Book I

THE JOURNEY

I

THE SEA

A hot April sun shone full over the waters to the pencilled line of the

southern horizon, where a long circle divided the misty, shimmering

dove-color of the Mediterranean from the richer blue of the swelling

sky. A path of sun-strewn ripples, broadening as the afternoon advanced,

ended at that distant line, and found its starting-point at the rocky

base of the Selinuntian acropolis, on the southwestern coast of Sicily.

The day was warm, and the air rich with the perfume of sweet alyssum,

beneath which delicate flower the whole island lay buried. A light

breeze feathered the sea, occasionally sweeping away enough powdered

sunshine to disclose the rich sapphire depths of the under-waters.

Nevertheless more perfect skies had been, and generally were, at this

season of the year; for to-day half the west was hidden by a curtain of

short, thick clouds that threatened to hide the usual evening glory of

wine-tinted waters and crimson-flooded skies.

Upon the height of the cliff that terminates the broad Selinuntian

plain, Selinous, white, Doric city, with her groups of many-columned

temples and her well-built walls, sent forth the usual droning murmur of

life. White-robed men and women were wont to move in unhurried dignity

in their citadels in those days when Æneas was not yet a myth, before

Syracuse knew Gelon, when the first Aahmes ruled in Egypt, when Croesus

of Lydia and Astyages of Media were paying bitter tribute to the great

Elamite just retired from Babylonian plains to his far Rhagæ in the

Eastern hills; and here, on the Sicilian coast, the Greek city lay in

placid beauty upon her two hills, divided by the philosophically drained

valley, bounded upon the right hand by her shining river, while far to

the left, in the direction of Acragas, a line of rugged hills rose into

the blue. The four bright temples of the acropolis were mirrored in the

sea below. On the east hill, at some distance from where the gigantic

new sanctuary to Apollo was building, and directly in front of the old

temple of Hera, on the very edge of the cliff, drowsing in the sunlight,

lay Charmides, a shepherd, surrounded by his flock.

The life of a shepherd in the flood-time of a Sicilian spring was not an

arduous one. If it had been, Theron's son would not, in all probability,

have followed that calling through the few years that he was required to

spend at ordinary labor. For, as his family realized and his appearance

too markedly proclaimed, this child of the Spartans did not partake of

the spirit of his race. Rarely, singularly beautiful he was, and fair as

an Athenian. Apollo himself might have turned envious at sight of this

disciple of his as he slept on a drift of wild daisies, his short, white

tunic stained with green, the thong that served him for a girdle loosely

tied, much-worn sandals bound upon his feet, and a wreath of gray

olive-leaves woven into the rumpled hair that fell upon his neck in

rings of living gold. Charmides' eyes had the color of the sea. His

brows were fine and straight; his mouth not altogether lacking in

strength, yet perfect as a woman's. As he slept, one of the youth's

sunburned hands grasped a tuft of herbs that grew upon the edge of the

slope, while the other, even in his unconsciousness, drew a fleeting

harmony from the lyre that lay beside him.

This dalliance with the honored instrument, taken with his unathletic

physique, was evidence enough of the chosen profession of the temporary

shepherd. Four years ago, at the age of eighteen, Charmides had elected

to enter the ranks of that band of rhapsodists known to us now only as

the predecessors of fire-winged Pindar and his glorious brethren. Never

was the shepherd seen following his flock over the fields without lyre

or flute in his hands; and no holiday or festival was quite complete

without some lyric chanted in his clear tenor to the accompaniment of

those sweet, primitive chords that so fittingly clothed the syllables of

the most melodious of all tongues. Charmides' poems, however, were

always of one type. Natural beauty, the evening wind, the perfume of a

flower, the red of dawn, the silver of moonlight, he would reproduce so

perfectly in words that he was left unrivalled in his peculiar field.

But greater themes, battle-hymns of Mars and Nike, or idyls of Cythera

and the dove-drawn chariot, had not apparently occurred to him as

desirable subjects for his art. Either Charmides was what his athlete

brother declared him--a woman dressed in too short a tunic--or his true

nature was sleeping far beyond its natural period.

The sun hung just above the clouds as the youth sat up and looked about

him. His flock, a drove of white, long-haired sheep, whose wool was

woven into many a tunic of their herdsman, had wandered out of sight

behind the temple of Hera. Charmides unbound his flageolet from the side

of his left leg, and, without stirring from his place, lifted the

instrument to his lips, playing upon it a quaint, primitive strain full

of minor cadences, mournful, but peculiarly pleasing. For two or three

minutes this tune was the only sound to be heard. Then, of a sudden,

came a distant "Ba-a!" from the direction of the temple, and round its

eastern columns appeared a white head, another, and another, till the

whole flock was visible. For a moment or two they halted, regarding

their keeper with silly, affectionate eyes. Charmides smiled as he

watched them, and presently gave a little nod. At sight of it the leader

of the company started forward again, and the entire number followed, at

a gentle trot. When he was entirely surrounded by his animals, Charmides

put his pipe back in its place, caressed with rough tenderness the

nearest lamb, and finally, having had enough of afternoon with the sea,

sprang to his feet thinking to proceed farther afield. As his eyes met

the western horizon, from which his face had for the last few moments

been turned, he broke his yawn short off in the middle, and his intent

was forgotten. The cloud, which now covered the sun, was no longer gray,

but a deep purple, palpitating with inward fire; while far to the west a

galley, a little, black patch upon the waters, rose upon the horizon,

coming from Mazzara. Charmides saw possibilities of hexameters in the

race, and, though its outcome did not affect him in the least, he had a

desire to know whether he must have Zeus with his bolts bring vengeance

on some disobedient mortal, or whether Father Neptune and his dolphins

were to lead the men of the galley safely into the little Selinuntian

harbor.

It was not many minutes before the little vessel had become a Phoenician

bireme with a huge, brown mainsail hanging loosely on the mast, and

barely visible oars churning the water on each side with hasty vigor. By

this time the last radiance had been swept from the sky. The distant

waters darkened, and their restless, uneasy masses began to show flecks

of foam. Presently, for a bare second, through a single rift in the

cloud, a thin gleam of sunlight shot out and down to the misty sea,

lighting the dark surface to opalescent brightness, and then

disappearing in a single breath. As the sky darkened again the air grew

cold. Three or four petrels, birds of the storm, rising from the distant

sands, veered joyously out over the flattening waters. A faint murmur of

angry winds came from the west, and with its first sound Charmides was

recalled from the scene in which he was blithely living to his flock,

who were upon the verge of a stampede. They had ceased to eat and were

standing quiveringly still, heads up, nostrils distended, fore-legs

stiffening for the leap and race which would follow the first

thunder-clap. Their shepherd was just in time. Putting all thought of

the storm behind him, he lifted his lyre and started forward, singing as

he went. The sheep followed him, with implicit faith, across the broad

pasture and down the long, gentle slope in the direction of their fold

and his father's house, till the sea and the galley and the storm were

left to the petrels and those on the acropolis to watch.

There, indeed, in front of the basilica, quite a band of citizens had

assembled, watching with interest and anxiety the progress of the

storm-beset vessel. The little ship had apparently a daring captain. No

precautions whatever had been made for the first gust of wind; neither

did the ship's course suggest that there would be an effort to gain the

inner harbor of the city as speedily as possible. Instead, those that

watched realized that she would be a hundred feet off the base of the

acropolis cliff when the storm broke. At present the wind had so nearly

died away that the main-sail flapped at the mast. The double banks of

oars were working rapidly and unevenly, and the main deck of the vessel

was, to all appearances, entirely deserted. Evidently an unusual state

of affairs prevailed on board of the Phoenician galley.

The pause that preceded the breaking of the storm was unnaturally long.

Save for the gleam of an occasional, faintly hissing wave-crest, the

waters had grown black. The heart of the storm-cloud seethed in purple,

while all the rest of the sky was hung with gray. There came one long

moment when the atmosphere sank under a weight of sudden heat. Then the

far-distant murmur, which till now had been scarcely audible, rushed

upon the silence in a mighty roar, as, up from the south, driven before

the gale, came a long line of white waves that rose as they advanced

till the very Tritons bent their heads and the nymphs scurried down to

greener depths. Now a sudden, zigzag streak of fire shot through the

cloud, followed by a crash as of all the bolts of Zeus let off at once.

The galley seemed to be scarcely moving. Her sail hung loose upon its

mast. Not a soul was to be seen upon the upper deck. Only the oars still

creaked in their holes, and the water churned unevenly along the

vessel's sides. The wind was nearly upon her. There was a second glare

of lightning, a second crash more fearful than the first; and then it

was as if the fragile craft, seized by some cyclopean hand, had been

lifted entirely from the water to be plunged downward again into the

midst of chaos.

