THE HETAERIA. (continued 2)

“The key....” she stammered, “I want to get the key.”

“Why?”

“The night-lamp has gone out, and I want to light it at the neighbor’s.”

“Simpleton, you can light it from Clytie’s. It is shining on the pillars outside.”

This was unanswerable—Doris thought her cause lost. But the very magnitude of the danger forced her to calm herself. She drew a long breath, and once more felt in possession of her wits. She would have the key. And all the resolution and defiance that exist in a firm determination suddenly filled her soul so completely that, heedless whether she roused Xenocles or not, she went straight to her goal.

“But I must have the key,” she replied in a tone that sounded cold and strange in her own ears, “I want to pour out the bath-water.”

“Let it stand till morning.”

Doris felt with her hand over the wall near the head of the bed and found the nail with the three-toothed key, which she took quietly without any extreme haste.

“I dare not let the water stand,” she said, “my mistress ordered me to pour it out.”

Without waiting for a reply, she left the room as lightly as a feather, and breathless with joy and excitement ran back to Clytie, before whom she triumphantly held aloft the key.

Clytie clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly, then, without losing a moment, she gave her the bundle of clothes, threw a blue-striped kerchief over her head, and holding her faithful maid-servant’s hand, glided out of the room.

XVIII.

Clytie’s heart was throbbing with excitement. In passing on she raised the curtain hanging at the door of the apartment in which stood the images of the household gods, and bowing towards the little statues, wholly invisible in the gloom, murmured in a low tone:

“Do not be wrathful, protectors of my race! Do not desert me because I forsake you.”

Then, accompanied by Doris, she walked through the open hall into a large work-room set apart for women. The darkness here was so great that nothing was visible save two narrow grey streaks; these were the loop-holes in the wall, through which the room received its light by day. A warm atmosphere, the heat emanating from human bodies, greeted the fugitives, and they heard the heavy breathing of numerous sleepers. Most of the female slaves of the household spent the night here on couches made of piles of cushions or felt rugs ranged along the wall. As Doris moved towards the garden door she ran against something, probably a tall tripod. She hastily caught at it, but in the darkness missed her aim and it fell with a heavy crash, while a copper lamp which had stood upon it rattled on the stone floor. The slave women started from their sleep; the shrieks of one terrified the others till all vied in screaming. Hasty footsteps crossed the peristyle, and a man’s voice cried angrily:

“What an ado! Why are you yelling so? What is it?”

“Hush, you simpletons!” said Doris’ well-known tones, “do you take me for a thief who has lifted the door off its hinges or dug his way through under the wall?”

“What are you doing here?” asked the door-keeper of the women’s apartment; for it was he who had hurried in.

Meantime Doris had found the lock and put the key in it.

“Oh, pshaw!” she replied, as though vexed by so much disturbance, “I’m going to pour out the bath-water. In the dark I ran against a tripod—it fell, and so they screamed as if they were possessed by some evil demon.”

With these words she opened the door, pushed Clytie out, and followed herself.

The fugitives now found themselves in the garden. Here the darkness was not too great to permit them to distinguish without difficulty the paths winding between the black masses of the shrubs and trees. A damp wind blew into their faces and the odor of the flowers was oppressively strong; they heard a rustling among the leaves, like the sound of dice dropping on a copper shield, and big drops fell singly.

After the anxiety she had experienced Clytie felt unspeakable relief. It seemed as if she inhaled liberty with every breath of the night air, and she thought with a touch of joyful dread of meeting Hipyllos. Doris was still absorbed by the remembrance of the nocturnal disturbance in the house, but consoled herself by thinking that the door-keeper would explain everything.

Outside the garden gate stood two dark figures. One wore his hair cut short—so he was a slave; the other had long locks, and though both appeared like dim black outlines Clytie instantly recognized Hipyllos by the stately way in which his mantle was draped about him—in itself sufficient to mark the young Eupatride.

Clytie’s heart beat faster, and she suddenly trembled in every limb as she had done the evening she stole out to meet the priestess of Sabazius. She had scarcely stepped outside of the garden, when Hipyllos hurried towards her.

“I thank you,” he said, “blessings on you for coming.”

The young girl made no reply; she was far too much agitated and confused to be able to utter a single word.

“You saw the necessity,” Hipyllos continued, “and besides....”

He paused and, smiling, gazed into her face; he had never seen her look lovelier. The blue-striped kerchief she had thrown over her head cast a slight shadow upon her features, which lent them a mysterious charm.

... “And besides,” he added, “you wrote that you trusted me.”

Clytie raised her dark eyes to him.

Hipyllos threw his arm around her waist, and though he felt a slight movement of resistance he led her in this way the short distance to the hired house where the priestess of Sabazius lived. It was a dwelling called a tristegos, a three-storied house which belonged to Sauros, the armorer, and stood close beside his workshop.

