to make a mistake;' and

when Clytemnestra--"

"Is Alciphron younger than our poor master?" interrupted Dorippe.

"They were sesame cakes with honey," replied the house-keeper, whose

hearing was impaired by age, and who therefore frequently misunderstood

words uttered in a low tone. "Is the linen ready for the wash?"

"I didn't ask about the cakes," replied Dorippe, exchanging a

mischievous glance with Chloris; "I only wanted to know--"

"You girls are deaf; I've noticed it a long time," interrupted the

house-keeper. "You've grown hard of hearing, and I know why. Hundreds

of times I've forbidden you to throw yourselves on the dewy grass in

the evening, when you were heated by dancing. How often I get absurd

answers, when I ask you anything!"

The girls both laughed merrily.

The higher voice of one mingled harmoniously with the deeper tones of

her companion, and two pairs of dark eyes again met, full of joyous

mirth, for they well knew who was deaf, and who had quicker hearing than

even the nightingale, which, perched on the green fig-tree outside, was

exultingly hailing the sunrise, now with a clear, flute-like warble, now

with notes of melancholy longing.

The house-keeper looked with mingled astonishment and anger at the two

laughing girls, then clapped her hands loudly, exclaiming:

"To work, wenches! You, Chloris, prepare the morning meal; and you,

Dorippe, see if the master wants anything, and bring fresh wood for the

fire. Stop your silly giggling, for laughing before sunrise causes

tears at evening. I suppose the jests of the vineyard watchmen are

still lingering in your heads. Now go, and don't touch food till you've

arranged your hair."

The girls, nudging each other, left the women's apartment, into which

the dawn was now shining more brightly through the open roof.

It was a stately room, surrounded by marble columns, which bore witness

to the owner's wealth, for the floor was beautifully adorned with

bright-hued pictures, mosaic work executed in colored stones by an

artist from Syracuse. They represented the young god Dionysius, the

Hyades surrounding him, and in colored groups all the gifts of the

divinities who watch over fields and gardens, as well as those of the

Nysian god. Each individual design, as well as the whole picture,

was inclosed in a framework of delicate lines. The hearth, over which

Semestre now bent, to fan the glimmering embers with a goose-wing, was

made of yellow marble.

Dorippe now returned, curtly said that the master wanted to be helped

into the open air, when the sun was higher, and brought, as she had been

ordered, a fresh supply of gnarled olive-branches, and pinecones, which,

kindling rapidly, coaxed the wood to unite its blaze with theirs.

Glittering sparks flew upward from the crackling branches toward the

open roof, and with them a column of warm smoke rose straight into the

pure, cool morning air; but as the door of the women's apartment now

opened, the draught swept the gray, floating pillar sideways, directly

toward Semestre, who was fanning the flames with her goose-wing.

Coughing violently, she wiped her eyes with the edge of her blue peplum,

and glanced angrily at the unbidden guest who ventured to enter the

women's apartment at this hour.

As soon as she recognized the visitor she nodded pleasantly, though with

a certain touch of condescension, and rose from her stool, but

instantly dropped back on it again, instead of going forward to meet the

new-comer. Then she planted herself still more firmly on her seat, and,

instead of uttering a friendly greeting, coughed and muttered a few

unintelligible words.

"Give me a little corner by your fire, it's a cold morning," cried the

old man in a deep voice. "Helios freezes his people before he comes,

that they may be doubly grateful for the warmth he bestows."

"You are right," replied Semestre, who had only understood a few of the

old man's words; "people ought to be grateful for a warm fire; but

why, at your age, do you go out so early, dressed only in your chiton,

without cloak or sandals, at a season when the buds have scarcely

opened on the trees. You people yonder are different from others in many

respects, but you ought not to go without a hat, Jason; your hair is as

white as mine."

"And wholly gone from the crown," replied the old man, laughing. "It's

more faithful to you women; I suppose out of gratitude for the better

care you bestow. I need neither hat, cloak, nor sandals! An old

countryman doesn't fear the morning chill. When a boy, I was as white

as your master's little daughter, the fair-faced Xanthe, but now head,

neck, arms, legs, every part of me not covered by the woolen chiton, is

brown as a wine-skin before it's hung up in the smoke, and the dark hue

is like a protecting garment, nay better, for it helps me bear not only

cold, but heat. There's nothing white about me now, except the beard on

my chin, the scanty hair on my head, and, thank the gods, these two rows

of sound teeth."

Jason, as he spoke, passed his hard, brown finger over the upper and

then the under row of his teeth; but the housekeeper, puckering her

mouth in the attempt to hide many a blemish behind her own lips,

answered:

"Your teeth are as faithful to you as our hair is to us, for men know

how to use them more stoutly than women. Now show what you can do. We

have a nice curd porridge, seasoned with thyme, and some dried lamb for

breakfast. If the girl hurries, you needn't wait long. Every guest, even

the least friendly, is welcome to our house."

"I didn't come here to eat," replied the old man; "I've had my

breakfast. There's something on my mind I would like to discuss with the

clever house-keeper, nay, I ought to say the mistress of this house, and

faithful guardian of its only daughter."

Semestre turned her wrinkled face towards the old man, opened her eyes

to their widest extent, and then called eagerly to Dorippe, who was

busied about the hearth, "We want to be alone!"

The girl walked slowly toward the door, and tried to conceal herself

behind the projecting pillars to listen, but Semestre saw her, rose from

her seat, and drove her out of doors with her myrtle-staff, exclaiming:

"Let no one come in till I call. Even Xanthe must not interrupt us."

"You won't stay alone, for Aphrodite and all the Loves will soon join

such a pair," cried the girl, as she sprang across the threshold,

banging the door loudly behind her.

"What did she say?" asked Semestre, looking suspiciously after the

maiden. "The vexations one has to endure from those girls, Jason, can't

be described, especially since they've grown deaf."

"Deaf?" asked the old man in astonishment.

"Yes, they scarcely understand a word correctly, and even Xanthe,

who has just reached her seventeenth year, is beginning to be hard of

hearing."

A smile flitted over Jason's face, and, raising his voice to a louder

tone, he said, flatteringly:

"Every one can't have senses as keen as yours, Semestre; have you time

to listen to me?"

The house-keeper nodded assent, leaned against the column nearest the

hearth, rested both hands on her staff, and bent forward to intimate

that she would listen attentively, and did not wish to lose a single

word.

Jason stood directly opposite, and, while thus measuring each other with

their eyes, Semestre looked like a cautious cat awaiting the attack of

the less nimble but stronger shepherd's dog.

"You know," Jason began, "that when, long ago, we two, you as nurse

and I as steward, came to this place, our present masters' fine estates

belonged undivided to their father. The gods gave the old man three

sons. The oldest, Alciphron, whom you nursed and watched through his

boyhood, went to a foreign land, became a great merchant in Messina,

and, after his father's death, received a large inheritance in gold,

silver and the city house at the port. The country estates were divided

between Protarch and Lysander. My master, as the elder of the two,

obtained the old house; yours built this new and elegant mansion.

One son, the handsome Phaon, has grown up under our roof, while yours

shelters the lovely Xanthe. My master has gone to Messina, not only

to sell our oil and yours, but to speak to the guardian of a wealthy

heiress, of whom his brother had written. He wants her for Phaon's wife;

but I think Phaon was created for Xanthe and Xanthe for him. There's

nothing lacking, except to have Hymen--"

"To have Hymen unite them," interrupted Semestre. "There's no hurry

about heiresses; they don't let themselves be plucked like blackberries.

If she has scorned her country suitor, it may well seem desirable to

Protarch and all of you that Xanthe should prove more yielding, for then

our property would be joined with yours."

"It would be just the same as during Dionysius's lifetime."

"And you alone would reap the profit."

"No, Semestre, it would be an advantage to both us and you; for, since

your master had that unlucky fall from the high wall of the vineyard,

the ruler's eye is lacking here, and many things don't go as they

ought."

"People see what they want to see," cried Semestre. "Our estates are no

worse managed than yours."

"I only meant to say--"

"That your Phaon seems to you well fitted to supply my master's place. I

think differently, and, if Lysander continues to improve, he'll learn to

use his limbs again."

"An invalid needs rest, and, since the deaths of your mistress and mine,

quarrelling never ceases--"

"We never disturb the peace."

"And quarrelling is even more unpleasant to us than to you; but how

often the shepherds and vine-dressers fight over the spring, which

belongs to us both, and whose beautiful wall and marble bench are

already damaged, and will soon be completely destroyed, because your

master says mine ought to bear the expense of the work--"

"And I daily strengthen him in this belief. We repaired the inclosing

wall of the spring, and it's only fair to ask Protarch to mend the

masonry of the platform. We won't yield, and if you--"

"If we refuse to do Lysander's will, it will lead to the quarrelling I

would fain prevent by Phaon's marriage with your Xanthe. Your master is

in the habit of following your advice, as if you were his own mother.

You nurse the poor invalid like one, and if you would only--"

"Lysander has other plans, and Phaon's father is seeking an heiress for

his son in Messina."

"But surely not for the youth's happiness, nor do I come to speak to you

in Protarch's name."

"So you invented the little plan yourself--I am afraid without success,

for I've already told you that my master has other views."