The number of spectators of this unusual scene had by this time been

greatly augmented. Upon the acropolis, at the point where the street of

Victory came to an end upon the edge of the precipitous cliff, stood a

crowd of men and women, to whom others were continually coming from the

shelter of their houses. Presently Charmides, together with his brother,

Phalaris, both breathless from their run across the valley of the

Hypsas, arrived on the cliff. The galley was now struggling in the

centre of the storm, writhing and shuddering over the waves directly in

front of the acropolis. As the only possible salvation, her bow had been

pointed directly to the south into the wind, a move which made it

necessary for the rowers, backing water with all their strength, to keep

her from driving backward upon the great rock, fragments of which were

strewn far out through the water from the base of the cliff behind.

Through the incessant lightning flashes the violent and uneven use of

the oars was clearly visible, and, after watching them in silence for a

few moments, Phalaris shook his head.

"The rowers will not endure long under such labor. The boat must be

driven ashore."

"As yet they have lost no distance, though."

And this, indeed, was true. Full fifty yards now lay between the first

rock and the stern of the galley. It seemed, too, as if the storm had

lulled a little. Charmides shouted the idea into his brother's ear, but

Phalaris again shook his head, and both looked once more to the vessel,

just in time to see her struck by a fresh gust of wind that tore the

overstrained sail into ribbons and shreds. At the same instant the oars

ceased their work. The boat spun completely round, twice, like a wheel,

and a second later was driven, by one great wave, straight towards the

huge rocks off the cliff.

"Apollo! What has happened to the rowers?" cried one of the elders.

"And where is the captain of this vessel? Is he a madman?"

"In three minutes more she will be a wreck. Come, Charmides!" shouted

Phalaris, starting over the cliff.

Together the brothers climbed down the precipitous descent to the narrow

strip of sand at its base. Here was a scene of no little activity. The

Theronides found themselves last of a company of their friends to arrive

at this point of vantage, where not a few had been standing for half an

hour. Several older men were also grouped along the beach, anxiously

watching the drama which threatened to terminate in a tragedy. At the

moment when the brothers reached the lower shore, the galley, lifted

high upon the wave, hung for a second on its summit, and then, as it

broke, spun down and forward with sickening speed straight upon two

horn-shaped rocks, between which she was presently wedged fast and

firmly, twenty yards from shore.

A little cry broke from Charmides' lips. With the next flash he beheld

the galley heeled far upon her right side, oars shattered, sides still

uncrushed, while on her prow there stood at last a black swarm of men.

By this time a dozen of the young Greeks, stripped of their wet tunics,

were making their way out into the breakers, intent upon saving the

wrecked sailors from being dashed upon the rocks as they escaped from

their ship. Charmides hastily followed the example of his fellows and

ran into the chilly water after Phalaris, who stood in, shoulder-deep,

fifty feet from the ship. It was nearly impossible to keep a footing

there. Breaker after breaker dashed over their heads, and Phalaris,

expert swimmer as he was, found himself unable to stand upright, and

frequently struggled to his feet choking for breath, with sea-water in

his eyes, ears, and nose. Charmides fared worse still. Overbalanced by

the second wave that struck him, he was whirled round and round in it,

and finally washed up on shore, half drowned. After a moment or two of

gasping and reeling, he returned pluckily into the water, this time

finding shelter beside a rock which he could also grasp. Phalaris

managed to reach his side and share his protection, and there the two of

them stood, waiting.

A period of delay and general commotion on the deck of the galley

ensued. Three men in the centre of the company of sailors were engaged

in some altercation, in which all the rest seemed far more interested

than in making an escape from the vessel, which, apparently, was in no

immediate danger of breaking up. Presently, however, to Phalaris'

immense relief, for the useless battling with breakers was becoming too

much, alike for his strength and for his patience, one of the men from

the galley was seen to throw a rope over the vessel's side, make it fast

upon the bulwark, and begin to lower himself, hand over hand, down to

the water. At the rope's end he stopped, hung there for a moment,

waiting for a wave to go by, and then slipped lightly in. Like all

Phoenicians he was a good swimmer. Phalaris knew, from the manner in

which he threw himself forward, that there was little danger of his not

reaching the shore. Yet when, presently, a wave dashed violently over

him, Charmides gave a little cry at seeing the man hurled helplessly

forward, and then roll over and over in the grasp of the sea. Phalaris

shouted above the clamor of winds and waters:

"Watch, Charmides, to seize him!"

As the writhing body swirled towards them, both Greeks, leaning forward,

caught and held it fast. The man was not drowned nor even unconscious.

Accustomed to living more or less in the sea, he had swallowed but

little water, and, being set upright again, with his feet touching

bottom, he stood still for a moment, said something in Phoenician to his

rescuers, and proceeded towards the shore, where most of the young men,

less patient and less expert than Theron's sons, now stood.

Phalaris and Charmides, however, perceiving that they were likely to be

of real use where they were, held their position; and, exhilarated by

the excitement and pleasure of the first rescue, they caught and

assisted, one by one, nearly the whole crew of the galley. Phalaris,

indeed, was amazed at the way in which his brother bore himself. The

rhapsode worked as vigorously as the athlete, showed no fear at the

onslaught of the waves, and was almost as successful as the other at

catching and holding the distressed swimmers as they came by. At length

there remained upon the galley only the three men that had first been

engaged in the discussion. Of these, two presently disappeared from

sight in the hold of the ship, leaving one alone by the bulwark. As this

person, the length of whose tunic showed him to be no common sailor,

finally climbed over the ship's side and began to lower himself

leisurely to the water, Phalaris turned to look upon his brother.

Charmides' form was dimly outlined in the gathering darkness, and his

features were indistinguishable. A lightning flash, however, presently

revealed the face, pale and drawn with exhaustion. Phalaris perceived it

sympathetically.

"For this one man we will wait. Then, if there are not to be two drowned

Greeks, we must make our way ashore," he said, hoarsely, and Charmides

nodded assent.

The last man, for all his easy bearing, proved to be a far less expert

swimmer than his predecessors. He had not accomplished more than a

single, uncertain stroke when a wave caught him, rolled over his head,

and buried him completely from the straining vision of his would-be

rescuer. He was under water for what seemed to Charmides an eternity;

and when, finally, by the light of a flash of lightning, the body was

seen to reappear from the foam of a broken wave, it tossed there,

lifeless, making no effort at resistance. Charmides rushed through the

water to the drowning man's side, and, before reaching him, found

himself out of his depth. As he sent a despairing shout to Phalaris, the

supposed unconscious one addressed him, shouting above the surrounding

roar, in Phoenician:

"Save yourself, youth! I shall float--" The sentence was interrupted by

a rush of water, which threw Charmides forward, and once more buried the

light, limp body of this unusual person.

Acting upon the excellent advice of the floater, the Greek made his

difficult way to the shore, arriving on the beach at the same time with

Phalaris, and a moment later than the stranger, who had been washed up

unhurt and apparently not much disturbed by his contest with the waves.

The two brothers, reaching dry land again, found but few of their

friends left on the sand. As the wet and half-drowned sailors arrived,

one by one, on the shore, they had been approached by the native Greeks,

and, the relations between Carthage and Selinous being as yet of the

most amicable nature, hospitably taken up to the city, where warmth,

food, and rest were to be had. Among the group of three or four that

remained when the last Phoenician was washed up by the waves, was one who

hastened to Charmides, as he stood dizzily on the sand looking back into

the sea that was in such a furious commotion.

"Charmides, you have been foolhardy enough. Such work is well for

Phalaris, perhaps, but--"

"Father, it seems to me that for many months Charmides has been

deceiving us. By nature he is an excellent athlete--better than I."

Charmides shook his head and replied, faintly: "Let us go home. There is

no more to do."

"But there remain still two men on the galley."

"For them," put in the stranger, speaking in awkward Greek, "you need

not fear. They are still below with the slaves, but they will easily

reach the shore, if, indeed, they wish to do so. I think they will

rather remain where they are to-night."

"The galley does not appear to be breaking up."

"No. Her bottom did not strike. She is only wedged fast between two

rocks."

In the little pause which followed, Theron peered through the darkness

in an attempt to distinguish the features of the stranger. Night had

closed in, however, in intense blackness, and before Charmides had time

to put in a second, shivering appeal, his father said:

"Come then, my sons, we will start homeward. Your mother must be waiting

our return. And you, O stranger, if you will accept of shelter and food

at our hands, such as we have, in the name of Apollo, are yours."

The man from the galley accepted, without hesitation, the proffered

hospitality. Then Theron bade good-night to those with whom he had been

talking, and the stranger followed in the footsteps of the young men,

who were hastening along the sand that skirted the cliff and thence ran

into a wider beach that terminated the valley between the two hills.