At the first subdued tap of the knocker, Ninus was ready and opened the door.

Hipyllos clasped both of Clytie’s hands.

“We must part,” he said. “But, whatever happens, do not go home until you have received a message from me. And now farewell, you beautiful one, you darling, you light of my life!”

He pressed her to his breast, and ere she could prevent it he had snatched a kiss.

But Clytie tore herself from his embrace, gathered the folds of her robe around her, and fled as lightly as a deer up the steps, where her slender figure vanished in the darkness.

Hipyllos gazed after her.

“By Aphrodite,” he exclaimed, “she is like a butterfly.”

XIX.

Maira did not sleep much that night. The next morning she was surprised not to see Doris flitting about the house, and having found Clytie’s room empty, she did not doubt that her daughter was in the garden with her favorite attendant. She went there and called repeatedly; but, when silence was the only reply, a presentiment of misfortune darted through her mind. She hurried back to Clytie’s chamber, searched it, found the papyrus note on the pillow, and read its contents with breathless haste.

“Merciful Gods!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Gone—fled in the night!... Clytie, Clytie, how could you cause me such sorrow? Make our house the scorn of envious neighbors—What will your father say? He will rage and curse you....”

Suddenly a revulsion of feeling came over her.

“Well, let him rage,” she murmured, “let him rage and call down curses.... To drive my Clytie to this! How she must have suffered! But, by Hera, he shall hear the truth.”

She was already on her way to her chamber, when she paused.

“What am I doing!” she exclaimed. “The first thing is to conceal Clytie’s flight. No one must suspect that her room is empty.”

Calling Eunoa, the oldest female slave in the house, she said to her: “Clytie is ill. Sit down here outside of her door and let no one enter, not even her nurse. Do exactly as I tell you.”

Eunoa opened her eyes in astonishment; she had never heard her mistress speak in so curt and imperious a tone.

When Maira entered her bed-room, there was a certain solemnity in her manner that attracted Xenocles’ attention. Stretching himself on the couch, he beckoned to her.

But, instead of taking her seat on the edge, Maira remained standing before him, gazing steadily into his face. Xenocles scarcely believed his eyes. It was the first time during the twenty years of their married life that his wife had not instantly done whatever he requested.

“Sit down,” he repeated, again pointing to the seat.

Maira did not seem to hear.

“I have evil tidings,” she said coldly. “A misfortune has happened to us during the night.”

“What is it? What is it?” cried the excitable little man, and pointing to the strip of papyrus she held in her hand, he asked: “Is this the misfortune?”

“It is from Clytie,” replied Maira, and read the contents in a tone which seemed to imply that the matter was no concern of hers.

At the words: “Forgive me, I must fly,” Xenocles started and, with a stiff movement, as though both his limbs had suddenly become one, he swung himself up from his reclining posture and put his feet on the floor so that he sat erect on the couch. He seemed to have been struck speechless, and his hands fumbled with his belt, which he had not yet buckled.

He was thinking of Clytie’s childhood, of her pretty, gentle face, her innocent caresses. His eyes filled with tears—he could not believe that she had gone.

Maira was a good wife and loved her husband tenderly; but she was not more generous than the majority of the female sex. Deeply as Xenocles was moved, it did not occur to her to spare him. All that she had silently endured for years must be uttered.

“Now we have no daughter,” she said, as a sort of preamble.

Xenocles was silent, the muscles around his mouth twitched convulsively.

A pause ensued. At that early hour of the morning the house was so still that the flies were heard buzzing in the sunshine on the rush carpet inside the door.

“It would have been better,” Maira continued, “if you had not always had your head filled with your plans and measurements for buildings. Whole days passed without your saying a word to Clytie or me, and if I spoke to you about anything that disturbed you, I was so harshly rebuffed that I often dared not address you. Doris the slave-girl knew ten times as much about Clytie’s affairs. By Adrasteia, it’s an easy matter to be a father, if a man considers it enough to give his daughter home and clothes and food. But, if you had had any love for your child, had you suspected what she hoped and longed for, had you known what she feared more than death—this misfortune would not have befallen us.”

Xenocles gazed at Maira as though she were a stranger. He understood that it was maternal affection which made her so strong, and at the same time dimly felt that perhaps he had some reason to reproach himself.

He bent his head.

“What is to be done?” he murmured. “Tell me, Maira. You have always been a good wife to me.”

At these simple words all Maira’s wrath vanished. She involuntarily sat down beside her husband and, as their eyes met, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“First,” she whispered, “we must conceal Clytie’s flight. Then you must—better now than later—go to Acestor and tell him that Clytie is ill and the wedding must be postponed. You can say she is delirious and no one is allowed to see her.”

Xenocles rose.

“It will be a hard task,” he said.

Fortunately Acestor’s house stood in the Melitan quarter so Xenocles, while on his way to it, had time to clear his brain.