"Then try to win him to our side--no, not only to us, but to do what is

best for the prosperity of this house."

"Not for this house; only for yourselves. Your plan doesn't please me."

"Why not?"

"I don't wish what you desire."

"'I don't wish;' that's a woman's most convincing reason.

"It is, for at least I desire nothing I haven't carefully considered.

And you know Alciphron, in Syracuse, our master's oldest brother, did

not ask for the heiress, who probably seemed to him too insignificant

for his own family, but wanted our girl for his son Leonax. We joyfully

gave our consent, and, within a few days, perhaps to-morrow, the suitor

will come from Messina with your master to see his bride."

"Still, I stick to it: your Xanthe belongs to our Phaon, and, if you

would act according to Dionysius's wishes, like fair-minded people--"

"Isn't Alciphron--the best and wisest of men--also Dionysius's child? I

would give his first-born, rather than any one else, this fruitful soil,

and, when the rich father's favorite, when Leonax once rules here by

Xanthe's side, there'll be no lack of means to rebuild the platform and

renew a few marble benches."

Angered by these words, the old man indignantly exclaimed:

"You add mockery to wrong. We know the truth. To please Alciphron,

your foster-child, you would make us all beggars. If Lysander gives his

daughter to Leonax it will be your work, yours alone, and we will--"

Semestre did not allow herself to be intimidated, but, angrily raising

her myrtle-staff, interrupted Jason by exclaiming in a loud, tremulous

voice:

"You are right. This old heart clings to Alciphron, and throbs more

quickly at the mere mention of its darling's name; but verily you have

done little to win our affection. Last autumn the harvest of new wine

was more abundant than we expected. We lacked skins, and when we asked

you to help us with yours--"

"We said no, because we ourselves did not know what to do with the

harvest."

"And who shamefully killed my gray cat?"

"It entered Phaon's dove-cote and killed the young of his best pair of

cropper pigeons."

"It was a marten, not the good, kind creature. You are unfriendly in

all your acts, for when our brown hen flew over to you yesterday she was

driven away with stones. Did Phaon mistake her for a vulture with sharp

beak and powerful talons?"

"A maid-servant drove her away, because, since your master has been ill

and no longer able to attend to business, your poultry daily feeds upon

our barley."

"I'm surprised you don't brand us as robbers!" cried Semestre. "Yes, if

you had beaten me yourself with a stick, you would say a dry branch of

a fig or olive tree had accidentally fallen on my back. I know you well

enough, and Leonax, Alciphron's son, not your sleepy Phaon, whom people

say is roaming about when he ought to be resting quietly in the house,

shall have our girl for his wife. It's not I who say so, but Lysander,

my lord and master."

"Your will is his," replied Jason. "Far be it from me to wound the sick

man with words, but ever since he has been ill you've played the master,

and he ought to be called the house-keeper. Ay, you have more influence

under his roof than any one else, but Aphrodite and Eros are a thousand

times more powerful, for you rule by pans, spits, and soft pillows--they

govern hearts with divine, irresistible omnipotence."

Semestre laughed scornfully, and, striking the hard stone floor with her

myrtle-staff, exclaimed:

"My spit is enough, and perhaps Eros is helping it with his arrows,

for Xanthe no longer asks for your Phaon, any more than I fretted for a

person now standing before me when he was young. Eros loves harder

work. People who grow up together and meet every day, morning, noon, and

night, get used to each other as the foot does to the sandal, and the

sandal to the foot, but the heart remains untouched. But when a handsome

stranger, with perfumed locks and costly garments, suddenly meets the

maiden, Aphrodite's little son fits an arrow to his golden bow."

"But he doesn't shoot," cried Jason, "when he knows that another shaft

has already pierced the maiden's heart. Any man can win any girl, except

one whose soul is filled with love for another."

"The gray-headed old bachelor speaks from experience," retorted

Semestre, quickly. "And your Phaon! If he really loved our girl, how

could he woo another or have her wooed for him? It comes to the same

thing. But I don't like to waste so many words. I know our Xanthe better

than you, and she no more cares for her playfellow than the column on

the right side of the hearth yearns toward the one on the left, though

they have stood together under the same roof so long."

"Do you know what the marble feels?"

"Nothing, Jason, nothing at all; that is, just as much as Xanthe feels

for Phaon. But what's that noise outside the door?"

The house-keeper was still talking, when one of the folding doors opened

a little, and Dorippe called through the crack:

"May we come in? Here's a messenger from Protarch."

"Admit him," cried Semestre, eagerly. The door flew wide open, and the

two girls entered the women's apartment with Mopsus, the brother of the

lively Chloris. The latter was clinging to his arm, and as he came into

the hall removed the broad-brimmed travelling-hat from his brown locks,

while dark-skinned Dorippe went behind him and pushed the hesitating

youth across the threshold, as a boat is launched into the sea.

In reply to the house-keeper's excited questions, he related that

Protarch had sold his master's oil at Messina for as high a price as

his own, bought two new horses for his neighbor Cleon, and sent Mopsus

himself forward with them. If the wind didn't change, he would arrive

that day.

While speaking, he drew from the girdle which confined his blue chiton,

bordered with white, around his waist, a strip of papyrus, and handed it

to Semestre with a greeting from his master.

The house-keeper looked at both sides of the yellow sheet, turned it

over and over, held it close to her eyes, and then glanced hesitatingly

at Jason. He would know that she could not read; but Xanthe could

decipher written sentences, and the young girl must soon appear at

breakfast.

"Shall I read it?" asked the old man.

"I could do so myself, if I chose," replied the house-keeper, drawing

her staff over the floor in sharp and blunt angles, as if she were

writing. "I could, but I don't like to hear news on an empty stomach,

and what is said in this letter concerns myself, I should suppose, and

nobody else. Go and call Xanthe to breakfast, Dorippe."

"I know what is in it," cried the girl, reluctant to part from her

companion's brother, whom she loved, and who still had a great deal to

tell her about his journey to Messina. "Mopsus has told us. Our master's

nephew, Leonax, Alciphron's son, will accompany his uncle and stay for

a week or longer as a guest, not over yonder with Protarch, but here in

our house. He is a handsome youth, even taller than Phaon, and Mopsus

says Alciphron's wife, by our master's request, dipped deep into his

purse at Messina, and bought from her husband's merchant friends gold

bracelets and women's garments, such as matrons wear."

At these words a smile of joy and hope flitted over Semestre's wrinkled

face, like a spring breeze sweeping across a leafless garden. She no

longer thought of the harm a piece of news might do her empty stomach,

and, while mentally seeing the flutter of a matron's beautiful blue

garment and the flash of Xanthe's rich dowry, eagerly asked the welcome

messenger:

"Does she speak the truth? And what is this about the robes?"

"I brought the clothes myself," replied Mopsus, "and packed them in a

beautiful chest inlaid with ivory, like those newlywedded youths receive

with the bridal dowry. Praxilla, the handsome sister of Alciphron's

wife, also gave--"

"Go and call Xanthe!" cried Semestre, interrupting the messenger. She

had laughed softly several times while listening to his tale, and, when

the girls hastily withdrew with Mopsus, cast a triumphant glance at

Jason.

Then, remembering how much was to be done to make fitting preparation

for the young suitor Leonax, she called loudly:

"Dorippe--Chloris! Chloris--Dorippe!" Neither of the maidens seemed to

hear, and, when obliged to resign all hope of an answer, she shrugged

her shoulders, and turning to Jason said:

"So young and so deaf; it is sad. Poor girls!"

"They like Mopsus better than you, and don't wish to hear," replied

Jason, laughing. "They can't," said Semestre, angrily. "Mopsus is a

bold, good-for-nothing fellow, whom I've often wanted to drive out of

the house, but I should like to see the person who refused me obedience.

As for your proposal, you have now heard distinctly enough that our girl

is intended for Leonax."

"But suppose Xanthe doesn't want Leonax, and prefers Phaon to the

stranger?"

"Alciphron's son a 'stranger' on the estates of his ancestors!"

exclaimed Semestre. "What don't we hear? But I must go to work to

prepare the best possible reception for Leonax, that he may feel from

the first he is no stranger here, but perfectly at home. Now go, if you

choose, and offer sacrifices to Aphrodite, that she may join the hearts

of Xanthe and Phaon. I'll stick to my spit."

"Then you'll be in the right place," cried Jason, "but you're not yet

turning it for Leonax's wedding-feast."

"And I promise you I'll prepare the roast for Phaon's," retorted

Semestre, "but not until the sacrifice of an animal I'm fattening myself

induces the foam-born goddess to kindle in Xanthe's heart sweet love for

Leonax."

CHAPTER II.

XANTHE.

"Xanthe, Xanthe!" called Semestre, a short time after. "Xanthe! Where is

the girl?"

The old woman had gone into the garden. Knowing how to use time to

advantage, and liking to do two things at once, while looking for her

nursling and repeatedly shouting the girl's name, she was gathering

vegetables and herbs, on which the dew of early morning still glittered

brightly.

While thus occupied, she was thinking far more of her favorite's son

and the roast meats, cakes, and sauces to be prepared for him, than of

Xanthe.

She wanted to provide for Leonax all the dishes his father had specially

liked when a child, for what a father relishes, she considered, will

please his children.