It was twenty minutes of difficult walking even in daylight to reach the

abode of Theron from the acropolis; and to-night, amid the heavy

darkness, and in their exhausted condition, both Charmides and his

brother were completely spent before the friendly light of their home

became visible in front of them. The house was well built, of stone

covered with the usual stucco, brightly colored without and prettily

frescoed within. The rooms above ground numbered only four; while

beneath the living-room, reached by a flight of stone steps, was a

cellar stored with a goodly number of amphoræ filled with wine of

varied make and excellence--most of it from vines that covered the

much-disputed Egestan plain; some, of more celebrated vintage, sent up

from Syracuse.

Theron's wife, Heraia, and Doris, the pretty slave, their day's spinning

and embroidery ended, were busy preparing the evening meal. Heraia was

not a little anxious over the absence of her husband and her two sons

through the whole of the storm, and she was particularly uneasy about

Charmides, whom she loved more with the tenderness felt for a daughter

than for a son. Some time since she had despatched Sardeis, the male

slave, to the sheep-run, to see if the rhapsode's flock had been safely

housed, and if there were any signs of the shepherd's return. And the

matron had herself gone many times to the door and looked forth into the

oft-illumined darkness in the hope that the storm was abating. A stew of

goat's flesh steamed fragrantly in the kettle by the fire, and Doris

kneaded cakes of ground corn that were to be laid before the fire

immediately upon Theron's return. Heraia was setting the table with

plates and drinking-cups, when suddenly Phalaris threw open the door.

His appearance was not reassuring. Doris gave a faint shriek, and Heraia

cried, in great anxiety:

"Thy father--and Charmides--where are they? You are half fainting,

Phalaris! Come in. What has happened?"

"The others are with me, just behind, bringing up a Phoenician from the

galley that went on the rocks below the acropolis. Here they are."

The other three at that moment appeared out of the darkness beyond the

door-way. Theron and the stranger in front, Charmides lagging weakly in

the rear. Heraia sighed with relief at beholding them, wet, bedraggled,

and spent as they were. Phalaris, and the stranger, about whose legs the

long, soaked tunic flapped uncomfortably, and Charmides, whose wet skin

was of the color and texture of polished ivory, were all three shivering

with cold. Theron, then, as the only unspent one of the party, cried

out, vigorously:

"Heraia, there must be wine, food, and dry garments for us all,

especially for this Phoenician, who, driven from his ship by wind, wave,

and rock, seeks shelter at our hands, and is for the night our honored

guest. He--"

"--proffers thanks to you and to the protecting gods for rescue from the

waters and reception into your home," put in the stranger, gracefully,

if with some languor.

Heraia merely smiled her welcome as her eyes flashed once over his

swarthy face; and then, as one long accustomed to such demands upon her

resources, she took command of the situation. From a carven chest on one

side of the room she brought dry raiment for them all, despatching her

boys first to their room with it while she stopped the Phoenician for a

moment with an apology.

"I have no vestment to offer that can equal yours in texture and color,"

she said, regretfully, gazing with admiring eyes on the long, yellow

tunic, with its deep borders of the wonderful Tyrian purple which no

amount of sea-water could dim and no sun of the tropics fade to a paler

hue. "But at least it shall be carefully dried and stretched smooth upon

the frame. Now if you will but follow Charmides"--she pointed to a

door-way leading to the next room--"wine shall be carried to you while

you dress, and food will be ready before you are. Go then at once."

Smiling to himself at her woman's tongue, the Phoenician very willingly

obeyed her behest, and joined the two young men in their room. Here the

three of them rubbed one another back into a glow of warmth, while

Theron, in another chamber, doffed his rain-soaked vestment for a gayly

bordered tunic, and pretty Doris, in the living-room, still knelt before

the fire over her well-kneaded cakes.

Half an hour later the family and their guest, all much refreshed by the

combination of wine and warmth, seated themselves on stools round the

table, where various dishes were set forth about a big jar of mellow

wine. Doris, upon whose graceful figure Phalaris' eyes were often

seen to rest, while the stranger glanced at her once or twice in

contemplative admiration, poured wine as it was wanted into the

wrought-metal cups, and took care that no one lacked for food. Presently

Theron, perceiving that his guest's spirits were rising under the genial

influence of the Syracusan product, began to question him concerning his

voyage.

The Greeks, out of courtesy, spoke in the Phoenician tongue, which, owing

to their proximity to the easterly Phoenician settlements, and their

constant trading intercourse with the Carthaginians, they spoke with

some fluency. The stranger, with equal politeness and with more

difficulty, made his replies in the language of his hosts.

"Your race, indeed, are daring travellers. It is said that the Phoenician

biremes have been known to pass the pillars of Hercules beyond the

setting sun. Tell us, have you ever looked upon that outer stream of

water that flows round the plain of earth?"

Kabir laughed. "The sea that lies beyond the Herculean pillars is not

part of the stream that surrounds the earth. I have but now come from

far beyond those little mountains. We left Tyre seven months ago, at the

beginning of the rainy season, touching at Carthage and her colonies on

the coast of Hispania. Then we passed the pillars, and sailed away to

that far, cold country of savages where we go for a kind of dye-plant

with which the natives stain their bodies blue, and for a bright metal

which they dig from the earth, but which is not found in the East. The

savages there are gentle enough with us. They like our warm, woollen

cloth, and our weapons, and brass-work, and our jewelry. This time, when

we had finished our trading on their shores, we took one of them on

board with us to guide us up the northern sea to the cold land of

Boreas. Across this frozen country, through forests and over hills,

among fierce native tribes, we Phoenicians have made a road which leads

us farther north, to the shores of an inner sea in whose waters are to

be found marvellous gems of a bright yellow color, sometimes clear as

glass, again thick, like unpolished gold. These we gather and carry home

with us, to be cut into ornaments for our princes and their wives, and

for our temple-fanes. They sell them to us for our cloth, these dwellers

by the sea. Then we return, by the way we came, to our ship. This is the

third time that I, master-trader of the _Fish of Tyre_, have, by the

favor of Baal and Melkart, accomplished the journey."

The exceptionally modest recital ended in a burst of genuine wonderment

and admiration from the auditors. Finally, when the requisite questions

and compliments had been passed, Phalaris observed, curiously:

"The sailors of your galley--they have travelled very far. Are they

well-disciplined men?"

Kabir nodded. "They are as good at sails and ropes and as fearless in

distant seas as they were at ease in the water to-day. You saw them?"

Phalaris gave a chuckle. "If you, master-trader, are as good at making a

bargain as you are at floating, then indeed must the savages of the

North be rueful after your departure. But your rowers--the slaves--they

also are trustworthy and patient?"

Kabir's pale face suddenly flushed. "The dogs! By the hand of Moloch, if

I had had my way, every man of them would lie with a slit nose to-night!

It was they that wrecked our galley to-day. For a month we have been on

the verge of an outbreak from them. They have complained forever about

everything--their food, their places, their chains, the length of the

voyage, too little rest. Latterly it has been a risk each night when we

loosened their bonds to let them sleep. And this afternoon, long before

the storm, their insolence had become unbearable. For three hours their

master, Sydyk, and Eshmun and I stood whipping them to their work. The

wind was on us while we were still below, and Taker, Eshmun's cousin,

fool that he was, forbore to have the sail drawn. It was not till we

were facing the full gale and those panic-stricken dogs pulling like

madmen to keep us off the rocks, that Eshmun went up to see what could

be done. At the moment when he reached the deck the sail was blown into

shreds, and we were spun round as if Scylla herself had caught us.

Hearing a great clamor above them, and feeling the ship suddenly reel

under their oars, every slave in the hold fell forward on his face,

shrieking out prayers to Baal and giving no heed to the bloody lashes

that we still whirled over their heads. Both Sydyk and I foresaw that

thing which shortly happened; and at the moment when the galley was

first thrown between the rocks, we reached the upper air, finding Eshmun

ready to descend once more that he might unchain the slaves, who would

otherwise drown during the night at their posts. Sydyk, however, vowed

that not one of them should live, in consequence of their rebellious

folly. When the dispute between them was thus begun, I, unwisely,

interposed, advising speedy escape for ourselves, letting the animals

below live or perish as they would. They might certainly survive till

morning, since by now we could plainly perceive that the galley could

not sink, wedged as she was in the rocks. So the discussion continued,

and was in no way concluded between the two of them when you saw me

leave the vessel and start for shore. I can float, but I cannot swim as

well as most children, and I needed what strength was mine to get me to

land. Besides this, I was most wet, most chilled, and fagged enough with

the unpleasant events of the afternoon. Therefore let us drink another

libation to the gods, who led me to-night under the shadow of your

kindly roof."

This short explanation of the trouble on the galley over which the

citizens of Selinous had so wondered that afternoon, was listened to

with great interest, and received various comments. Phalaris strongly

sympathized with Kabir's disgust with the slaves. Theron expressed more

temperate ideas; and Heraia gently voiced her pity for the unfortunate

wretches. Charmides, who was entirely of his mother's mind, remained

silent. When the discussion had lost its vigor, he rose from the table,

and, moving rather aimlessly to the door, opened it to look out.