As he had feared, he found the slaves in the act of decorating the building with garlands and green branches.

“Take all this down!” said the impetuous little man. “The bride is ill. There will be no wedding.”

The door-keeper, who was standing at the half-open door watching the slaves, heard these words and hurrying to his master, repeated them while announcing the visitor.

Xenocles was not a man to stand waiting at an open door, especially in the house of his future son-in-law. He followed close behind, but while crossing the peristyle he started at the sound of a blow, and distinctly heard the words:

“Take that, bird of misfortune, for your evil tidings.”

Acestor received Xenocles with a sullen face and frowning brow.

“Is what this blockhead says true?” he asked, without letting Xenocles have time to speak.

“The gods have given me a bitter cup to drain,” replied the little man with dignity. “My daughter has had a sudden attack of illness. She is delirious, and no one is permitted to see her. The wedding must be deferred.”

Acestor made no reply, but stared angrily into vacancy.

“Strange!” he muttered, “A bride who falls ill on her wedding day—who ever heard of such a thing? By Zeus, this or something else seems to me a bad omen. Do not forget that you owe me compensation and, by the gods, a double one. In the first place the girl is beautiful enough for many to desire to wed her, even without a dowry, and secondly I had calculated on the amount agreed upon as a sum of which I was sure.”

“I will think of it,” replied Xenocles coldly, and went away even more displeased with Acestor than with himself.

On the walk home he recalled the events of the morning and, as Clytie’s flight, Maira’s reproaches, and Acestor’s greed passed through his mind, he sighed heavily and exclaimed:

“The gods know where all this will end.”

XX.

Two days after the hetaeria assembled at Lamon’s home. The house, where for many generations a large bleaching business had been carried on, stood on the side of the Museium. All the water used was laboriously drawn up by slaves or beasts of burden; but on the other hand the dust of the city did not rise here, so the cloth could be dried in the open air, and moreover there was no trouble with road-inspectors on account of the waste-water. It ran down the hill-side unheeded.

To reach the door, customers from the lower part of the city were obliged to pass around the longest wing of the house; this inconvenience had been endured for many generations. They followed, as it were, the customs of their forefathers and the idea of change did not occur to them.

But Lamon had understood how to help himself. By the side of the bleaching-room was one for hanging clothes which looked out upon the lower part of the city and this, for his customers’ convenience, he had transformed into an open shop, by first replacing the outer wall by a few pillars and then having a marble-topped counter built across the stone floor. On this customers laid their bundles and from it was delivered the finished work which, furnished with the owner’s mark, hung on the wall inside. In the evening the place of the outer wall was supplied by a curtain, and at night with a grating reaching from roof to floor.

In this room, next in size to the workshop, the secret society had assembled. It was late in the evening, and at each end of the counter lamps were burning on tall brass tripods. The green curtain between the pillars was drawn, and closed the apartment like a wall.

Business discussions had not yet commenced; Thuphrastos and Hipyllos were talking about armor and weapons. Xenocles had several times given signs of impatience, till at last Sthenelus laughed, saying:

“Let the weapons rest! Xenocles has something to tell and, it seems to me, something important.”

“Yes, by Zeus, I have!” cried the eager little man and, glancing cautiously around him in every direction, he whispered: “I fear we are betrayed.”

Acestor started from his couch.

“Betrayed?” he repeated with evident anxiety.

Xenocles looked enquiringly at Sthenelus, who nodded assent.

“I was talking with Sthenelus this morning at the market,” the little white-haired man continued. “We were standing in front of the arcade of Zeus the Liberator and, when we parted Sthenelus called after me: ‘You know we meet this evening at Lamon’s.’ The words were spoken by the statue of Zeus the Liberator. As I turned to go, Sthenelus pointed to the ground. A little round shadow, like a man’s head, appeared in the great one cast by the pedestal. Urged by the same fear, we both hurried behind the statue and saw a thin man with tangled hair walking rapidly away. He was scarcely ten paces from us.”

“Who was the man?” asked Acestor breathlessly.

“Cephisodemos.”

“One of the most dangerous informers.”

“It’s all over with us!” murmured Lysiteles rising.

Drops of perspiration stood on Acestor’s brow; nevertheless he strove to appear calm, and proposed that the meeting should break up and each person go to his own home.

Thuphrastos took a different view of the matter. He wanted to judge for himself, and therefore asked one question after another. Had the market echoed with shouts and cries or was the time for buying and selling over? How far from the statue were the speakers standing? He put these and several more questions, then when he had learned what he wished to know he shrugged his shoulders saying:

“No one can judge with certainty whether the spy heard anything or not, but an empty fear ought not to put men to flight. Let us go on as though nothing had happened.”

There was such perfect calmness in Thuphrastos’ manner that it communicated itself to the others. Only Acestor and Lysiteles seemed undecided for a moment; but, when the others remained, they were ashamed to go and stayed also.