Twenty times she had stooped to pluck fresh lavender, green lettuce, and

young, red turnips, and each time, while straightening herself again

by her myrtle-staff, as well as a back bent by age would allow, called

"Xanthe, Xanthe!"

Though she at last threw her head back so far that the sun shone into

her open mouth, and the power of her lungs was not small, no answer

came. This did not make her uneasy, for the girl could not be far away,

and Semestre was used to calling her name more than once before she

obeyed.

True, to-day the answer was delayed longer than usual. The maiden heard

the old woman's shrill, resounding voice very clearly, but heeded it no

more than the cackling of the hens, the screams of the peacocks, and the

cooing of the doves in the court-yard.

The house-keeper, she knew, was calling her to breakfast, and the bit

of dry bread she had taken with her was amply sufficient to satisfy her

hunger. Nay, if Semestre had tempted her with the sweetest cakes, she

would not have left her favorite nook by the spring now.

This spring gushed from the highest rock on her father's estate. She

often went there, especially when her heart was stirred, and it was a

lovely spot.

The sparkling water rushed from a cleft in the rocks, and, on the left

of the little bench, where Xanthe sat, formed a clear, transparent pool,

whose edges were inclosed by exquisitely-polished, white-marble blocks.

Every reddish pebble, every smooth bit of snowy quartz, every point

and furrow and stripe on the pretty shells on its sandy bottom, was as

distinctly visible as if held before the eyes on the palm of the hand,

and yet the water was so deep that the gold circlet sparkling above the

elbow on Xanthe's round arm, nay, even the gems confining her peplum on

the shoulder, would have been wet had she tried to touch the bottom of

the basin with the tips of her fingers.

The water was green and clear as crystal, into which, while molten, bits

of emeralds had been cast to change them into liquid drops.

Farther on it flowed through a channel choked with all kinds of plants.

Close by the edges of the rivulet, which rushed swiftly down to the

valley, drooped delicate vines, that threw their tendrils over the

stones and flourished luxuriantly in the rocks amid thick, moist clumps

of moss. Dainty green plants, swayed to and fro by the plashing water,

grew everywhere on the bottom of the brook, and, wherever on its course

it could flow more smoothly, ferns, nodding gracefully, surrounded it

like ostrich-feathers waving about the cradle of a royal babe.

Xanthe liked to watch the stream disappear in the myrtle-grove.

When, sitting in her favorite nook, she turned her eyes downward,

she overlooked the broad gardens and fields of her father and uncle,

stretching on the right and left of the stream along the gentle slope of

the mountain, and the narrow plain by the sea.

The whole scene resembled a thick woolen carpet, whose green surface

was embroidered with white and yellow spots, or one of the baskets young

maidens bear on their heads at the feast of Demeter, and in which, piled

high above the edge, light and dark-hued fruit gleams forth from leaves

of every tint.

Groves of young pomegranate and myrtletrees, with vigorous shoots, stood

forth in strong relief against the silvery gray-green foliage of the

gnarled olive-trees.

Fragrant roses, glowing with a scarlet hue, as if the sun's fiery kiss

had called them to life, adorned bushes and hedges, while, blushing

faintly, as if a child's lips had waked them from slumber, the blossoms

of the peach and almond glimmered on the branches of the trees.

Tiny young green leaves were growing from the oddly-interwoven branches

of the fig-trees, to which clung the swelling pouches of the fruit.

Golden lemons glittered amid their strong, brilliant foliage, which had

survived the winter season; and long rows of blackish-green cypresses

rose straight and tall, like the grave voices of the chorus amid the

joyous revel. To Xanthe, gazing downward, her father's pine-wood seemed

like a camp full of arched, round tents, and, if she allowed her eyes to

wander farther, she beheld the motionless sea, whose broad surface, on

this pleasant morning, sparkled like polished sapphire, and everywhere

seemed striving to surpass with its own blue the color of the clear sky.

Ever and anon, like a tiny silver cloud floating across the firmament,

white sails glided by.

Pleasant green hills framed this lovely view. On their well-cultivated

slopes appeared here the white, glimmering walls of a temple; yonder

villages, houses, and cottages, like the herds and single sheep that he

half concealed by dense foliage.

Garlands of flowers surround the heads of happy mortals, and here the

house of every wealthy land-owner was inclosed by a hedge or garden.

Behind the hills rose the sharply-cut outlines of the naked cliffs of

the lofty, distant mountains, and the snowy head of sleeping Mount Etna

gleamed brightly through the mist.

Now, in the early morning, sea and garden, hills and distant mountains

were covered with a delicate veil of indescribable hue. It seemed as if

the sea had furnished the warp of this fabric, and the golden sun the

woof.

The scene was wondrously beautiful, but Xanthe had not gone to the

spring to gaze at the landscape; nay, she scarcely knew that it was

lovely.

When the sea shone with the hue of the sky and lay motionless, as it

did to-day, she thought Glaucus, the god of the blue sea, was sunning

himself in pleasant slumber.

On other bright days when the waves and surges swelled, white foam

crowned their crests, and a never-ending succession of breakers dashed

upon the shore, she believed the fifty daughters of Nereus were pursuing

their sports under the clear water.

They were all lovely women, and full of exuberant gayety.

Some rocked quietly on the gleaming waves, others boldly swung

themselves on the backs of the bearded Tritons, and merrily urged them

through the flood.

When the surf beat roaring on the strand, Xanthe thought she could hear

these creatures guiding their course with their scaly tails and blowing

into shells, and many a glimmering foam-crest on a deep-blue wave was

no transparent bubble-no, the girl distinctly saw that it was the white

neck, the gleaming arm, or the snowy foot of one of Nereus's daughters.

She believed that she clearly distinguished them sporting joyously up

and down through the azure water, now plunging into the depths with

their feet, and now with their heads foremost, anon floating gently on

the surface of the waves. One held out her hand to another, and in so

doing their beautiful, rounded arms often gleamed beneath the crest of a

surge.

Every day they practised new games, as the sea never looks precisely the

same; each hour it changed its hue, here, there, and everywhere, Light

streaks, like transparent bluish-green gauze, often ran through the

darker surface, which resembled a purplish-blue mantle of some costly

Phoenician stuff; the waves could flash black as the eye of night, and

white as Leucothea's neck.

Then Amphitrite appeared, with floating hair and resonant voice, and

beside her Poseidon with his four steeds.

Frowning sullenly, he struck them sharply with his lash, which whistled

through the air, and angrily thrust his trident deep into the sea.

Instantly the waves took hues of lighter brown, deeper yellow, and

cloudy gray, and the sea wore the aspect of a shallow pond with muddy

bottom, into which workmen hurl blocks of stone. The purity of the

water was sadly dimmed, and the billows dashed foaming toward the sky,

threatening in their violent assault to shatter the marble dike erected

along the shore. The Nereids, trembling, took refuge in the ever-calm

depths, the Tritons no longer used their hollow shells to blow gentle

harmonies; nay, they sent forth crashing war-songs, as if some hostile

citadel were to be assailed; while Amphitrite thrust both hands into her

long, fluttering hair, and with out-stretched head uttered her furious

roar.

But to-day the sea was calm, and when Xanthe had reached the spring

the edges of the milk-white, light, fleecy clouds, towering one above

another on the summits of the loftier mountains, were still glowing with

a rosy light. It was the edge of the garment of the vanishing Eos, the

leaves of the blossoms scattered by the Hours in the pathway of the four

steeds of Helios, as they rose from the waves.

To day and at this hour the morning sunlight fell serenely on the tall

cypresses upon the hill, the trees in the garden swayed in the soft

breath of the morning breeze, and Xanthe nodded to them, for she thought

the beautiful Dryads living in the trees were greeting each other.

Often, with a brief prayer, she laid flowers or a round cake on the

altar that stood beside her seat, and which her ancestor had erected to

the nymph of the spring--but today she had not come for this.

Then what brought her to the hill so early? Did she visit the spring to

admire her own image in its mirror-like surface?

At home she was rarely permitted such an indulgence, for, whenever she

looked in the polished metal-disk, Semestre used to say:

"If a girl often peers into such useless things, she'll certainly see a

fool's image in them."

Forbidden things are charming, yet Xanthe rarely looked into this liquid

mirror, though she might have enjoyed gazing at it frequently, for her

figure was tall and slender as the trunk of a cypress, her thick fair

hair glittered like gold, the oval of her face was exquisitely rounded,

long lashes shaded the large blue eyes that could conceal no emotion

which stirred her soul, and when she was alone seemed to ask: "What have

the gods allotted for my future?" Yet in their gaze might often be read

the answer "Something delightful, surely."

And yet Xanthe did not come to the spring to paint pictures of her

future; on the contrary, she came to be sad, and shed tears unrebuked.

She did not weep passionately, but the big salt drops welled slowly from

her eyes and ran down her young cheeks, as drop after drop of shining

sap flows down the trunk of a wounded birch-tree.

Yes, Xanthe felt very sorrowful, yet everything that surrounded her was

so bright, and at her home laughter was rarely silent, while her

own often rang out no less merrily than that of lively Chloris and

dark-skinned Dorippe.