"It will soon be too warm, mother, for your fire," he said. "The clouds

have parted, and the great night-star hangs in the heavens."

The chance remark brought silence to the little party, and they sat

absently watching the shepherd who had halted in the door-way, his white

profile silhouetted against the outer blackness. Kabir, especially,

gazed on him in growing admiration.

"By Hercules!" he observed, softly, to Phalaris, "thy brother's form

would make a fitting Tammuz for the great Istar of Babylon!"

Charmides chanced to catch the last words of this sentence, and he

slowly turned his head. "Istar of Babylon," he asked. "Who is she?"

The Phoenician regarded him intently. "They call you a rhapsode," he

said.

Charmides nodded.

"And you have not heard of the living goddess?"

"The living goddess!" came from three mouths at once.

"Listen then. It is a fitting subject for the lyre."

II

THE VOW

Charmides, with a look of unusual curiosity in his face, left his post

and crossed to the fireplace, seating himself upon the ground before it.

During the story that followed, the shepherd's bright blue eyes sought

the ruddiest depths of the leaping flames, while his expressive mouth

responded to every passing thought, and the narrator was fascinated by

the glory of his hair, which caught the firelight, and tossed off its

burning reflection in a thousand dazzling rays, till Charmides' head was

surrounded by such a halo as saint has never worn. Theron, Phalaris, and

Heraia, who, however incredulous they might be, could not but be struck

by the stranger's theme, gathered closer to him, and listened with an

intensity flattering enough to spur Kabir to great efforts in his

narrative. He, however, well aware that, at his best, he could never

dream of rivalling the Greek professional in this art of arts, chose

rather to treat his subject in the simplest possible manner.

"Two years ago, in the fourteenth year of the reign of Nabu-Nahid,

King of Babylon,[3] men say that Istar, the great goddess--our

Astarte--Aphrodite to you--came in the flesh to Babylon. For three days

and three nights flames of white fire hung over the temples of Bel, of

Marduk, and of Nebo, while the images of the gods in their shrines

chanted unceasingly in an unknown tongue. On the morning of the fourth

day the hierodules attached to the temple of Istar, ascending her

ziggurat to the sanctuary on the seventh stage, found the goddess

herself, asleep upon her golden couch.

"How she awoke, what she said to her priestesses, or in what manner she

first descended to take up her abode in the temple below, I have never

heard. But before a month was past, all Babylon, and in three months all

the East, from Sidon to Gaza, and from Ur to Damascus, rang with the

wonder of her divinity and her beauty. It is now long since I heard of

her, having been so many months away from my country. But formerly every

caravan that came from the great city held some that had seen her, or

perhaps had heard her speak, and throngs would assemble in the

marketplaces to listen to the least story of her personality. It was

said--"

"Yes, yes. She was beautiful, you say? How beautiful? How did she look?"

interrupted Charmides, in stumbling haste.

Kabir, noting the flush upon the shepherd's cheek, smiled a little to

himself. "She is the most fair of any goddess, yet none has ever beheld

so much as her face quite clearly, it is said. Always she is surrounded

by a dazzling white radiance, an aureole, which the strongest eyes have

not been able to pierce. Yet men declare that her face has the clear

whiteness of alabaster, her eyes are like the moon, and her hair like a

floating, silken veil. More I cannot truthfully say.

"Her vestments have been offered her by the King himself and by the

priests of the great gods. They are such as Nitokris never wore and

queens might sigh over with envy. Yet they seem too coarse and poor to

proffer to such a being.

"The first sign of Istar's divinity is the music that continually

follows her presence. They say that those who hear the sounds as she

passes are overcome, and fall upon the dust, or reel away like drunken

men affected by fumes of wine. What this music is--bells or chords of

the lyre or notes from the flute--no man has ever told, for when the

sounds cease, every memory of them, save that of the ecstasy of

listening, leaves him who has heard. And at sunset every night, when the

goddess has retired to her sanctuary to commune with the great gods in

solitude, there issue from the ziggurat sounds so marvellous that the

priestesses and hierodules flee the neighborhood of the tower in the

fear that, hearing, they may lose their reason.

"Istar is possessed of all knowledge. She speaks to each man in his

native tongue--Chaldaic, Aramaic, Hebrew, Phoenician, or Egyptian--and on

feast days she converses with the gods, her brothers, in that unknown

language spoken by their statues. Bel and Nebo come forth from their

shrines to receive her; Marduk and Shamash embrace her, their sister.

Sin, her father, sends to her temple blood-offerings and heave-offerings

of oxen and of doves."

"And men," asked the shepherd, still staring into the flames--"what do

the men who have eyes to look upon her?"

"Of those that have dared, some become as children that know no more

what they do. A few, it is said, have died, but these she raises from

the kingdom of death and returns again to the world to fulfil their

rightful time. Others still have given their manhood in order to join

the order of temple-servants attached to her sanctuary.

"For all these reasons the temple of Istar has become more famous than

any other in the East, and the name of Istar, the living goddess, is in

every mouth. Many Egyptians from Memphis and Thebes have taken the long

journey to Babylon for the purpose of beholding her; and in the land of

the Nile each man prays that Isis may show her people favor and appear

before them incarnate. She has shaken the faith of the Jews in their one

God. Phrygia and Lydia send yearly offerings to her in the great city.

And in Tyre itself we were to build a new temple to Astarte, where a six

months' sacrifice and festival would be held, in the hope that our great

goddess of fertility might appear before us in her double form. And

that, O Charmides, is all that I can relate to you concerning the Lady

of Babylon."

"It seems that Charmides sleeps over the tale, or else that he is

drunken with the mere thought of the divine personage. Wake, rhapsode!

Tune your lyre and sing for us the inspired ode that hangs upon your

lips!" cried Phalaris, rather ill-naturedly, and with a supercilious

smile at his brother.

Charmides did not stir. A thoughtful frown puckered his forehead, and he

appeared oblivious of Phalaris' mockery. Theron, seeing that the

Phoenician was a little crestfallen with the ill-success of his story,

made haste to express his interest in it, and to ask a further question

or two upon the matter, without, however, infusing much enthusiasm into

his tone. Heraia followed her husband's lead with less effort. She had

in her the original strain of poetry that had been extended to her

younger son, but was entirely lacking in Theron and Phalaris. Therefore,

being imaginative and a woman, Heraia had no difficulty in crediting

Kabir's words, and she also understood Charmides' present mood as none

of the others could.

Now ensued a pause extremely uncomfortable to three of the group. Only

Phalaris was undisturbed by, and Charmides oblivious of, its distressing

length. The shepherd finally turned his head and shifted his gaze to the

Phoenician's face, where his eyes remained fixed for two or three minutes

in a contemplative scrutiny. Then he drew a long breath, returned into

the present, and, rising, moved slowly to the door again. From there he

glanced at his mother, and was about to speak, when Phalaris reached

over to the chest near which he sat, drew forth from it a lyre inlaid

with ivory, and held it out to his brother.

"A hymn, Charmides, to Astarte. I can read one written in your eyes."

Charmides flushed scarlet. The eyes of the stranger were on him, and he

felt a sudden pang of inexpressible shame at the laughter of his

brother's tone.

"Have no fear, little athlete!" he responded, slowly, "an ode will be

ready for you when you overthrow Theocles in the festival games. But I

think I need not hurry in composing it. Morpheus attend you all. I am

going to my bed." And, turning upon his heel, without looking at the

still proffered instrument, he strode off to the room which he was to

share with Phalaris and the stranger.

Charmides' anger always passed as rapidly as it rose. To-night, by the

time he had disrobed and made his prayer to Apollo and Father Zeus, his

mind was once more in a state of truce with Phalaris, and he determined

to make peace with his brother as soon as he found opportunity; for

Phalaris felt the sting of a sharp speech till it was healed by the balm

of a very humble apology.

Once ready for the night the shepherd drew his light couch under the one

unshuttered window of the room, and laid him down so that his eyes might

rest upon the heavens before he slept, and where he could watch the

rising of the sun when he woke again. By this time the last shred of the

storm-cloud had disappeared from on high, and the moon, which was all

but in the full, flooded the night with silver. Its luminous radiance

melted over the shepherd's face and caused his locks to shine palely.