It was easy to see that Acestor had had some great plan in view. He was clad in all the splendor with which he appeared in the popular assemblies; his long, carefully arranged hair was perfumed, he had donned a dazzlingly white chiton, adorned around the neck and at the bottom with an embroidered blue border, and on the fore-finger of his right hand he wore a large seal ring.

XXI.

Acestor did not instantly commence what he had to say. Calmness must first be restored to the minds of the assembly so, glancing with a smile around the circle, he began in a tone intended to command attention.

“Is it not true, oh! my friends, that you would be greatly amazed if I said: ‘You have never seen Athens.’”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Xenocles, who was always too impatient to like riddles.

“You know,” Acestor continued, “that some faces, to appear beautiful, should be seen from the front, others from the side. That is the way with cities—some should be seen from the sea, others from the land....”

“And whence shall Athens be seen?” asked Xenocles, to whom this introduction seemed too long.

“By Zeus, from this spot.”

Lamon smiled.

“Why yes,” he said, “Pythocleides from Ceos, Pericles’ first teacher in the arts of the Muses, came here in his old age. He was perfectly bewitched by the view of the city, and used to say afterwards: ‘No one has seen Athens save he who has beheld it from Lamon’s house on the Museium.’”

“Well then, show us Athens!” cried Sthenelus. “By Pan, you have made me very curious though, having been born in the Street of the Sculptors, I thought I knew the city.”

Lamon made a sign to Acestor and the two men, each from his own side, drew the green curtain apart between the pillars.

The first impression was so overpowering that no one found words to praise it. Beyond the dark frame formed by the roof, pillars, and floor of the apartment the whole space was filled with a subdued light, like a bluish mist. The moon itself was not visible; it was obliquely behind the house. The transition from the lamp-light had been so sudden that at first the group could see nothing; but scarcely had the tripods with the lamps been moved farther back ere the outlines of stately houses and the dark tops of trees began to appear.

In front of the house, towards the brow of the hill, was a stone balustrade, on which stood vases containing large-leaved plants. Behind these, far down in the valley, were seen like a forest the wide-stretching kēpoi or gardens, amid whose dark poplars and cypresses shone here and there a curve of the Ilissus, glittering like molten silver. Not far from the foot of the hill spread the low Limnae with its labyrinth of buildings, and the ancient sanctuary of Dionysus, which seemed buried in the shadows of the night. Farther away red specks of light gleamed through the dusk; they moved very slowly, meeting, crossing, and moving away from each other—they were the torches carried by pedestrians along the way leading from the citadel to the market. Beyond this tract the ground rose in three or four lofty undulations, on whose crests appeared houses and trees, among the latter single palms, but distant and small, like delicately carved toys. Between the largest of these hills the flat top and steep sides of the Acropolis towered dark and frowning into the air. Close against the cliff, as if comparing itself with it, stood the vast Theatre of Dionysus, over whose encircling wall the eye pierced the dark gulf formed by the steeply-rising seats. But on the summit, towering over the low Limnae, glimmered the white marble temple, with its delicate, shadowy rows of columns, above which again rose the colossal statue of the patron goddess of Athens, visible for miles away, as in motionless grandeur it seemed to both rule and watch.

A strangely sublime impress rested upon this whole landscape, where the gods had once wandered and where, so to speak, each spot was sacred. Upon the height Pallas Athene had planted the olive-tree sacred to her, and yonder, by the shore of the Ilissus, almost on the very spot where his altar stood, Boreas had borne away the Princess Oreithyia. Sometimes a cool evening breeze, following the course of the stream, swept through the valley. A distant, confused sound, the breathing of the half slumbering city, then reached the ear; but when the wind died away everything was still, and houses, trees, and mountains, steeped in the melancholy lustre of the moonbeams, once more rose before the eyes in majestic silence.

“Magnificent! Marvellous!” exclaimed little Xenocles, extending his arms towards the city as though he would fain embrace it.

“Friends,” said Acestor, but paused while his glance wandered around the room as though in search of something.

Sthenelus’ eyes twinkled; he knew all Acestor’s tricks of art.

“Why,” he said, “Acestor wants the bema.L But if you are willing, Lamon, surely he can speak from the marble counter.”

Lamon, who was again drawing the green curtain between the pillars, made a sign of assent.

Sthenelus, spite of his lameness, dragged a bench up to the counter.

“The bema is ready,” he said, offering Acestor his hand.

The latter took it, and stepped clumsily upon the bench and from the bench to the counter. He was apparently no adept in physical exercises and, when he visited the gymnasia, doubtless did so only to meet orators and poets in the arcades.

After having thrown back his head and shut his eyes to collect his thoughts, he extended both hands.