Her sick father, now slowly recovering, could refuse her nothing, and,

if Semestre tried to do so, Xanthe usually succeeded in having her own

way. There was no lack of festivals and joyous dances, and to none of

her companions did the youths present more beautiful ribbons, to no one

in the circle did they prefer to offer their hands. She was the fairest

of all the maidens far and near, and Ismene, Phryxus's wife, had said

that her laughter was gay enough to make a cripple dance. Ismene had a

daughter herself just Xanthe's age, so it must probably have been true.

Then why, in the name of all the gods, was Xanthe sad?

Is any cause required to explain it?

Must a maiden have met with misfortune, to make her feel a longing to

weep? Certainly not.

Nay, the gayest rattle-brain is the least likely to escape such a

desire.

When the sky has long shone with unclouded splendor, and the air is

so wonderfully clear that even the most distant mountain-peaks are

distinctly visible, rain is not long delayed; and who can laugh heartily

a long time without finally shedding tears like a mourner?

Whoever endures a severe though not the deepest affliction, whoever

is permitted to reach the topmost summit of joy, and a girl who feels

love-these three Heaven favors with the blessing of tears.

Had Eros's arrow struck Xanthe's young heart too?

It was possible, though she would not confess it even to herself, and

only yesterday had denied it, without the quiver of an eyelash.

Yet, if she did love a youth, and for his sake had climbed to the

spring, he must doubtless dwell in the reddish house, standing on a

beautiful level patch of ground on the right of the brook, between the

sea and the pool; for she glanced toward it again and again, and, except

the servants, no one lived under its roof save the aged steward Jason,

and Phaon, her uncle's son. Protarch himself had gone to Messina, with

his own and her father's oil.

To age is allotted the alms of reverence, to youth the gift of love,

and, of the three men who lived in the house on Xanthe's right-hand,

only one could lay claim to such a gift, and he had an unusually good

right to do so.

Xanthe was thinking of Phaon as she sat beside the spring, but her

brow wore such a defiant frown that she did not bear the most distant

resemblance to a maiden giving herself up to tender emotions.

Now the door of the reddish house opened, and, rising hastily, she

looked toward it. A slave came cautiously out, bearing a large jar with

handles, made of brown clay, adorned with black figures.

What had the high-shouldered graybeard done, that she stamped her foot

so angrily on the ground, and buried the upper row of her snow-white

teeth deep in her under-lip, as if stifling some pang?

No one is less welcome than the unbidden intruder, who meets us in the

place of some one for whom we ardently long, and Xanthe did not wish to

see the slave, but Phaon, his master's son.

She had nothing to say to the youth; she would have rushed away if

he had ventured to seek her by the spring, but she wanted to see him,

wanted to learn whether Semestre had told the truth, when she said Phaon

intended to marry a wealthy heiress, whose hand his father was seeking

in Messina. The house-keeper had declared the night before that he

only wooed the ugly creature for the sake of her money, and now took

advantage of his father's absence to steal out of the house evening

after evening, as soon as the fire was lighted on the hearth. And the

fine night-bird did not return till long past sunrise, no doubt from

mad revels with that crazy Hermias and other wild fellows from Syracuse.

They probably understood how to loosen his slow tongue.

Then the old woman described what occurred at such banquets, and when

she mentioned the painted flute-players, with whom the dissipated city

youths squandered their fathers' money, and the old house-keeper called

attention to the fact that Phaon already wandered about as stupidly and

sleepily as if he were a docile pupil of the notorious Hermias, Xanthe

fairly hated her, and almost forgot the respect she owed to her gray

hair, and told her to her face she was a liar and slanderer.

But the girl had been unable to speak, for Phaon's secret courtship of

the Messina heiress had deeply wounded her pride, and he really did look

more weary and dreamy than usual.

Semestre's praises of her cousin, the young Leonax, Xanthe had heard

as little as the chirping of the crickets on the hearth, and before the

house-keeper had finished speaking she rose, and, without bidding her

good-night, turned her back and left the women's apartment.

Ere lying down to rest in her own room, she paced up and down before

her couch, then began to loosen her thick hair so carelessly that the

violent pulling actually hurt her, and tied so tightly under her chin

the pretty scarlet kerchief worn over her golden tresses at night to

prevent them from tangling, that she was obliged to unfasten it again to

keep from stifling.

The sandals, from which she had released her slender feet, and which,

obedient to her dead mother's teaching, she usually placed beside the

chair where her clothes lay smoothly folded, she flung into a corner

of the room, still thinking of Phaon, the Messina heiress, and her

playfellow's shameful conduct. She had intended to discover whether

Semestre spoke the truth, and in the stillness of the night consider

what she must do to ascertain how much Phaon was concerned in his

father's suit.

But the god Morpheus willed otherwise, for scarcely had Xanthe laid down

to rest, extinguished her little lamp, and wrapped herself closely in

the woolen coverlet, when sleep overpowered her.

The young girl waked just before sunrise, instantly thought of Phaon, of

the heiress, and of Semestre's wicked words, and hastily went out to the

spring.

From there she could see whether her uncle's son returned home from the

city with staggering steps, or would, as usual, come out of the house

early in the morning to curry and water his brown steeds, which no slave

was ever permitted to touch.

But he did not appear, and, in his place, the high-shouldered servant

entered the court-yard.

If the young girl was usually sad here, because she liked to be

melancholy, to-day grief pierced her heart like a knife, and the bit of

white bread she raised to her lips because, with all her sorrow, she was

hungry, tasted bitter, as if dipped in wormwood.

She had no need to salt it; the tears that fell on it did that.

Xanthe heard the house-keeper's calls, but did not obey immediately, and

perhaps would not have heeded them at all if she had not noticed--yes,

she was not mistaken--that, in the full meaning of the words, she had

begun to weep like a chidden child.

She was weeping for anger; and soon it vexed her so much to think that

she should cry, that fresh tears streamed down her cheeks.

But not many, for, ere her beautiful eyes grew red, they were dry again,

as is the custom of eyes when they are young and see anything new.

Two children, a vineyard-watchman's son and a herdsman's little

daughter, approached the spring, talking loudly together.

They had decked themselves with fresh, green vines twined about their

necks and bosoms, and were now going to sail a little boat made of bark

in the tiny, walled pool into which the spring flowed.

The boy had been the owner of the boat, but had given it to the little

girl the day before, and now refused to deliver it, unless she would

give him in exchange the shining shells her big brother had found,

cleaned, and fastened around her little brown arm with a string. The boy

persisted in his demand, stretching out his hand for the shells, while

the little girl, with sobs and tears, defended herself.

Xanthe, unobserved by the children, became a witness of this contest

between might and right, hastily stepped between the combatants, gave

the boy a blow on the shoulder, took the boat away, handed it to the

little maiden, and, turning to the latter, said:

"Now, play quietly together, and, if Syrus doesn't let you keep the boat

and the shells, come to me, poor Stephanion."

So saying, she wiped the little girl's eyes with her own skirt, seized

her by the shoulder, grasped the boy's black curls, pressed the two

little ones toward each other with gentle violence, and commanded:

"Now, kiss each other!"

The little girl dutifully obeyed the bidding, but the kiss the boy gave

his playmate strongly resembled a blow with the mouth.

Xanthe laughed merrily, turned her back on the children, and went slowly

down into the valley.

During her walk all sorts of little incidents flashed through her mind

with the speed of lightning; memories of the days when she herself was

a little girl and Phaon had played with her daily, as the curly-headed

Syrus now did with the herdsman's daughter.

But all the scenes swiftly conjured up before her mental vision were

very different from that just witnessed.

Once, when she had said that the brook couldn't bear to the sea all the

leaves and flowers she tossed in, Phaon only smiled quietly, but the

next day she found, fastened to an axis, a wooden cross he had carved

himself and fixed between some stones The stream swept against the broad

surfaces of the spokes and forced it to turn constantly.

For weeks both enjoyed the successful toy, but he did not ask a word

of thanks, nor did she utter any, only eagerly showed her pleasure, and

that was enough for Phaon.

If she began to build a house of sand and stones with him, and it was

not finished at once, when they went to play next day she found it

roofed and supplied with a little garden, where twigs were stuck in the

sand for trees, and red and blue buds for flowers. He had made the seat

by the spring for her, and also the little steps on the seashore, by

whose aid it was possible to enter dryshod the boat her playfellow had

painted with brilliant hues of red and blue, because a neighbor's gay

skiff had pleased her fancy.

She now thought of these and many similar acts, and that he had never

promised her anything, only placed the finished article before her as a

matter of course.

It had never entered his mind to ask compensation for his gifts or

thanks for his acts, like curly-headed Syrus. Silently he rendered her

service after service; but, unfortunately, at this hour Xanthe was not

disposed to acknowledge it.

People grow angry with no one more readily than the person from whom

they have received many favors which they are unable to repay; women,

no matter whether young or old, resemble goddesses in the fact that they

cheerfully accept every gift from a man as an offering that is their

due, so long as they are graciously disposed toward the giver, but

to-day Xanthe was inclined, to be vexed with her playmate.

A thousand joys and sorrows, shared in common, bound them to each other,

and in the farthest horizons of her recollections lay an event which

had given her affection for him a new direction. His mother and hers had

died on the same day, and since then Xanthe had thought it her duty

to watch over and care for him, at first, probably, only as a big live

doll, afterward in a more serious way. And now he was deceiving her and

going to ruin. Yet Phaon was so entirely different from the wild fellows

in Syracuse.