Charmides lay watching the beams with wide-open eyes. In spite of his

very unusual exertions of the afternoon, and the nervous strain that he

had endured in watching for men from the wreck, he had never been

further from sleep than to-night. His mind was unusually active, and,

try as he would, he could not turn his thoughts from one subject--the

thing that Phalaris had tried to shame away, the incredible tale told by

the Phoenician about the Aphrodite of the East. Charmides knew well

enough how his father and brother would laugh at him for allowing

himself to think seriously for one moment about that idealized being,

who, in all probability, lived only in the depths of the trader's

imagination. Nevertheless, Kabir's few words had conjured up to

Charmides' quick fancy a singularly real shape, and in the solitary

night his thoughts played about her continually, now with eager delight,

again reluctantly and irresistibly. Once, twice, thrice he tried to

escape from her, but she refused to be banished. He saw her slipping

down towards him from a great height, on the path of a moonbeam. With a

sigh of renunciation he resolutely turned his head. Still she did not

go. Nay, flashing in an aureole of white light, her face veiled from

him, divinity crying from every curve of her figure, she advanced more

definitely than before, from the corners of the room. A quiver of

painful delight stirred Charmides' heart. He closed his eyes. Then she

came out of the depths of his own brain, in a sea of rainbow mist, with

faint chimes of distant bells ringing around her, a veil of silken hair

covering her beneath the mantle of light. At last he was quite beneath

her spell. Fragments of hexameter, of great beauty and great

indistinctness, rose in his mind. And presently, lo! an ode, the first

of any depth that had ever come to him, became possible. Here were the

first lines of it, lying ready to his tongue. He whispered them once to

himself, delightedly, and then banished them with resolution. He must

first obtain his form. The structure must be broad enough adequately to

express the thought born in him by the secret inspiration of the night.

An hour passed, and the white light of the moon crept slowly over the

shepherd's head into the far corners of the room. Charmides lay with

closed eyes and lips compressed, the vision growing clearer and his task

more intricate. Mere words began to be inadequate. How many men, how

many women, how many lifeless things, even, have been extolled in

matchless syllables? And how was he as far to surpass all these lines as

his subject surpassed the subjects of his predecessors? He grew more and

more troubled, and the labor of his mind was painful. Intoxication was

gone. The time of work, of unexalted concentration, was upon him. Into

the midst of this second stage, however, came Phalaris and Kabir,

sleepy, yet talking pleasantly together in unsubdued tones. Charmides

clenched his hand, but did not unclose his eyes. For twenty minutes he

lay in an agony of broken thought. Then his self-control was rewarded.

He was left alone once more in the night, with only the light, regular

breathing of two unconscious men to disturb his thoughts.

Through the misty hours sleep did not visit the shepherd, yet neither

did he accomplish his desire. He watched the pale moon faint from the

sky and the white stars melt, one by one, into the tender dawn. Sunrise

found him spent, exhausted, and bitter with disappointment; for the

burning night had left no trace of its fever save in deep circles under

his eyes and a hungering anxiety over something that he could not name.

Theron and Phalaris were up betimes, and, before they had finished the

morning libation, were joined by Charmides and Kabir. During breakfast

the stranger talked to Theron about the galley, and the length of time

it would take before she could be rendered fit to continue again upon

her voyage.

"You were going home?" asked the Selinuntian.

"Yes. We should stop at the Sikelian cities as far as Syracuse, passing

then eastward through the islands, touching at Crete, Naxos, perhaps,

and Cyprus. Our voyage had been too long already."

"Well, if you are ready," observed Theron, rising, "we will go down to

the shore at once to find out the condition of the galley. And while you

remain in Selinous, Kabir, we beg that you will make our hearth your

home."

The Phoenician gratefully expressed his thanks. Then, as Theron and

Phalaris moved together towards the door, evidently expecting him to

follow them, Kabir turned to Charmides, who remained in the background.

"Do you not come with us?" he asked.

The Greek hurriedly shook his head. "I take the flock to pasture," he

explained; and so the Phoenician turned away.

By the time the three men reached the shore below the city, the sun was

two hours high and the beach was lined with Selinuntians and Tyrians,

all talking together about the best method for pulling the galley from

between the two rocks where she still lay, fast wedged. As soon as Kabir

made his appearance a tall fellow, in a deep-red robe, hurried up to him

with expressions of delight. Kabir saluted him as an equal, and

presently brought him up to Theron and Phalaris, introducing him as

Eshmun, captain of the _Fish of Tyre_. Then followed among the four of

them an earnest conversation as to the length of time needed for repairs

after the ship was once more in clear water.

"Prayers and libations to Melkart and Baal have been offered up,"

observed Eshmun, piously, "and men in the city are already at work

making new oars. Yonder on the beach are all the small boats, which are

to be manned by our sailors and the young men of the city. They,

proceeding to the _Fish_, will lay hold of her stern with ropes, and,

all pulling in the same direction, by the aid of the gods we shall hope

to get her out."

"And the galley-slaves?" queried Kabir. "What has been done with them?"

"May Bacchus confound them! Last night, before leaving the ship, I

persuaded Sydyk into loosening their chains, and when Sydyk, at sunrise,

reached the galley, he found every man of them sprawled out on deck in a

drunken sleep. They had used up four casks of the best Massilian wine!

Sydyk had them whipped back to their places, where they are now chained,

waiting to help push the ship off with their unbroken oars."

Up to this point Theron and his son stood beside Kabir, listening

attentively to the Phoenician tongue, which was just unfamiliar enough to

demand close attention. But now Phalaris, seeing that the small boats

were being rapidly manned, went off to join one of them. Theron walked

leisurely after his son towards a group of elders, leaving Kabir with

Eshmun. For ten or fifteen minutes the Tyrians continued their

conversation, and then, the fleet of rowboats being ready to put off,

the captain hurried away to take command of the operations, and his

companion was left alone upon the shore.

Kabir, as master-trader of the vessel, was under no obligation to do

anything towards the assistance of the wreck. Few men, perhaps, would

have considered this freedom as a reason for actually taking no part in

the affair of the moment. But Kabir was one of these few. He was by

nature a true Phoenician, and by cultivation a true merchant: thoroughly

indolent where his immediate advantage was not concerned; good-natured

because good-nature made men more pliable to his secret will; keen as a

knife-blade, and quite indefatigable in any matter that concerned his or

his employer's profit; indifferent to the weal or woe of his nearest

friend, so long as by that woe or weal his own comfort was unconcerned.

He stood now on the beach below the acropolis, content to be alone,

sufficiently occupied with the scenes of beauty and activity before him.

There, far to the south and east, stretched the sea, smooth and blue,

sprinkled with sun-sparkles, a lolling roll half-concealed in its

mischievous depths, otherwise bearing not a trace of last night's spasm

of rage. From the very edge of the beach out to a distance of two

hundred yards from shore, was a jumble of brown rocks, large and small,

between which the water ran in little, opalescent eddies, forming a

dangerous and threatening boundary to the west side of the otherwise

peaceful harbor. Between two of these horned rocks lay the barnacled,

dismasted ship, which had ventured so far into distant, perilous seas,

to be brought to bay at last, wounded and weary, by the shock of a merry

Sicilian thunderstorm. Half-way between ship and shore thirty small

boats, plied vigorously by friendly Greek and anxious Tyrian, were

making a flashing progress to the galley's side; while all along the

shore white-robed Selinuntian elders and fair-faced Doric women watched

with high interest the movements of the boats.

Once and again Kabir overlooked the scene. Then, tired of standing, and

undesirous of spending the whole morning inactively, he turned and

looked around him, up the rocky height of the temple-crowned acropolis.

An ascent into the city seemed the most feasible method of amusement.

Therefore he proceeded leisurely towards the nearest upward path, when,

somewhat to his amazement, he perceived the figure of Charmides coming

rapidly towards him along the beach. The moment his eyes met those of

the youth the shepherd's pace grew perceptibly slower.

"I will avoid him, then," thought the Phoenician, calmly, and thereupon,

with a distant salutation, he started forward once more to the upward

path. To his further surprise this act brought Charmides hastily to his

side.

"Where is thy flock, O rhapsode?" inquired Kabir, lightly, in the manner

of Phalaris.

"In care of Sardeis. I was seeking you."

"And your purpose? What may I do?"

"N--nothing. I thought you might desire, perhaps, to see the city. Shall

I conduct you to the agora? Would you like to see our temples?--and the

statues?--and the new pediment that Eumenides is making for the

basilica?"

"Very much. I was, indeed, just about to go alone up to the city,"

replied Kabir, courteously. But while the youth began abruptly to ascend

the path in front of him, Kabir was wondering, in rather a puzzled way,

what could be the reason for the young Greek's sudden solicitude for his

amusement, and for the want of interest in what should have been his

first object of inquiry--the galley's rescue from the rocks.

The two of them passed in silence through the well-kept street that led

to the agora from the west, and had almost reached the height of the

acropolis before a further word was spoken between them. Kabir's

curiosity was turning to amusement, and he was inclined to put the

shepherd down as half-witted, when the boy turned on him and burst out,

as if driven to the speech:

"Kabir, tell me, was that that you were saying last night--about the

goddess of Babylon--true or not? Is there such a being, or is she but an

invention of your mind? I conjure you, if you have pity, tell me the

truth!"

