“Before he mounts the hill, I know

He cometh quickly; from below

Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow

Before him, striking on my brow.”

Tennyson.

Days lengthened into weeks, and weeks into months. The fate of Corinna had lost none of its horror, but time had mollified the poignancy of the tragedy. Zopyrus still served as secretary to Pasicles and in his spare moments he wrote a series of essays entitled, “Memoirs of the Persian Court,” which he intended to present to the great Aeschylus as an aid to that poet in his poem the “Persæ” upon which he was working.

Considering himself to be unworthy because of his secret passion for the daughter of Aeschylus, he had for some weeks delayed speaking to Eumetis upon the subject of marriage, but one bright afternoon in March when the bird-winds blew across Attica from the Mediterranean, he asked her to join him in a stroll to the Acropolis. She gladly consented, and together they sauntered along the winding street westward toward the hill which rose in majesty before them, the pride of every loyal Athenian.
210

“Let us rest on yonder moss-covered ledge,” suggested Eumetis as they neared the eastern end of the Acropolis. “Later we can ascend.”

“No, no,” exclaimed Zopyrus hastily, recognizing the very place where he had seen Corinna and the base creature who had accompanied her. “Let us to the Theatre of Dionysus where we sat together and witnessed ‘The Capture of Miletus.’ It was there you first—” but he could not conclude the sentence and walked along by Eumetis’ side, his eyes downcast with shame that his tongue had faltered just at the moment when he desired to bring up the subject of their betrothal.

They entered the eastern gate of the theatre and before them rose the stone seats, tier upon tier, dazzling white in the heat of the sun. They were impressed by the awful silence which here reigned supreme. What a vast difference between the theatre now and as it was on that day when thousands of spectators had thronged its gates and had sat in gala attire upon its benches! Then it had surged with human life; now the only living things visible were occasional lizards darting in and out of crevices.

Zopyrus and Eumetis without a word, but with a mutual impulse, sought the section of seats at the head of which stood the statue of Aphrodite. For some moments they sat in silence with eyes fixed upon the stage as if before them they saw again enacted the great play of Phrynichus. But her hand did not touch his arm as upon that former occasion. There existed an inexplicable estrangement, and Zopyrus as he noticed her pensive mood revealed in her pale features, was smitten with remorse that he had neglected and undoubtedly wounded her.
211

“Eumetis,” he said softly, “do not think that I have been willfully neglectful of you. Much has occurred to turn our minds from our—our—happiness. Will you now once again set the date for our wedding?”

There was no response from Eumetis. He seized her hands which lay passively folded in her lap. They were cold. Her attitude was listless.

“Speak, Eumetis,” the youth implored with growing alarm. “Have I offended you?”

At his words of entreaty the girl turned her face toward him and smiled—but not as a maiden would smile at her lover, but as a mother would gaze upon a beloved but willful son.

“You have not offended me, Zopyrus, and I sincerely hope that what I am about to say will not hurt you. Do you believe, my friend, that I honor you most highly?”

He nodded affirmatively and she continued, her thoughtful, sincere eyes resting upon him contemplatively: “Then I will tell you why I have seemed strange. I love Polygnotus who returns my affection, and but for the fear of wounding you, a friend whom he holds most dear, would wed me now at any time.”
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The stage, the theatre, the Acropolis, and even the fleecy clouds floating dreamily above, seemed to whirl about in a colorless eddy. Only the eyes of Eumetis remained stationary. At one moment they seemed to be accusing eyes, at another, reproachful, then pitying, but his last impression of them was that they portrayed peace and happiness. His conscience would not permit him to play the heroically sacrificing lover, nor did he really experience any elation because of his freedom. He simply clasped her hand and murmured: “I understand.” She looked at him quickly with a questioning glance as they rose and turned their faces homeward.

Before they reached the western limit of the Agora, the familiar figure of Polygnotus suddenly turned from a side street and came toward them. Zopyrus imagined that a fleeting expression of pain passed over the artist’s kindly f............