From a child he had been one of those who act without many words. He

liked to wander dreamily in lonely paths, with his large, dark eyes

fixed on the ground.

He rarely spoke, unless questioned. Never did he boast of being able to

accomplish, or having successfully performed, this or that feat.

He was silent at his work, and, even while engaged in merry games, set

about a task slowly, but completed whatever he undertook.

He was welcome in the wrestling-ring and at the dance, for the youths

respected his strength, grace, dexterity, and the quiet way in which he

silenced wranglers and boasters; while the maidens liked to gaze into

the handsome dreamer's eyes, and admired him, though even in the maddest

whirl of the dance he remained passionless, moving lightly in perfect

time to the measures of the tambourine and double flute.

True, many whom he forgot to notice railed at his silent ways, and even

Xanthe had often been sorely vexed when his tongue failed to utter a

single word of the significant stories told by his eyes. Ay, they

under stood how to talk! When his deep, ardent gaze rested upon her,

unwavering, but glowing and powerful as the lava-stream that sweeps

every obstacle from its still, noiseless course, she believed he was

not silent from poverty of mind and heart, but because the feelings that

moved him were so mighty that no mortal lips could clothe them in words.

Nevertheless, to-day Xanthe was angry with her playfellow, and a

maiden's wrath has two eyes--one blind, the other keener than a

falcon's.

What she usually prized and valued in Phaon she now did not see at all,

but distinguished every one of his defects.

True, he had shown her much affection without words, but he was

certainly as mute as a fish, and would, doubtless, have boasted and

asked for thanks like anybody else, if indolence had not fettered his

stiff tongue.

Only a short time ago she was obliged to give her hand to lanky Iphis,

because Phaon came forward too slowly. He was sleepy, a foolish dreamer,

and she would tell him it would be better for him to stretch himself

comfortably on his couch and continue to practise silence, rather than

woo foreign maidens and riot all night with dissipated companions.

CHAPTER III.

LYSANDER.

As Xanthe approached her father's house, Semestre's call and the gay

notes of a monaulus--[A musical instrument, played like our flageolet or

clarinet]--greeted her.

A conjurer had obtained admittance, and was showing his laughing

audience the tricks of his trained cocks and hens.

He was a dwarfish, bow-legged little man, with a short neck, on which

rested a big head with a very prominent forehead, that shaded his small

piercing eyes like a balcony.

The feathered actors lived in a two-wheeled cart, drawn from village to

village, and city to city, by a tiny, gayly-decked donkey.

Three cocks and four hens were now standing on the roof of the cart,

looking very comical, for their clever owner, who doubtless knew what

pleases the eyes of children and peasants, had colored their white

feathers, here and there, with brilliant red and glaring yellow.

Beside the cart stood a pale, sorrowful-looking boy, playing a merry

tune on the monaulus. Lysander, Xanthe's father, had been helped out of

the house into the sunlight, and, seated in his arm-chair of polished

olive-wood, was gazing at the show.

As soon as he saw his daughter, he beckoned to her, and stroking her

hair, while she pressed her lips to his forehead, said:

"An amusing sight! The two hens obey the little man as if they were

dutiful children. I'm glad he came, for a person like me, forbidden

by fate to enjoy the comical things to be seen out of doors, must be

grateful when they come in his way. Your feet are twitching, Dorippe.

Whenever a flute raises its voice, it moves young girls' limbs, as the

wind stirs the leaves of the poplars. You would doubtless like to begin

to dance at once."

At these words, Mopsus, keeping time to the music, advanced toward his

sweetheart, but Semestre stepped before him, exclaiming half to the lad

and half to her master:

"There must be no jumping about now. Whoever dances in the morning will

break a leg at night."

Lysander nodded assent.

"Then go into the house, Chloris, and fetch this king of hens a jug of

wine, some bread, and two cheeses."

"How many cheeses?" asked the housekeeper.

"Two," replied Lysander.

"One will be more than enough," cried Semestre--"Bring only one,

Chloris." The invalid smilingly shrugged his shoulders, clasped Xanthe's

hand as she stood beside him, and said in so low a tone that the old

woman could not hear:

"Haven't I grown like little thick-skull's hens? Semestre commands and I

must obey. There she goes after Chloris, to save the second cheese."

Xanthe smiled assent. Her father raised his voice and called to the

juggler:

"Well, my little friend, show what your actors can do.--You young

people, Mopsus and Dorippe, for aught I care, can dance as long as the

monaulus sounds, and Semestre stays in the house."

"We want first to see what the hens can do," cried the dark-haired

girl, clinging to her lover's arm, and turning with Mopsus toward the

exhibition, which now began again.

There was many an exclamation of astonishment, many a laugh, for, when

the little man ordered his largest cock to show its skill in riding,

it jumped nimbly on the donkey's back; when he ordered it to clean its

horse, it pulled a red feather out of the ornaments on the ass's head;

and finally proved itself a trumpeter, by stretching its neck and

beginning to crow.

The hens performed still more difficult feats, for they drew from

a wooden box for each spectator a leaf of a tree, on which certain

characters were visible.

The scrawl was intelligible only to the conjurer, but was said to

contain infallible information about the future, and the little man

offered to interpret the writing to each individual.

This trainer of hens was a clever dwarf, with very quick ears. He had

distinctly understood that, through Semestre, he was to lose a nice

cheese, and, when the housekeeper returned, ordered a hen to tell each

person present how many years he or she had lived in the world.

The snow-white bird, with the yellow head, scratched seventeen times

before Xanthe, and, on reaching Mopsus, twenty-three times, which was

perfectly correct.

"Now tell us this honorable lady's age too," said the conjurer to the

hen.

Semestre told Chloris to repeat what the little man had said, and

was already reflecting whether she should not let him have the second

cheese, in consideration of the "honorable lady," when the hen began to

scratch again.

Up to sixty she nodded assent, as she watched the bird's claw; at

sixty-five she compressed her lips tightly, at seventy the lines on her

brow announced a coming storm, at eighty she struck the ground violently

with her myrtle-staff, and, as the hen, scratching faster and faster,

approached ninety, and a hundred, and she saw that all the spectators

were laughing, and her master was fairly holding his sides, rushed

angrily into the house.

As soon as she had vanished behind the doors, Lysander threw the man

half a drachm, and, clapping his hands, exclaimed:

"Now, children, kick up your heels; we sha'n't see Semestre again

immediately. You did your business well, friend: but now come here and

interpret your hen's oracles."

The conjurer bowed, by bending his big head and quickly raising it

again, for his short back seemed to be immovable, approached the master

of the house, and with his little round fingers grasped at the leaf in

Lysander's hand; but the latter hastily drew it back, saying:

"First this girl, then I, for her future is long, while mine--"

"Yours," interrupted the dwarf, standing before Lysander--"yours will be

a pleasant one, for the hen has drawn for you a leaf that means peaceful

happiness."

"A violet-leaf!" exclaimed Xanthe. "Yes, a violet-leaf," repeated the

conjurer. "Put it in my hand. There are--just look here--there are seven

lines, and seven--everybody knows that--seven is the number of health.

Peaceful happiness in good health, that is what your oracle says." "The

gods owe me that, after suffering so long," sighed Lysander. "At any

rate, come back here in a year, and if your cackling Pythia and this

little leaf tell the truth, and I am permitted to bring it to you

without support or crutch, I'll give you a stout piece of cloth for a

new cloak; yet nay, better try your luck in six months, for your chiton

looks sicker than I, and will hardly last a whole year."

"Not half a one," replied the conjurer, with a sly smile. "Give me the

piece of stuff to-day, that, when I come back in a month, I may have

suitable garments when I amuse the guests at the feast given for your

recovery. I'm no giant, and shall not greatly impair your store."

"We'll see what can be done," replied Lysander, laughing, "and if, when

you return in a month, I don't turn you from the door as a bad prophet,

in spite of your fine clothes, your flute-player shall have a piece of

linen for his thin limbs. But now foretell my daughter's future, too."

The dwarf took Xanthe's leaf from her hand, and said:

"This comes from an olive-tree, is particularly long, and has a light

and dark side. You will live to a great age, and your life will be more

or less happy as you shape it."

"As you shape it," repeated the girl. "That's a real hen's oracle. 'As

people do, so things will be,' my nurse used to say every third word."

Disappointed and angry, she threw the leaf on the ground, and turned her

back on the little man.

The conjurer watched her keenly and searchingly, as not without

difficulty he picked up the leaf. Then glancing pleasantly at her

father, he called her back, pointed with his finger to the inner

surface, and said:

"Just look at these lines, with the little strokes here at the end.

That's a snail with horns. A slow creature! It warns people not to be

over-hasty. If you feel inclined to run, check your steps and ask where

the path will lead."

"And move through life like a cart creaping down into the valley with

drags on the wheels," interrupted Xanthe. "I expected something unlike

school-masters' lessons from the clever hen that loaded Semestre with so

many years."

"Only question her about what is in your heart," replied the little man,

"and she won't fail to answer."

The young girl glanced irresolutely at the conjurer, but repressed the

desire to learn more of the future, fearing her father's laughter. She

knew that, when Lysander was well and free from pain, nothing pleased

him so much as to tease her till she wept.