As he spoke, Charmides, from being very pale, had flushed crimson, and

his young eyes burned with unquenchable fire. A sudden, unique

revelation was borne in upon the Phoenician, and he willingly passed over

the blunt suggestion in the shepherd's question, in the pleasure of

finding what was, to him, an entirely novel bent of mind. While they

proceeded, then, on their way to the market-place, Kabir replied to the

substance of Charmides' new queries.

"I told you the truth last evening, shepherd; as much truth, indeed, as

I knew. I myself have never been in Babylon, and therefore have not,

with mine own eyes, seen the goddess. But others, my friends, on

returning to Tyre from the great city, have been able to talk of nothing

but Istar, this living divinity. Yet it is many months since I was at

home. By now she may have returned to the skies, from which, they say,

she came. But that there was once such a being on earth I know; else I

and all men of the East are gone suddenly demented."

"But her face--how do you imagine it? Her form--is it like a woman's?

Tell me, Kabir! Tell me more of her!"

"How can I, never having looked upon her? How shall I imagine what no

man, seeing, knows?"

"Surely you know of the music that surrounds her. Whence does it appear

to come? Is it the sound of lyre or flute; or perhaps of many

instruments together? Perhaps some hint of its melody is--"

"Shepherd, shepherd! Have I not told you that I know nothing of it? Said

I not last night that that music drove mad those that listened? Lyres!

Flutes! How could I know? How should I guess?"

"It is unbearable, this yearning. I am kept from sleep. I cannot eat. I

am haunted by a face that I cannot see, lines that will not rise out of

the chaos in which they lie. And no man will tell me what he knows. No

man--no man."

The shepherd muttered these words to himself so incoherently that Kabir

could scarcely distinguish one from another. Suddenly, however,

Charmides lifted his head and looked at the Phoenician with a deep

sadness in his eyes. "Kabir!" he exclaimed, softly, "I am possessed!"

"Truly, I think you are!" growled the trader to himself. But with

Charmides he abruptly changed the subject of conversation, and said, in

a very different tone, with a phlegmatic smile: "It is my turn for

questioning now. We are here in the agora, and you have told me as yet

nothing of the temples, which are, so far as I can judge, most worthy of

their gods."

Charmides restrained a sigh of impatience, but his disappointment showed

plainly in his face. However, his native courtesy and his training in

hospitality did not desert him, and for the next hour he devoted himself

to his task so successfully that Kabir was well pleased with him. The

boy's effort to keep his mind fixed upon immediate matters did not

escape the Phoenician, who, before the morning was over, conceived a very

different idea of the shepherd's character. On the whole, the last half

of the morning was much more enjoyable to him than the first.

At this time, in the spring of the five hundred and thirty-ninth year

before the birth of Christ, the Hyblean city was in the height of its

prosperity as an independent Doric colony; and its citizens had taken a

generous and a reverent pride in the adornment of their acropolis and of

the opposite hill, both of which were wreathed with temples which, in

conception and erection, will never be surpassed. Kabir looked

appreciatively at the agora, surrounded as it was with the fluted

columns of the sanctuaries of Demeter, Apollo, and Zeus, and the

somewhat too square basilica. The market-place teemed with life. A

sacrifice and prayer to Father Zeus was in progress, and white-robed

priests passed to and fro among the youths and maids of the open school,

the slaves who came for water from the central fountain, or the venders

of grains, fruit, and flowers that accosted one at every step. Passing

out of the agora, after a considerable time spent in viewing its

pleasant gayety, the stranger and his shepherd guide went back to

examine the stone fort which rendered this eminence utterly impregnable

upon its north side; and then they followed the high stone wall

southward along the edge of the cliff till they reached the southeastern

gate of Hystaspes. Through this Charmides passed rapidly, and led the

way along well-paved streets down into the valley of the Hypsas River,

which separated the acropolis from the east hill. Crossing the little

bridge on foot, the two began their second ascent up the eminence where

stood Charmides' home, near which were three other temples--one to

Hecate, one to Hera, and the third, half finished, dedicated to the

patron god of the city, Apollo, and destined to be the largest temple of

them all and the third largest in the Greek world.

The walk had proved long, and the last part of the way was difficult.

Kabir was glad enough to sit and rest in the portico of Hera's shrine,

looking out over the brow of the hill down to the rocky harbor where the

galley still obstinately stuck. Charmides had ceased to talk, and his

companion asked no more questions about the city. It was in perfect

amicability, yet in perfect silence, that the two finished their short

walk to Theron's house. The young Greek had fallen into a reverie from

which it would have been difficult to rouse him; and he moved with his

eyes fixed sometimes in the clouds, more often on the ground, while his

mouth drooped and his expression grew more and more grave. Kabir glanced

occasionally at his companion, needing no interpreter to determine the

subject of his thoughts, but himself far more interested in the question

as to whether there would be meat, or merely bread, cheese, wine, and

fruit at the noon meal to which they were going.

As it turned out, there was mutton, well spitted, and done to a turn, a

double portion of which was easily obtainable, for Phalaris did not come

up from the harbor, and Charmides sat staring absently into space, while

Theron, Heraia, and their guest ate and discussed the events of the

morning. The galley, it appeared, had been moved a little, but was not

yet completely out of the clutches of the rocks. It was hoped, however,

that by nightfall she would, by the combined strength of the oars and

the small boats, be got off and safely beached in a spot where the

carpenters could begin work upon her crushed sides and torn bottom.

"It will be a matter of fifteen days, however, before she can continue

her voyage. There is far more to be done upon her than we thought at

first. Meantime, O Kabir, our dwelling is yours."

"May the gods duly requite your hospitality, good friends!" returned

Kabir, as the four of them rose from the table.

After the meal Kabir went down into the harbor with his host, and

Charmides sought the fields with his flock, not returning till an hour

after sunset. The family was seated at supper when he appeared. His

unusual tardiness elicited a remark or two from his father; but Heraia,

reading the weariness in his eyes, forbore to question him. It required

forbearance, indeed, for she found something in the shepherd's face that

had not been there before; and on the meaning of it she speculated in

vain.

In spite of the fact that he had eaten little at noon, and that his

afternoon had been unusually long, Charmides took nothing to-night.

Kabir watched him discreetly, interested in his state, the cause of

which he alone so much as suspected. Phalaris was weary after his long

day at the oars, and showed his displeasure with his brother for making

no inquiry as to the galley's progress by utterly ignoring Charmides

after the first word of greeting. The rather uncomfortable meal at an

end, Heraia ventured a customary request.

"Come, Charmides, get thy lyre or flute, and play to us. The sheep have

been hearing thee all afternoon. Give us, also, music to-night."

None of the others echoed the request. Theron rarely encouraged either

son in his chosen profession, though he was as interested in their

success as they themselves. Phalaris still sulked, unnoticed; and the

Phoenician was too anxious for an opportunity of judging his new

protégé's ability to risk protest by undue urging. He was fortunate in

choosing the passive course. At his mother's request, Charmides rose at

once and brought out his well-strung lyre. Seating himself in a corner

of the open door-way, and looking out upon the night, he struck two or

three thin, minor chords. Then, in a voice whose limpid tenor Kabir had

never heard equalled, he sang. It was a melody well known to all Greeks,

but transposed from the major to the minor key. The words were

Charmides' own--of exquisite simplicity--twenty lines on the grief and

weariness of a lost Pleiad. It rose gradually to a plaintive climax, and

ended in a tired pianissimo. There was no applause. None of his audience

and neither of the slaves cared to break silence as the shepherd rose

and returned the instrument to its place. Kabir thirsted for more; and

presently Theron, with a little effort, asked, softly:

"Why do you stop?"

"Father, I am tired. Grant me permission to go to my bed."

"Permission need not be asked. Get thee away, and the gods send you

dreamless sleep."

Half an hour later Phalaris and the Phoenician followed the shepherd's

example, and Theron and his wife also sought a willing rest. The athlete

made quick work of preparing for the night, and, almost upon the instant

of his lying down, fell fast asleep. Kabir was slower. He had disrobed

as promptly as his companion, but he did not immediately lay him down.

As on the previous evening, the window was open, and the moonlight

streamed over Charmides' bed. Kabir stole across the room to look out

upon the night, moving noiselessly, that he might not disturb the

shepherd, who, since the others entered the room, had lain motionless.

The Phoenician, standing over him, brought his eyes slowly from the moon

to the fair face below him, and gave a quick, unfeigned start to find

Charmides' eyes wide open, staring up at him. Neither of them spoke.

Kabir, in unaccountable confusion, quickly returned to his own couch and

lay down upon it, far wider awake than he had been ten minutes before.