“Friends,” he said, and his powerful voice filled the room so that it gave back a resonant echo, “what the eye-ball is to the eye, Athens is to Hellas. As an orator and teacher of the art of oratory, I have travelled through many lands and visited many cities. I don’t say this to pride myself upon it, but to show that I am competent to judge. I have seen what great cities are, and how they are governed. Now I say to you: Athens is going to her destruction! If I—which perhaps I am not quite unworthy to do—stood at the head of public affairs, I should know well what was needed. Then, like a second Pericles.”

At this comparison Thuphrastos knit his brows; the blood rushed to his brain and, clenching his hands, he rose from the couch. Every one was aware that he had known Pericles and admired him with his whole soul.

There was perfect silence in the room. All eyes rested on Thuphrastos, who walked straight to the counter, seized Acestor by his bare leg, and shook him, saying:

“Come to your senses, Sacas! You forget how wide is the gulf between you and a Pericles.”

At the slave name of Sacas Acestor sprung heavily down on the tiled floor. He was deadly pale, his eyes sparkled with a fierce, gloomy light, and he raised his hand to deal a blow.

Thuphrastos did not make the slightest movement to parry it; folding his arms across his chest, he held his furious antagonist in check with his cold glance, as though he had been a vicious dog. For a moment the two men stood motionless, gazing into each other’s faces, then they felt a grasp on the arm that seemed like an iron band.

“No quarrelling!” said Lamon’s deep voice and, as the simplest way of restoring peace, he seized Acestor round the loins and lifted him on the counter as easily as if he had been a child. “Talk on!” he added curtly, and returned to his seat without looking at him as though it was a matter of course that he should be obeyed.

Acestor passed his hand across his brow several times, and it was long ere he could control his voice.

“If we desire to save Athens,” he at last resumed, “we must manage to have the friends of the rulers kept away from the popular assemblies. Then it will not be difficult to destroy them; for they have many foes.”

Lamon and Sthenelus uttered a murmur of disapproval.

It was a special agreement that the hetaeria should labor only for the advantage of fellow members, and not meddle in affairs of state. After exchanging glances with Hipyllos, Thuphrastos, to the surprise of every one, made a gesture as if he were not yet weary of hearing what Acestor had to say. Still, the latter felt that his listeners were not in harmony with him; he paused abruptly, as if his thoughts were eluding him, and then added, raising his voice louder and louder as though trying to deafen himself with his own words:

“Charicles and Aristocrates ought to resign their offices, Peisandros must be banished and Phanos, who has made so many citizens wretched by his pursuit of the hetaeriae, should not only forfeit his position as clerk, but have erected in some conspicuous place a pillar of infamy bearing his name.”

Here Acestor suddenly stopped and stared with dilated eyes at the curtain between the pillars, as though he had beheld through an opening all the horrors of Hades. Without adding another word, he jumped down from the counter and pointed with trembling hand to the threshold between the columns.

All followed the direction of his eyes.

Under the green curtain was seen on each side a pair of feet. The sight of these motionless feet aroused an indescribable excitement among the men. At first no one believed his eyes; then all rose from their couches. It was so still that, for the first time in the course of the evening, the water was heard trickling in the fulling-room adjoining.

“Dunces of slaves!” muttered Lamon, shaking his clenched hand towards the interior of the house. “You have forgotten the garden. They have come upon us from the hill.”

Hipyllos exchanged a significant glance with Thuphrastos and, pointing to Acestor, said in a very low tone:

“It has turned out differently from what we expected. The jest has become earnest.”

XXII.

Scarcely had the sudden silence warned those standing outside that they were discovered, when the curtain was drawn back.

The clerk Phanos, the persecutor of the hetaeriae, entered the room, while his companion, a subaltern officer of the city police, remained standing at the entrance.

“The house is surrounded!” cried the latter in a loud voice. “No one can escape.”

With these words he pulled the curtain farther aside and beyond it appeared, like a living wall, the dark figures of the toxoternae or bowmen, whose helmets, spears, and shields flashed in the torchlight.

All eyes were fixed on Phanos, a small, stout man, with a pale, handsome face. A lock of black hair hung low on his forehead, but the most remarkable thing about him was his eyes—a pair of clear, light-blue eyes, sparkling with intelligence, whose gaze was doubly piercing because he bent his head a little and looked out from under his eye-brows. It was evident that those eyes forgot no one, and that each person on whom they rested might as well have been recorded in a book. He wore a plain white robe, entirely without ornament, and had thrown a brown mantle around him.

At sight of Phanos Acestor made a movement as though he were about to escape through the peristyle. “Where are you going?” whispered Thuphrastos. “You will run directly into the arms of the archers. No, hide, hide!—Phanos has heard every word.”

“In there!” added Xenocles hastily, pointing to the door of the bleaching-room. “He hasn’t seen you yet. Perhaps you will be forgotten.”

Acestor crept behind the counter and stole like a thief into the bleaching-room, closing the door carefully behind him.