The invalid guessed what was passing in his little daughter's mind, and

said, encouragingly:

"Ask the hen. I'll stop both ears while you question the oracle. Yes,

yes, one can scarcely hear his own voice for the monaulus and the shouts

of the crazy people yonder.

"Such sounds lure those who are fond of dancing, as surely as a

honey-comb brings flies. By the dog! there are four merry couples

already! Only I miss Phaon. You say the couch in my brother's house has

grown too hard for him, and he has found softer pillows in Syracuse.

With us the day began long ago, but in the city perhaps they haven't

quite finished with yesterday. I'm sorry for the fine fellow."

"Is it true," asked Xanthe, blushing, "that my uncle is seeking a rich

bride for him in Messina?"

"Probably, but in courtship one does not always reach the desired goal.

Has Phaon told you nothing about his father's wishes? Question the

conjurer, or he'll get his new clothes with far too little trouble. Save

me the reproach of being a spendthrift."

"I don't wish to do so; what is the use of such folly?" replied Xanthe,

with flushed cheeks, preparing to go into the house.

Her father shrugged his shoulders, and, turning his head, called after

her:

"Do as you please, but cut a piece from the brown woolen cloth, and

bring it to the conjurer."

The young girl disappeared in the house. The tune which the boy drew

from the monaulus again and again sounded monotonous, but the young

people constantly grew more mirthful; higher and higher sprang the

bounding feet.

The ribbons fluttered as if a storm had seized them; many a gay garment

waved; and there was no end to the shouts and clapping of hands in time

with the music.

When Mopsus, or any other lad, raised his voice unusually loud, or a

young girl laughed in the overflowing joy of her heart, Lysander's eyes

sparkled like sunshine, and he often raised his hands and swayed merrily

to and fro to the measure of the music.

"Your heart really dances with the young people," said the conjurer.

"But it lacks feet," replied Lysander, and then he told him about his

fall, and the particulars of his sufferings, the danger in which he had

been, the remedies used, and the final convalescence. He did this with

great pleasure, for it always relieved his mind when he was permitted

to tell the story of his life to a sympathizing auditor, and few had

listened more attentively than did the conjurer, partly from real

interest, partly in anticipation of the cloth.

The little man frequently interrupted Lysander with intelligent

questions, and did not lose patience when the speaker paused to wave his

hand to the merry group.

"How they laugh and enjoy themselves!" the invalid again exclaimed.

"They are all young, and before I had this fall--"

The sentence was not finished, for the notes of the monaulus suddenly

ceased, the dancers stopped, and, instead of the music and laughter,

Semestre's voice was heard; but at the same time Xanthe, carrying a

small piece of brown cloth over her arm, approached the sick man.

The latter at first looked at his daughter's flushed face with some

surprise, then again glanced toward the scene of the interrupted dance,

for something was happening there which he could not fully approve,

though it forced him to laugh aloud.

The young people, whose sport had been interrupted, had recovered from

their fright and joined in a long chain.

Mopsus led the saucy band.

A maiden followed each youth, and the whole party were united, for each

individual grasped the person in front with both hands.

Singing a rhythmical dancing-tune, with the upper portion of the body

bent forward, and executing dainty steps with their feet, they circled

faster and faster around the furious house-keeper.

The latter strove to catch first Chloris, then Dorippe, then some other

maiden, but ere she succeeded the chain separated, joining again behind

her ere she could turn. Mopsus and his dark-haired sweetheart were again

the leaders. When the ring broke the youths and maidens quickly grasped

each other again, and the chain of singing, laughing lads and lasses

once more whirled around the old woman.

For some time the amused master of the house could not succeed in

shaking his head disapprovingly; but when the old housekeeper, who had

never ceased scolding and shaking her myrtle-staff, began to totter from

anger and excitement, Lysander thought the jest was being carried too

far, and, turning to his daughter, exclaimed:

"Go, rescue Semestre and drive those crazy people away. Fun must not go

beyond proper bounds."

Xanthe instantly obeyed the command the chain parted, the youths

hurrying one way, the maidens another; the lads escaped, and so did all

the girls except dark-haired Dorippe, who was caught by Semestre and

driven into the house with angry words and blows.

"There will be tears after the morning dance," said Lysander, "and I

advise you, friend, if you want to avoid a scolding yourself, to leave

the place at once with your feathered artists. Give the man the cloth,

Xanthe."

Xanthe handed the brown woolen stuff to the conjurer.

She blushed faintly as she did so, for, while attempting to cut from the

piece a sufficient quantity, Semestre had snatched the knife from her

hand, exclaiming rudely:

"Half that is twice too much for the insolent rascal."

The little man took the scanty gift, spread it out to its full extent,

and, turning to Lysander, said:

"At our age people rarely experience new emotions, but to-day, for the

first time since I stopped growing, I wish I was still smaller than I am

now."

The invalid had shaken his head discontentedly at sight of the tiny

piece, and, as the conjurer was refolding it over his knee, loosed from

his shoulders the chlamys he himself wore, saying gravely:

"Take this cloak, for what Lysander promises he does not perform by

halves."

The last words were addressed to Semestre as well as the dwarf, for

the old house-keeper, with panting breath and trembling hands, now

approached her master.

Kind words were not to be expected from her mouth now, but even more

bitter and vehement reproaches sprang to her lips as she saw her master

give his scarcely-worn chlamys to a strolling vagrant, and also presume

to reward her economy with taunts.

She had carefully woven the cloak with her own hands, and that, she

cried, was the way her labor was valued! There was plenty of cloth in

the chests, which Lysander could divide among the buffoons at the next

fair in Syracuse. In other countries, even among wild barbarians, white

hairs were honored, but here the elders taught the young people to

insult them with jeers and mockery.

At these words the invalid's face turned pale, a dark shadow appeared

under his eyes, and an expression of pain hovered around his mouth. He

looked utterly exhausted.

Every feature betrayed how the old woman's shrill voice and passionate

words disturbed him, but he could not silence her by loud rebukes, for

his voice failed, and he therefore sought to make peace by the soothing

gestures of his thin hands and his beseeching eyes.

Xanthe felt and saw that her father was suffering, and exclaimed in a

fearless, resolute tone:

"Silence, Semestre! your scolding is hurting my father."

These words increased the house-keeper's wrath instead of lessening it.

In a half-furious, half-whining tone, she exclaimed:

"So it comes to this! The child orders the old woman. But you shall

know, Lysander, that I won't allow myself to be mocked like a fool. That

impudent Mopsus is your freed-woman's child, and served this house for

high wages, but he shall leave it this very day, so surely as I hope

to live until the vintage. He or I! If you wish to keep him, I'll go to

Agrigentum and live with my daughter and grandchildren, who send to me

by every messenger. If this insolent fellow is more to you than I am,

I'll leave this place of ingratitude. In Agrigentum--"

"It is beautiful in Agrigentum!" interrupted the conjurer, pointing with

his finger impressively in the direction of this famous city.

"It is delightful there," cried the old woman, "so long as one doesn't

meet pygmies like you in the streets."

The house-keeper was struggling for breath, and her master took

advantage of the pause to murmur beseechingly, like a child who is to be

deprived of something it loves:

"Mopsus must go--merry Mopsus? Nobody knows how to lift and support me

so well."

These words softened Semestre's wrath, and, lowering her voice, she

replied:

"You will no longer need the lad for that purpose; Leonax, Alciphron's

son, is coming to-day. He'll lift and support you as if you were his own

father. The people in Messina are friendly and honor age, for, while you

jeer at me, they remember the old woman, and will send me a beautiful

matron's-robe for the future wedding."

The invalid looked inquiringly at his daughter, and the latter answered,

blushing:

"Semestre has told me. She informed me, while I was cutting the cloth,

that Leonax would come as a suitor."

"May he fare better than Alkamenes and the others, whom you sent home!

You know I will not force your inclinations, but, if I am to lose

Mopsus, I should like a pleasant son. Why has Phaon fallen into such

foolish, evil ways? The young Leonax--"

"Is of a different stamp," interrupted Semestre--"Now come, my dove, I

have a thousand things to do."

"Go," replied Xanthe. "I'll come directly.--You will feel better,

father, if you rest now. Let me help you into the house, and lie down on

the cushion for a time."

The young girl tried to lift her father, but her strength was too

feeble to raise the wearied man. At last, with the conjurer's help, he

succeeded in rising, and the latter whispered earnestly in his ear:

"My hens tell me many things, but another oracle behind my forehead

says, you are on the high-road to recovery, but you won't reach the

goal, unless you treat the old woman, who is limping into the house

yonder, as I do the birds I train."

"And what do you do?"

"Teach them to obey me, and if I see that they assert their own wills,

sell them and seek others."

"You are not indebted to the stupid creatures for anything?"

"But I owe so much the more to the others, who do their duty."

"Quite true, and therefore you feed and keep them."

"Until they begin to grow old and refuse obedience."

"And then?"

"Then I give them to a peasant, on whose land they lay eggs, eat and

die. The right farmer for your hens lives in Agrigentum."

Lysander shrugged his shoulders; and, as, leaning on his daughter, he

tottered slowly forward, almost falling on the threshold, Xanthe took a

silent vow to give him a son on whom he could firmly depend--a stalwart,

reliable man.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO SUCKING-PIGS.