Now ensued a period of silence and of uneasiness. The shepherd, his form

flooded with silver light, lay immovable, eyes still unclosed, hands

clenched, brain on fire, listening mechanically to the regular breathing

of Phalaris, and waiting eagerly, anxiously, tensely, for the same sound

from the couch of the Phoenician. His nerves, too highly strung, twitched

and pulled. His body gradually grew numb. And still, while he waited,

ears pricked, eyes brilliant, Kabir refused to sleep. The moon rode in

mid-heavens before the sign came. At last the faint snores sounded like

muffled drum-taps, one--two--three--four--five. A long sigh escaped

Charmides' lips. For one blessed instant his muscles relaxed. Then he

rose swiftly, drew on his day tunic, threw about him the chlamys that

Phalaris had worn, and slipped noiselessly from the room. For a moment

after his disappearance everything remained quiet behind him. Then,

suddenly, Kabir's snores ceased, and he sat cautiously up. Yes,

Charmides was really gone. The Phoenician rose and passed over to the

door. The living-room was empty and the outer door open to the night.

Throwing on as much clothing as he needed in the mild air, the trader

hurried outside and looked about him, first towards the sea, then along

the path to the city. Upon this, walking swiftly, and already far on his

moonlit way, went the shepherd. Kabir, with a kind of wonderment at his

own curiosity, started at a half-run to follow.

Evidently Charmides was bound for a definite spot. He moved straight

along through the rank grass, gorse, and wild onion that here took the

place of near-growing daisies and sweet alyssum, and, looking neither to

the right nor left, passed along the path to the acropolis.

The shepherd was acting on what was hardly an impulse. His strange

action had been irresistibly impelled by some force emanating from his

own mind, and yet _not_ of himself. He wished to be upon consecrated

ground, in the precincts of a temple, where, it seemed to him, the

burning thirst of his imagination might be quenched. In obedience to his

guiding voice, he left behind him the temples of the hill on which he

lived, and made his way towards the abode of his patron god of the

Silver Bow, who had for years been worshipped on the acropolis, and

whose immense temple on the other hill was still unfinished. Charmides

had brought with him his lyre, again obeying the impulse, though without

any idea of how he was to use it. He accomplished most of his journey,

indeed, without thought of any kind; and not till the last, sharp ascent

up the acropolis road was begun did it occur to him that, at this hour

of the night, he might not pass the guard at the gate. The thought, when

it came, scarcely troubled him. He would go at least as far as he could.

He passed rapidly up the steep slope, Kabir following noiselessly; and,

as they drew near the gate of Dawn, the southeastern opening in the

defending wall, Charmides saw a strange thing. The guard, one of a

long-trained company for whom discovered slumber at his post meant

death, sat squat upon the ground, his helmeted head bowed between his

knees, sunk in a deep sleep. The passage into the agora was open.

Charmides and the other passed into the empty square, finally pausing

before the portico of the temple of Apollo.

A scene of supernal beauty confronted them. The great market-place,

filled from dawn to dusk with murmurous life of the city, was robed by

night in ineffable stillness. All around, the white columns rose in

shadowy beauty to their high architraves; while the ground below was

barred with fluted shadows. The warm, perfume-laden air was heavy with

the essence of spring. Below, on the sides of the hill, the city lay

asleep; and the only sound that broke the universal silence was the

distant, musical swish of the rising tide.

In the midst of this Charmides stood, half panting, his overwrought mind

in a state of blankness. Then, still passively obeying his guiding

impulse, he ascended the two steps that led into the portico of the

temple of Apollo, and, after hesitating for a moment, entered the open

door-way. By the light of the two sacred torches that burned throughout

the night by the altar of the god, the youth made his way to the

high-walled fane, within which was the celebrated statue of the Patron

of Selinous. Here, in the dim, bluish light, with the cool stillness

above and around him, and the divine presence very near, the shepherd

fell upon one knee and bowed his head in a prayer, the words of which

rose to his lips without any effort of thought on his part, and were

more beautiful than any that he had ever heard spoken by priest or poet.

When he had finished he did not rise. It seemed to him that, if he but

dared to lift his eyes, he should see the Lord of the Silver Bow above

him, in all his blinding radiance. Charmides' head swam. A cloud of

faintest incense enveloped him. His parted lips drank in air that

affected him like rare old wine. A fine intoxication stole upon all his

senses. He waited, breathlessly, for that which he knew at last was to

come. Yet in the beginning of the miracle his heart for a long moment

ceased to beat, and he swayed forward till he lay prone upon the marble

pavement.

A sound, a long note, thin and bright and finely drawn as silver wire,

was quivering down from the dusk of the uppermost vault. On it spun, and

on, over the head of the listener, whose every nerve quivered beneath

the spell of its vibration. Time had ceased for him, and he did not know

whether it was a moment or an hour before the single note became two,

then three, and gradually many more, which mingled and melted together

in a stream of delicious harmony, so strange, so marvellous, that the

shepherd strained ears and brain in an agony lest he should fail to

catch a single tone. But the low Æolian chimes grew fainter after a

little while; and then, at the pianissimo, there entered into their

midst something that no man of earth had as yet dreamed of--a mighty

organ note, that rose and swelled through the moving air in a peal of

such majesty that Charmides, trembling with his temerity, rose to his

feet and looked up. Nothing unusual was to be seen in the temple room.

Half-way down, between the frescoed columns, burned the two torches

before the empty altar. Yes, and there, in the shadow of the wall, stood

Kabir, the Phoenician, watching quietly the movements of the shepherd.

Charmides perceived him, but failed to wonder at his presence. It was

natural that any one should wish to be here to-night. Yet how could any

living man stand unmoved in the midst of such a glory of sound as

whirled about him now? The lyre music rose anew to a great fortissimo,

high above the deeply resonant chords of the sky-organ. Flutes and

trumpets, and the minor notes of myriad plaintive flageolets, and a

high-pealing chime of silver-throated bells joined in swinging harmony,

finally resolving into such a pæan of praise that Charmides was carried

back to the memories of many a former dream. Shaking the dripping sweat

from his forehead, he stepped forward a pace or two, and, lifting his

lyre, joined its tones and those of his pygmy voice to the mighty

orchestra. Though he was unaware of it, he had never sung like this

before. The inspiration of his surroundings was upon him. His voice rang

forth, clear as a trumpet-call. Strange and beautiful words poured from

his lips; words that he had always known, yet uttered now for the first

time. He was drawn far from life. He was on the threshold of another

world, into which he could see dimly. There, before him, poised in

ether, shining ever more distinctly through the rosy cloud that

enveloped her, was the statue-like, veil-swathed form of a woman. Tall,

lithe, round was the shape that he beheld--the body of a woman of earth,

and yet more, and less, than that. Neither feature nor flesh could he

perceive through the radiance that surrounded and emanated from her. He

knew, in his heart, that this was a goddess, she whom his soul sought.

"Ishtar! Ishtar! Ishtar kâ Babilû!"

Once, twice, thrice he cried her name, in descending minor thirds, while

all the bells of heaven pealed round them both.

"Ishtar of Babilû, I come to seek your city! Where you are, there I

shall find you. Great Apollo, Lord of the Silver Bow, son of Latona and

of Father Zeus, hear me and heed my words: I will seek the living

goddess where she dwells in the land of the rising sun. To her I will

proffer my homage ere the year be gone. If I fulfil not this vow, made

here within thy holy temple, take thou my body for the dogs to feed

upon, and let my spirit cross the river into the darkest cavern of

Hades. Lord Son of Latona, hear my vow!"

With the last words Charmides sank again upon his knees, his face still

uplifted to the spot whence his vision had faded into blackness. The

celestial music ceased. The passionate ecstasy was gone. Weak and

exhausted in body and mind, the shepherd rose, trembling, and began to

move towards the entrance of the temple. The light from the sinking moon

streamed white through the open door. Presently, from the shadows behind

him, Kabir glided gently up to the youth, who was groping blindly

forward.

"I heard the vow," said the Phoenician, almost in a whisper. "Will you,

then, sail with us when we depart again in our galley, to Tyre, on your

way into Babylon of the East?"

For a moment Charmides stared at the man in wonderment. He was coming

back to life. Then he nodded slowly, and with dry lips answered:

"You heard the vow. You have said it."

III

INTO THE EAST

Next morning Kabir opened his eyes earlier than might have been

expected, considering his nocturnal exercise and the hour at which he

had finally retired. Charmides was performing ablutions with water from

an earthen jar, and talking amicably, if absent-mindedly, with his

brother, who was ready dressed. The Phoenician rose hastily, and began

his usual toilet, while Phalaris, after giving him morning greeting, and

bidding the shepherd have a care not to drown himself, left them for the

more satisfying charms of breakfast.

On their way back from the acropolis, on the previous night, Kabir and

Charmides had not spoken to each other. Therefore the one question and

answer before they left the temple was the only conversation they had

had on the subject of the inspiration and its result. This morning,

then, the moment that Phalaris disappeared, Charmides set down the

water-jar, turned sharply about, and, looking searchingly into his

companion's face, asked:

"Kabir--have I dreamed?"