It was quite time. Half a score of the slaves of the city police pressed in from the peristyle and watched every exit, among them the door through which Acestor had slipped.

While this was happening Phanos had gazed sternly around him, but at the sight of Thuphrastos and Xenocles his face brightened. Approaching Lamon, the owner of the house, he held out his hand.

“Lamon,” he said, in so loud a tone that the officer and slaves could hear, “it is fortunate for you that I meet men like Thuphrastos and Xenocles here. I know them—they are plotting no evil. Your hetaeria does not seem to be of the sort we so rigidly pursue. You are office-seekers, not men striving to usurp the government. I have now seen with my own eyes.... Yet—did I not hear a chatterer shrieking among you? He has shouted intolerably long; I’ll close his lips.”

“If you heard that,” replied Lamon, “you must have heard our disapproval.”

“Well then,” continued Phanos, “speak frankly. To what places do you want to be elected?”

Lamon—and then the others—obeyed the command without hesitation.

“Very well!” Phanos then continued, “promise to break up the hetaeria, and you shall lose nothing. The places of which we dispose are not dependent upon election, but are appointments. But there must be no more meetings of the hetaeria. If, in spite of your promise, you secretly assemble, woe betide you! No punishment will be too severe for us.”

Without bending an inch, or condescending to flattery, Thuphrastos thanked the clerk for his consideration and, after having exchanged glances with Lamon and the others, promised, in the name of himself and his friends, to disband the hetaeria.

Phanos now turned towards Hipyllos, the youngest of the group.

“Bring me that shrieker,” he said to him, “the only one of you who fled.” And, with a smile that showed he had noticed everything, he pointed to the door of the bleaching-room and added, “You’ll find him in there.”

No command could have been more welcome to Hipyllos. His heart throbbed with joyous anticipation; he had a presentiment that he was near his aim.

XXIII.

The sentinel at the door made way at a sign from Phanos, and Hipyllos hurried into the bleaching-room.

A suffocating odor of sulphur, mingled with a horrible smell of urine and soap, greeted him. A copper lamp was burning on a tripod placed near the wall, and he scanned the whole apartment with a single glance. At the back were five recesses in the wall containing reservoirs of water, where lay soaking the material to be stamped by the slaves on the morrow. In the middle of the workshop stood a large stone table, on which lay some batlets. On the left, over a pole under the ceiling, hung a purple robe, in whose lower folded part was flung an iron teasel. Behind this article of clothing one could see the drying-room, where Hipyllos noticed hundreds of garments hanging on long poles. He was going to creep under them, when he heard a smothered sound from the opposite direction. Here, ranged along the wall, stood a number of wicker baskets, the height of a man, which resembled hen-coops. Clothes were spread over five or six where, as the vapor in the room showed, sulphur had been recently lighted to give them the requisite whiteness. From one of the centre ones issued a strange stifled moaning.

“I have him!” murmured Hipyllos smiling, as he took hold of the handle on top shaped like an owl, the sacred bird of Athens. When he had removed the basket, Acestor sat crouching before him with half-closed eyes, panting and groaning, almost fainting. The sulphur under the clothes had nearly smothered him, and Hipyllos found it difficult to lift him upon his legs.

But how entirely transformed was the stately Acestor! A couple of small metal jars filled with powdered sulphur had been placed under the basket, ready for the next day’s bleaching. In his confusion and terror Acestor had overturned them and, as he had afterwards pressed his hands on his head, he had filled his hair, eye-brows, and beard with sulphur, besides yellow spots on his nose, forehead, and cheeks. He had no sooner taken a few long breaths when he began to sneeze as though his head would burst. He seemed to be completely stupefied; his limbs tottered under him and he allowed himself to be led like a child.

Without wasting a word upon him, Hipyllos brought him before the waiting group.

At sight of this pitiful figure all burst into a shout of laughter; even the slaves mounting guard laughed till the spears shook in their hands.

“Why, why,” said Phanos, “is this the hero who banishes officials and erects pillars of infamy? Who would believe it? Does he look like a murderer?”

A fresh burst of laughter greeted the words.

“But—dangerous or not,” Phanos continued, “he has committed a crime and deserves punishment.”

“What has he done?” asked Xenocles.

“He is a spurious citizen. His father’s name cannot be found in the temple of Apollo Patrous.”

Acestor raised his head and fixed his eyes on Phanos with a venomous glance.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “It can be found there.”

“Where?”

“By the side of your father’s name.”

Phanos recoiled a step as though struck by an invisible shaft; but the next moment the veins in his temples swelled, and his eyes flashed.

“Wretch!” he exclaimed, his lips quivering with indignation. “My father’s name is not to be found in the temple—he was, as every one knows, a freedman. Nevertheless, my right to citizenship is a legal one, bestowed for services rendered to the state. Note this, Gobryas, son of Tisamenos.”