Fifteen minutes had passed, and the old house-keeper's face still

glowed--no longer from anger, but because, full of zeal, she now moulded

cakes before the bright flames on the hearth, now basted the roast on

the spit with its own juices.

Beside her stood old Jason, who could not give up his young master's

cause for lost, and exposed himself once more to the arrows of

Semestre's angry words, because he bitterly repented having irritated

instead of winning her.

Unfortunately, his soothing speeches fell on hard ground, for Semestre

scarcely vouchsafed a reply, and at last distinctly intimated that he

interrupted her.

"Attention," she said, "is the mother of every true success. It is even

more needful in cooking than in weaving; and if Leonax, for whom my

hands are busy, resembles his father, he knows how to distinguish bad

from good."

"Alciphron," replied Jason, "liked the figs on our arbor by the house

better than yours."

"And while he was enjoying them," cried the old woman, "you beat him

with a hazel rod. I can hear him cry now, poor little dear."

"Too many figs are bad for the stomach," replied the old man, very

slowly and distinctly, but not too loud, that he might not remind her

of her deafness. Then seeing Semestre smile, he drew nearer, and with

winning cheerfulness continued: "Be sensible, and don't try to part the

children, who belong to each other. Xanthe, too, is fond of figs, and,

if Leonax shares his father's taste, how will the sweet fruit of your

favorite trees fare, if Hymen unites them in marriage? Phaon doesn't

care for sweet things. But seriously: though his father may seek twenty

brides for him, he himself wants no one but Xanthe. And can you deny

that he is a handsome, powerful fellow?"

"So is the other," cried Semestre, wholly unmoved by these words. "Have

you seen your favorite this morning? No! Do you know where he slept last

night and the night before?"

"On his couch, I suppose."

"In your house?"

"I don't run after the youth, now he is grown up."

"Neither shall we! You are giving yourself useless trouble, Jason, and

I earnestly beg you not to disturb me any longer now, for a dark spot is

already appearing on the roast. Quick, Chloris--lift the spit from the

fire!"

"I should like to bid Lysander good-morning."

"He is tired, and wants to see no one. The servants have vexed him."

"Then I'll stay awhile in the garden."

"To try your luck with Xanthe? I tell you, it's trouble wasted, for

she's dressing her hair to receive our guest from Messina; and, if she

were standing where those cabbage-leaves be, she wouldn't contradict me

if I were to repeat what you heard from my lips this morning at sunrise.

Our girl will never become Phaon's wife until I myself offer a sacrifice

to Aphrodite, that she may fill Xanthe's heart with love for him."

Jason shrugged his shoulders, and was preparing to turn his back on the

old woman, when Dorippe entered and approached the hearth. Her eyes were

red with weeping, and in her arms she carried a round, yellowish-white

creature that, struggling and stretching it's little legs in the air,

squealed in a clear, shrill voice, even more loudly and piteously than a

hungry babe.

It was a pretty, well-fattened sucking pig.

Jason looked at it significantly, but Semestre snatched it out of the

girl's arms, pressed it to her own bosom, turned her back upon the old

man with resolute meaning, and said, just loud enough for him alone to

hear:

"A roast for the banquet."

As soon as Jason had left the room, she put the nicely-washed pig on a

little wooden bench, ordered Chloris to see that it did not soil itself;

drew from a small box, standing beside the loom, one blue ribbon and two

red ones; tied the former carefully around the little creature's curly

tail, and the latter about its cars; lifted the pig again, looked at it

as a mother gazes at her prettily-dressed darling, patted its

fattest parts with her right-hand, and ordered Dorippe to carry it to

Aphrodite's temple immediately.

"It's a beautiful creature, absolutely faultless, and the priest must

slay it at once in Honor of the gracious goddess. I will come myself,

as soon as everything is ready here; and, after such a gift, foam-born

Cypris will surely grant my petition. Hide the little treasure carefully

under your robe, that no one may see it."

"It struggles and squeals when I carry it," replied the girl.

"Yes, it does squeal," said the old woman. "Wait, I'll look for a

suitable basket."

The house-keeper went out, and, when she returned, cried:

"Mopsus is standing outside with our donkey, to carry bag and baggage to

his mother's house, but he's still in Lysander's service to-day. Let

him put the creature in a basket on the donkey's back, and then he can

quickly carry it to the temple--at once and without delay, for, if I

don't find it on the goddess's altar in an hour, you shall answer for

it! Tell him this, and then get some rosemary and myrtle to garland our

hearth."

Mopsus did not hasten to perform the errand. He had first to help

Dorippe cut the green branches, and, while thus engaged, sought pleasant

gifts not only on the ground, but from his sweetheart's red lips, then

moved up the mountain with his donkey, very slowly, without urging the

animal. The latter carried one basket on the right and one on the

left of its saddle, wore bright cock's feathers on its head, and had a

fiery-red bridle. It looked gay enough in its finery, yet hung its head,

though far less sorrowfully than its young driver, whom Semestre had

exiled from his master's house and the girl he loved.

He spent half an hour in reaching the sanctuary.

Old Jason, at the same time, was standing before the little grove beside

the steps leading to the cella.

The worthy man cradled in his arms, as Dorippe had just done in

Lysander's house, a little squealing creature, and this, too, was a

pig; but it wore no ribbon around its little tail and ears, was not

particularly fat, and had numerous black spots under its scanty bristles

and on its sharp snout.

The old man was gazing at the innocent creature by no means tenderly,

but with the utmost indignation. He had good reason to be angry, for the

priest had not thought it fit for a sacrifice to the goddess, it was so

poor in fat and full of bad marks.

Alas, and Jason had no second pig, and was so eager to win the goddess

to Phaon's cause.

As soon as he saw Semestre's offering, he had hurried home to anticipate

her with his own, and first win the goddess's heart for his young

master.

Now he stood considering whether he should strangle the unlucky

creature, or carry it back to its mother.

Like a frugal steward, he decided upon the latter course, and, just as

he was comparing the image of the lean, spotted animal with its future

well-rounded condition, he heard the hoofs of the donkey driven by

Mopsus, the heavy thud of a stick on the elastic flesh, and after every

blow, the shout, "Semestre!"

Directly after Mopsus and his donkey reached the old man, and as the

youth, without looking to the right or left, dealt the animal another

thwack, again uttering the house-keeper's name, and in connection with

it a succession of harsh, abusive words, Jason looked at the young man

with approval, nay, almost tenderly.

The latter usually shouted a loud "Joy be with you!" whenever he met the

old man, but to-day answered his greeting only with a sorrowful nod and

low murmur.

The steward had stepped in front of him, laid his hard hand on the

donkey's head, and asked:

"Do you call your ass Semestre?" Mopsus blushed, and answered:

"In future I shall call all she-asses that, but the old Megaera named

this one Jason."

"Why, see," cried the steward, "how kindly the worthy woman remembers

me! But she, too, was not forgotten, for, whenever you lifted your

stick, you thought, I should suppose, of her."

"Indeed I did!" cried Mopsus; then, while stroking the stripes on the

donkey's flanks, added kindly:

"Poor Jason, you too have nothing for which to thank the old woman. If

you only knew how abominable this woman is--"

"I do know," the steward interrupted, "but she is an old woman, and it

does not beseem you to abuse her; she represents the house under its

invalid ruler."

"I'd willingly lay both these hands under his feet," cried the youth,

"but Semestre has driven me out of his service for nothing, away from

here and Dorippe, and where can I find a place in the neighborhood?"

The almost whining tone of the complaint contrasted oddly with the

appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered Mopsus, yet tears filled

his eyes, as he now told the steward about the juggler, the dance,

Semestre's anger, his banishment from Lysander's house, and the

house-keeper's commission to carry a sucking-pig to Aphrodite's temple

for her.

Jason listened with only partial attention, for the low grunting of a

pig, that reached his ears from one of the baskets on the donkey, seemed

to him far more interesting than the poor fellow's story. He knew the

ways of every domestic animal, and such sounds were only uttered by

a little pig that felt comfortably fat, and lived under favorable

circumstances.

A great thought awoke in his mind, and must have pleased him hugely, for

his eyes began to sparkle, his mouth puckered in a smile, and he looked

exactly like a satyr thrusting his thick lips toward the largest and

ripest bunches of grapes in the vineyard.

When Mopsus paused, he angrily noticed what an enlivening influence his

sorrowful story had had upon the old man, but soon laughed too; for, ere

he could give expression to his dissatisfaction, Jason had opened the

basket on the left of the donkey, taken out Semestre's gayly-decked pig,

put his own lanky animal in its place, and said, giggling with pleasure:

"After what Semestre has done to a poor fellow like you, she doesn't

deserve the favor of our goddess. Let me offer Aphrodite this most

charming of pigs, and you offer my little beast in the house-keeper's

name; then her petition will certainly find no hearing."

At these words Mopsus's broad face brightened, and, after laughing

loudly, he struck his fist in the palm of his left hand, turned on the

heel of his right foot, and exclaimed:

"Yes, that will be just right."

True, directly after, he looked as doubtful as if an invisible

myrtle-staff had been swung over his back, and asked:

"But if she notices it?"