"Dreamed? Where? How?"

A sudden light sprang into the shepherd's face. "You were not with me,

then, last night, in the temple of Apollo?"

"Certainly I was--and heard the hymn you sang to the Babylonian goddess.

That was an inspiration, Charmides. Can you recall the words and the

rhythm this morning?"

But Charmides shrank from the question. He had become very pale. After a

long silence, during which Kabir, much puzzled, strove to understand his

mood, he asked again, faintly:

"And the vow? I vowed to Apollo--"

"To seek the Babylonian goddess; to proffer her homage before the year

had fallen, or--" The Phoenician stopped. Charmides held up his hand with

such an imploring gesture that a sudden light broke in upon the trader.

He realized now that regret for his emotional folly was strong upon the

youth, and he saw no reason for not helping him to be rid of its

consequences.

"You have lost the desire, O Charmides, to fulfil that vow?" he asked.

Charmides bent his head in shamed acquiescence.

"Why, then, keep it? You may trust me. I shall say not a word of the

matter to any one. None but I saw you. The guard at the gate was asleep.

You are safe. Forget the matter, and be--" again he paused. Charmides

was regarding him with open displeasure.

"None _saw_! What of the god, Phoenician? What of the god Apollo--my

patron?"

Kabir perceived the shepherd's earnestness, and the corners of his mouth

twitched. Phoenician polytheism had crossed swords, long ago, with

Phoenician practicality; and the gods, it must be confessed, had been

pretty well annihilated in the series of contests. Nevertheless, Kabir

knew very well that he could not scoff at another's religion. He was

puzzled. He tried argument, persuasion, entreaty, every form of rhetoric

that occurred to him as holding out possibilities of usefulness; but all

alike failed to move in the slightest degree Charmides' abject

determination. The unprofitable conversation was finally ended by the

shepherd's sensible proposal:

"I will lay the matter before my father this morning, Kabir, and by his

decision I will abide."

The Phoenician nodded approval. It was a simple solution of a puzzle

which, after all, did not really concern him. As a matter of fact it

would have been hard enough for him to tell why he was taking

such an unaccountable interest in this impulsive and irresponsible

shepherd-boy--he, a man who had cared for neither man nor woman all his

life through, whose whole interest had hitherto been centred in material

things. But he was, as many others had been and would be, under the

influence of the peculiar charm of the young Greek, a charm that

emanated not more from the incomparable beauty of his physique than from

the frank and ingenuous sincerity of his manner.

At the conclusion of their peculiar conversation, the two men passed

into the living-room, to find their morning meal just ready and Theron

and his son sitting down to table, while Heraia still bent over the

hearth where bread was baking.

Charmides gave his usual morning salutation to his father and mother,

and then seated himself in silence. During the meal he said not a word,

though Phalaris was in a lively mood, and conversation flowed easily

enough among the others. When the athlete had risen, however, and Kabir

was detaining the others by making a pretence of eating in order to

watch the shepherd, Charmides turned to his father and asked, boldly:

"Father, may one break a vow made within his temple to Apollo?"

Theron looked at his son carefully. "You know that he may not. Why have

you asked?"

"Because I have made such a vow. Last night, after a great vision, it

was wrung from me."

Phalaris came back and seated himself quietly at the table. Then Heraia

leaned forward, looking at her son as if something long expected, long

hoped for, had come to pass.

"A vision? Of what? Where?"

"At midnight, unable to sleep for the chaos of my thoughts, I went to

the acropolis and entered into the temple of my god. There I heard the

music of the gods, most marvellous, most incomprehensible; and there a

great vision was before me--a silver cloud in which the goddess Istar of

Babylon appeared to me and called to me. Thereupon I vowed to Apollo to

set forth into the East, seeking her to whom, ere the year be fallen, I

must proffer my homage."

Buoyed up by the pleasure and sympathy in his mother's eyes, Charmides

had spoken quite cheerfully. Looking into her face after his last words,

however, he found there something that caused his head to droop in

new-found dejection, while he waited for his father's decision. It did

not come. There was a heavy silence, finally broken by Phalaris, who

said, a little contemptuously:

"You had a dream, Charmides. You did not leave the room in which I slept

last night."

Heraia raised her head in sudden hope, but here Theron broke in:

"Nay--even if it were but a dream, the gods have more than once appeared

to favored mortals in sleep."

"But this, Theron, was no dream. I followed Charmides to the temple. It

is true that I saw no vision, and all the music that came to my ears was

made by Charmides himself, who sang an inspired hymn to the goddess. But

his vow to Apollo was most certainly made. The shepherd has spoken

truth."

There was another pause. Then Theron sighed heavily and spoke. "He must

abide by the vow. You, O Phoenician, will you take him in the galley to

your far city, on his way to the abode of the goddess?"

"That I promised him last night."

"But," interrupted Phalaris, still incredulous, "how did you both pass

the guard at the gate by which you entered the acropolis?"

"He slept!" replied Charmides and Kabir, in the same breath.

Heraia let a faint sigh that was more than half sob escape her; and

Charmides drew a hand across his brow. "You bid me go, father?" he said.

Theron hesitated. Finally, in a tone of grave reproval, he replied, "It

is not I that can bid you go. You yourself owe obedience to your patron

god and to the strange goddess that put this thing into your heart.

Though I shall lose you, though the heart of your mother is faint at the

thought of your departure, yet I dare not command you to break the vow.

Yes, Charmides--you must go."

A momentary spasm of pain crossed Charmides' young face, and was gone as

it had come. Only by his straightened mouth could one have guessed that

he was not as usual. Heraia's eyes were bright with tears which she did

not allow to fall; and even Phalaris, the true Spartan of the family,

who was a little scornful of his brother for permitting his feelings to

betray themselves even for a moment, himself felt an unlooked-for quiver

at the heart when he thought of a life empty of his girlish brother's

presence. Both he and his mother sat absently looking at the rhapsode,

till Theron, seeing danger of weakness in the scene, abruptly rose:

"Come, Phalaris, we will go down together to the galley. I will speak

with Eshmun on behalf of Charmides. Perhaps you, also, Kabir, will care

to come?"

"And I. I will work now upon the ship till she sails again. Sardeis can

take the flock."

"Eager to be gone, boy?" asked Theron, smiling rather sadly; but his

question needed no other answer than his son's expression. So,

presently, the four men left the house, and Heraia was left alone to

face this all-unexpected grief that had come to her--the loss of the

child that had made her life beautiful.

The next ten days flew by on wings--wings of grief and dread foreboding

for those in Theron's house. Work on the galley proceeded vigorously.

Down from the hills, far to the east of the city, a long, tapering

cedar-tree was brought. Its branches were hewn off, its bark stripped

away, and the bare trunk set up in the place of the old, broken mast.

New sails were an easy matter of provision, for the Selinuntians were

adepts at making them, and three days sufficed for the shaping and

sewing of these. Oars took more time, for strong wood was hard to

procure around Selinous, and only two or three men in the city had any

idea of the manner of carving out these heavy and unshapely things. The

mending of the torn bottom of the ship and the replacing of her crushed

bulwarks and sides required many days of skilful carpentry; and when all

this was done, the heavy-clinging barnacles were carefully scraped from

their comfortable abiding-place, and the good ship set right side up

once more. Finally, on the last day of April, Eshmun declared her ready

for the new launching, and sent word to all his crew that in forty-eight

hours more their journey would be recommenced, and that on the evening

before their start prayers and a sacrifice for a safe journey would be

made at an altar erected on the sands.

Charmides had worked well and steadily at the remantling of the ship;

and in this way became acquainted with her captain and all the crew,

who, when they learned that he was to sail with them for Tyre, took some

pains to show him courtesy. During this fortnight of labor Charmides'

thoughts were busier than his hands, and they moved not wholly through

regretful ways. It would have been wonderful had his young imagination

not been excited by the prospect before him, that of strange lands and

peoples, of pleasures and dangers with which he was to become

acquainted. His fancy strayed often through pleasant paths, so that

sometimes half a day went by before a remembrance of the coming

separation from his home and from his mother brought a shadow across his

new road.

The prospect of departure was, too, far easier for Charmides to

contemplate than it would have been for Phalaris, with all the athlete's

affected stoicism. Up to this time Charmides had led a lonely life; no

tastes that rendered him companionable towards others, or, rather,

holding within himself resources that enabled him to lead a life in

which the presence of others was unnecessary and undesirable. The

existence that his imagination conjured up from the lands of the unreal

had become dearer to him than that of actualities. He had created a

world for himself, and peopled it with creatures of his fancy. With

these he walked and held converse, and no one but Heraia, his mother,

could have understood how completely they satisfied his every need of

companionship. Thus he was able to take away with him almost all of his

former life; and Charmides and Heraia both realized, in their secret

hearts, that the way of another in his place would have been far harder

than it promised to be for him.