These words fell upon Acestor like a thunder-bolt. At hearing his name, his real name, which he had believed concealed from every one, he perceived that all was discovered.

Throwing himself at Phanos’ feet, he raised his arms submissively.

“Mercy!” he murmured, “mercy!”

“Do you know the dungeons in the cliff?” asked Phanos sternly.

Acestor made a sign of assent.

“Well! Sthenelus can tell you what rumor says of them.”

Merry Sthenelus limped a few steps nearer, cleared his throat, and answered in a sepulchral voice:

“Rumor says that prisoners walk into them, but are carried out, feet foremost.”

Acestor kissed the edge of Phanos’ robe.

“Mercy!” he cried. “Mercy! Forgive my evil speech.”

“Spare him,” said Xenocles.

“Let him run,” added Thuphrastos.

“Well then,” replied Phanos, “you boasted of your travels, Acestor. You must journey farther still. If you don’t want to have your hair clipped and become a slave for having your name spuriously inserted on the citizens’ list, you must leave Athens before to-morrow noon.”

Acestor bowed his head under Phanos’ hand in token of submission.

“Milon!” shouted Phanos.

The officer of the city-watch, who was still mounting guard inside the curtain, came forward.

“Follow this man,” said Phanos, pointing to Acestor, “and don’t lose sight of him. When he has quitted Athens, report to me.”

Milon grasped Acestor’s arm and went away with him.

Xenocles gazed after them.

“By Zeus!” he exclaimed, “believe me or not as you choose, but I’ve always had a presentiment that the eagle might become a crow.”

“And I,” replied Thuphrastos, “have always seen the crow, never the eagle.”

When, soon after, the house was cleared of the city-watch, the friends looked at each other a moment in silence.

“Who has done this?” asked Lamon.

Thuphrastos shrugged his shoulders.

“Is there any way of knowing who has denounced an hetaeria?” he muttered.

“It was probably Megas,” whispered Lysiteles in his faint, cracked voice.

“No,” replied Sthenelus positively, “had it been he, by Zeus, he would have been with them. Megas would have wanted to enjoy the sight of our faces when we were surprised. No, it was not he. I think it was Cephidosemos, who watched Xenocles and myself from behind the column. As an informer he is afraid of drawing hatred on his head, so he keeps away.”

Thuphrastos passed his hand thoughtfully over his beard.

“What offices can Phanos bestow upon us?” he asked.

“I have heard,” answered Lamon, “that a tax-collector is to be sent to some of the rebellious cities. He will have hundreds of soldiers with him. It would not surprise me, Thuphrastos, if you should be appointed to that office.”

“Well!” exclaimed the old captain, “I shall rely on Phanos’ words. He never forgets.”

“We will all trust him!” echoed the group in chorus.

“But,” continued Thuphrastos, turning to Xenocles, “however we may fare, there is one person who will lose....”

“Whom do you mean?”

“By Zeus, your daughter! Was she not betrothed to Acestor, and was not the wedding to have taken place this very day?”

Xenocles made a repellent gesture.

“Do not speak of it!” he cried.

“Well then,” replied Thuphrastos, “I’ll give you a son-in-law and, by the gods, a better one than that chatterer.”

Xenocles raised his head with a questioning glance.

“The man I shall bring you is not far off,” continued Thuphrastos. “Here you see Hipyllos! He loves the maiden. We know of him—what nobody knew about that shrieker—that he is rich. He showed his courage at the battle of Antirrhium—he has archons in his family. What more can you desire?”

“Nothing, by Zeus!” answered Xenocles laughing and grasping the young man’s hand, “what objection should I have to a son-in-law who will make me a family connection of Lacrateides?”

Hipyllos pressed Xenocles’ hand in both his own.

“Father!” he cried warmly, “give me your daughter Clytie! Neither you nor she shall repent it—that I swear by all the gods.”

Soon after Hipyllos stole out into the peristyle and called his slave.

“Myrmex,” he whispered, “hurry down to the house of Sauros, the armorer. Ask for Ninus, the priestess of Sabazius, and let her see that the young lady and her slave return home at once without being seen. Look, here is money.”

When Hipyllos returned, the last discussion among the hetaeria took place. It lasted an hour; finally the members of the society released one another from their oaths and divided the money which had been contributed.

As soon as possible Hipyllos slipped away, without taking leave of any one except Lamon, the owner of the house.

XXIV.

Hipyllos walked swiftly down the hill. He wanted to be the first to carry the glad tidings to Clytie.

About half way he met Myrmex, who was apparently returning after having performed his errand. As the way was stony and the moon often concealed behind clouds the old man had lighted a torch, but Hipyllos wanted neither him nor his torch—he let the moon light him as best it could and hurried past him, exclaiming:

“Follow me, and put out the torch when you enter the street.”

Then, leaping rather than walking down the hill, he turned into the dark, shaded Limnae, and soon saw the familiar ray of light stream out to meet him from the side-building of Xenocles’ house. Hurrying towards it, he picked up a pebble from the ground and flung it against the wall.