"I know how we'll manage it," replied the old man, and, putting

Semestre's pig in Mopsus's arms, took the ribbons from its ears and

curly tail.

Meantime, the little animal grunted as piteously as if it noticed that

its finery was being stolen and its beauty impaired.

And when Jason, with Mopsus's assistance, put the same ribbons on his

own lank pig, it looked neither better nor prouder than before, for it

was no lucky animal and did not appreciate beautiful gifts.

CHAPTER V.

THE WALK TO THE SEA.

While the priest of Aphrodite received Jason's gift, praised the pig's

beauty, and promised to slay it immediately, but said he would only

accept the lean animal Mopsus offered in Semestre's name for the sake of

its ornaments and the giver, Xanthe came out of her father's house. She

wore her handsomest garments, and had carefully arranged her beautiful

fair hair reflecting as she did so on many different things, for maidens

are fond of thinking when seated at the loom or spinning-wheel, or

quietly occupied in adorning their tresses.

Semestre followed close behind, and gave her a small knife, saying:

"It is seemly to decorate the door of a welcome guest with flowers. The

bushes are full of roses now, so go and cut as many as will be needed

for a handsome garland, but gather only red or yellow flowers, no white

ones, for they bring no good fortune. You will find the largest below

near the bench by the sea."

"I know."

"Wait and hear me out."

"Well?"

"The weather is delightful, there was a light breeze from the north

during the night, so it may happen that the ship from Messina will

arrive before noon."

"Then let me go down."

"Go and watch for the sails. If you see ours, hurry back and tell

Chloris to call me, for I must go to the temple of Cypris."

"You?" asked Xanthe, laughing.

"I, and you are the last person who should sneer at the errand; nay, you

can accompany me."

"No! I will cut the roses."

These words were uttered in a tone the house-keeper knew well. Whenever

Xanthe used it, she insisted upon having her own way, and did what she

pleased, while Semestre, who usually never admitted that her hearing was

no longer so keen as in former clays, in such cases willingly pleaded

her deafness, in order to avoid a retreat.

To-day she particularly shrank from irritating the easily-excited girl,

and therefore replied:

"What did you say? Wouldn't it be better for you to go and cut the roses

immediately, my dove? Make haste, for the vessel for which you are

to watch bears your happiness. How beautiful the ornaments Leonax is

bringing will look! We have never yet seen the like, I imagine. The

people in Messina haven't forgotten poor me either, for I heard whispers

about a robe such as matrons wear. It is--it might be--well, we shall

see."

Tittering, and almost embarrassed, she fixed her eyes upon the ground,

reminded Xanthe once more to have her called as soon as the ship from

Messina appeared, and then, leaning on her myrtle-staff, tottered up the

path leading to the temple of the goddess.

Xanthe did not go directly down to the sea, but approached her uncle's

house to seek Phaon with her eyes.

As she could not see him, either in the stables, or the walk lined with

fig-trees trained upon espaliers beside the house, she turned quickly

away, repressing out of pride her desire to call him.

On her way to the sea she met her uncle's high-shouldered slave. Xanthe

stopped and questioned him.

Semestre had told no lie. Phaon had not yet returned from a nocturnal

excursion, and for several days had not reached home until just before

sunrise.

No, he was not the man to offer support to her sick father. He was

looking for a wealthy heiress, and forgot his relatives for the sake of

dissolute young men and worthless wenches.

This thought hurt her sorely, so sorely that she wanted to weep as she

had done by the spring.

But she forced back her tears; not one wet her cheeks, yet it seemed as

if her poor heart had obtained eyes to shed them.

The little knife in her hand reminded her of her task of cutting roses,

and watching for the ship which was to bring her uncle's son from

Messina.

If Leonax was what Semestre described him, she would not repel him like

the other suitors, whom she had rejected with laughing lips.

Yes, she would become his wife, not only for her father's sake, but to

punish Phaon.

Sorrow and pain never felt before filled her heart after making this

resolution. Wholly engrossed by these conflicting emotions, instead of

going down to the sea, she walked straight on till she reached the great

gate that led to her own home. There she remembered the object of her

errand, and was just turning back, when the conjurer, who was resting

outside the gate with his cart in the shadow of the fence, called:

"You are obeying my advice, beautiful Xanthe, and move as thoughtfully

as a sophist."

"Then you must not disturb me," cried the girl, raising her head

defiantly. "Pardon me if I do so," replied the other, "but I wanted to

tell you that I might perhaps know of aid for your father. In my home--"

"Where is your home?"

"In Messina."

"Messina!" exclaimed Xanthe, eagerly.

"A very experienced physician lives there," interrupted the conjurer.

"No one has helped my father."

"Yet!"

"Then come in and speak to him."

"I'm afraid of the cross old woman."

"She has gone out, and you will find father alone."

"Then I'll go to him."

"Did you say you were from Messina?"

"That is my home."

"Do you know my uncle Alciphron, the merchant?"

"Certainly. He owns the most ships in the place."

"And his son Leonax, too?"

"I often saw him, for my hut stands opposite to the landing-place of

your uncle's vessels, and the youth always superintends the loading and

unloading. He, if any one, belongs to those spoiled children of fortune

who disgust poor dwarfs like me with life, and make us laugh when people

say there are just gods above."

"You are blaspheming."

"I only say what others think."

"Yet you too were young once."

"But I was a dwarf, and he resembles Achilles in stature; I was poor

and he does not know what to do with his wealth; maidens fled from me as

they seek him; I was found in the streets; and a father still guides, a

loving mother kisses him. I don't envy him, for whoever enters life an

orphan is spared the pain of becoming one afterward."

"You speak bitter words."

"He who is beaten does not laugh."

"So you envy Leonax his prosperity?"

"No, for, though I might have such excellent cause to complain, I

envy no king, for there is but one person whose inmost heart I know

thoroughly, and that one stands before you.

"You revile Fate, and yet believe it possible that we may all have more

sorrow to bear than you."

"You have understood me rightly."

"Then admit that you may be happier than many."

"If only most of the contented people were not stupid. However, this

morning I am pleased, because your father gave me this new garment, and

I rarely need despair; I earn enough bread, cheese, and wine with the

aid of my hens, and am not obliged to ask any man's favor. I go with my

cart wherever I choose."

"Then you ought to thank the gods, instead of accusing them."

"No, for absence of suffering is not happiness."

"And do you believe Leonax happy?"

"Hitherto he seems to be, and the fickle goddess will perhaps remain

faithful to him longer than to many others, for he is busy from early

till late, and is his father's right-hand. At least he won't fall into

one of the pits Fate digs for mortals."

"And that is--?"

"Weariness. Thousands are worse, and few better, than your cousin; yes,

the maiden he chooses for his wife may rejoice." Xanthe blushed, and the

dwarf, as he entered the gate, asked:

"Is Leonax wooing his little cousin?"

"Perhaps."

"But the little cousin has some one else in her mind."

"Who told you so?"

"My hens."

"Then remember me to them!" cried Xanthe, who left the juggler and ran

straight toward the path leading to the sea.

Just at the point where the latter branched off from the broader road

used by carts as well as foot-passengers, stood a singular monument,

before which the young girl checked her steps.

The praise the conjurer had lavished on Leonax afforded her little

pleasure; nay, she would rather have heard censure of the Messina

suitor, for, if he corresponded with the dwarf's portrait, he would be

the right man to supply a son's place to her father, and rule as master

over the estate, where many things did not go on as they ought. Then she

must forget the faithless night-reveller, Phaon--if she could.

Every possession seems most charming at the time we are obliged to

resign it, and never in all her life had Xanthe thought so tenderly and

longingly of Phaon as now and on this spot.

The monument, overgrown with blossoming vines, before which she paused,

was a singular structure, that had been built of brick between her own

and her uncle's garden.

It was in the form of a strong wall, bounded by two tall pillars. In the

wall were three rows of deep niches with arched ceilings, while on the

pillars, exquisitely painted upon a brownish-red ground, were the Genius

of Death lowering his torch before an offering-altar, and Orpheus, who

had released his wife from the realm of shadows and was now bearing her

to the upper world.

Many of the niches were still empty, but in some stood vases of

semi-transparent alabaster.

The newest, which had found a place in the lowest row, contained the

ashes of the young girl's grandfather, Dionysius, and his wife, and

another pair of urns the two mothers, her own and Phaon's.

Both had fallen victims on the same day to the plague, the only

pestilence that had visited this bright coast within the memory of man.

This had happened eight years ago.

At that time Xanthe was still a child, but Phaon a tall lad.

The girl passed this place ten times a day, often thought of the beloved

dead, and, when she chanced to remember them still more vividly, waved

a greeting to the dear ashes, because some impulse urged her to give her

faithful memory some outward expression.

Very rarely did she recall the day when the funeral-pile had cooled,

and the ashes of the two mothers, both so early summoned to the realm

of shadows, were collected, placed in the vases, and added to the other

urns. But now she could not help remembering it, and how she had sat

before one of the pillars of the monument weeping bitterly, and asking

herself again and again, if it were possible that her mother would

never, never come to kiss her, speak caressing words, arrange her hair

and pet her; nay, for the first time, she longed to hear even a sharp

reproof from the lips now closed forever.

Phaon was standing by the other pillar, his eyes covered with his right

hand.