The red curtain was drawn aside and in the opening appeared the object of his longing—Clytie! As the lamp stood back in the room the rays divided and left her almost in darkness, but the youthful figure formed a shadowy outline, which was quite enough to make a lover’s heart throb. Though Hipyllos was unable to distinguish her features, the luxuriant hair, the childish roundness of the cheeks, and the graceful slope of the shoulders possessed bewitching suggestions of youthful beauty, and Hipyllos knew that these signs were no delusions.

Spite of the darkness outside, Clytie recognized him and exclaimed:

“Eternal Gods! What has happened? Good or evil fortune? Speak, speak, I implore you.”

Hipyllos listened in delight. Every word uttered by the young girl’s lips echoed with a silvery cadence upon the silence of the night.

He pushed a log against the wall with his foot, and sprang upon it.

“Dear, lovely Clytie,” he whispered, “give me your hand! What I have to say is surely worth a clasp of the fingers.”

He now told her in a few words the events of the evening; but he was apparently not satisfied with a mere clasp of the hand.

Suddenly the street was illumined by a broad ray of light and, though Hipyllos’ shadow, gigantic and strangely distorted, fell on the wall and the loop-hole it was not difficult for the new-comers to see that he was in the act of pressing his lips upon a dazzlingly white arm, which vainly strove to escape the caress.

“Aha!” cried an angry voice, “a pretty sight, by Heracles....”

Clytie, with a half-stifled shriek, vanished from the loop-hole and Hipyllos, turning, leaped down from the log.

Accompanied by a slave bearing a blazing torch Xenocles, after following a cross-path over the hill, had just emerged from the shrubbery. Hipyllos had not thought that the active little man, spite of his age, was almost as agile in his gait as he himself.

Xenocles seemed furiously enraged, and struck fiercely at the youth with his clenched fists.

“Begone!” he shouted. “Begone from my sight. Do you suppose I will give my daughter to a rake who steals to the maiden’s room in the darkness of night. Be off from here, I say; Clytie shall never be your wife.”

At these words Hipyllos turned deadly pale and his head swam. Now that all obstacles were removed, now that he believed himself at the goal of his wishes, this had happened so unexpectedly that it seemed as though the earth had yawned under his feet.

Throwing himself at Xenocles’ feet, he clasped his knees and with tears in his eyes exclaimed in the most imploring accents: “My father, punish me, let me be scourged by your slaves—I will offer my back to them myself, but forgive me! Your daughter is dearer to me than the light of my eyes.”

A singular twitching convulsed Xenocles’ features; he averted his face, but unable to control himself, burst into a loud laugh.

“Young man,” he said, when he was once more capable of speech, “confess that I gave you a terrible fright. But,” he added, raising his voice, “you both deserved it—she not less than you. Now I understand the whole affair—had she not been accompanied by you, she would never have dared to fly from her father’s house at night.”

Hipyllos scarcely knew himself how he took leave of Xenocles. Now that everything had resulted happily he was fairly intoxicated with joy. Attended by Myrmex he wandered about, revelling in his delight, through the moon-lit night. What cared he for the rough rioters he met, or the muffled thieves who watched behind the altars on the cross-roads.

Did not everything seem to smile upon him? He had come into the “Gardens,” the loveliest part of Athens. In the centre of the ground sloping towards the river towered a tall plane-tree at whose foot a fountain rippled; around it stretched thickets of Agnus castus trees, against whose dark background white statues were clearly relieved. Of the nine sanctuaries in this quarter the marble temple of Aphrodite gleamed through dark, towering cypresses; below it the waves of the Ilissus, consecrated to the Muses, sparkled in their deep channel, and from a path along the bank of the stream gay conversation echoed upon the silence of the night. Suddenly a youthful voice, which seemed the embodiment of light-heartedness, began the following song:

Hipyllos softly repeated the last words of the song. He felt as though, like the gods themselves, he was walking on the clouds. Just at that moment repeated groans happened to attract his attention, and turning he saw that his old slave could scarcely keep up with him.

“What is the matter, Myrmex?” he asked good-naturedly. “Don’t you see that I am as happy as a god—and here you are growing worse than Sisyphus himself.”

“Don’t be angry,” whined the old man. “It is growing late. Haven’t we walked far enough to-day?”

“Well then—home!” replied Hipyllos laughing, “but to-morrow....”

“What are you going to do?” asked Myrmex rather anxiously.

“To-morrow I shall go to the Lyceium to listen to the wise teachings of Hippias from Elis. He who can boast of being able to answer any question must surely be a man of varied knowledge.”

“And what do you want him to teach you?”

“First to make happiness a household goddess.”

“And next?”

“To bind her wings.”

“So that she can always stay with you?”

“Even so, wise Myrmex.”