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T-H&DWiNE PHILOSOPHER.
CYAN-& —
TALES OF OLD SICILY
Ex Libria
C. K. OGDEN
TALES OF
OLD SICILY
BY
ALEXANDER NELSON HOOD
AUTHOR OF
"Adria: A Tale of Venice," &c.
LONDON
HURST AND BLACKETT LIMITED
1906
All rights reserved
'chapelH
RIVER. |Sj
press:
TkingstonT
I SURREY I
PR SANTA BARBAIIA
H8T3
JANE THOMSON,
the friend of my childhood and later years, these
tales of that Sicily we know so well
are dedicated with gratitude
and affection
PREFATORY NOTE.
In these tales concerning the Sicihan past, the writer
has referred to certain phases of hfe, which by an
observant mind may be recognised as reUcs of that
past to-day. Much exists in Sicily, shadowy though
it be, and at times difficult to trace, of the hopes
and aspirations, the beliefs, customs and fears of
ancient days. Many have come down from the
Greeks, if not intact, at least in a manner to be
recognised, although more than twenty centuries
have intervened.
In the great affection for the land, the desire to
possess some portion, however small, the unweary-
ing, almost loving devotion bestowed on its care by
the Sicilian peasant, and in his pride for its exuberant
production, the adoration and love for " The Great
Mother," the Earth Goddess, Demeter or Ceres, is
clearly to be traced. Similarly the cult of Venus,
who had her remarkable temple on Mount Kryx,
with its celebrated festivals and depraved orgies,
survives in the designation of various places and of
persons. Pride of race for the greatness of the past ;
viii PREFATORY NOTE.
the superstition that attaches to ancient strongholds
or battlefields where warriors have fallen, together
with the acknowledged fear of the taint and con-
tagion which lingers about a place where crime
has been committed, are noted in the tale " Venus
of Eryx."
The fragmentary sketch of the life of Empedocles,
" The Divine Philosopher," of Girgenti, is designed
to mark the power of oratory, or, more strictly, the
power of personality in combination with it, which
holds particularly in Sicily, as well as the absorbing
love for liberty which, if strong and firmly rooted,
is too often over-shadowed by inertion or prepon-
derance of factious opposition.
In " Cyane," the love of poetry has been made
the principal theme — a sentiment which has left its
silent trace in the romantic character of the people,
its more eloquent expression in the popularity of
the cantastorie, a reader or reciter of verse or prose,
to be met with in almost every town. It is also
found in the habit of individuals to mark special
events by verse-making, and in the encouragement
of poetry in the schools. Subsidiary to that is a
reference to the old Greek subtlety or cunning,
which has its too apparent counterpart in the daily
life of the Sicilian lower classes ; and to the super-
stitions concerning the Evil Eye, which are as preva-
lent now as in the days spoken of, or the remoter
times of Egyptian civilisation.
PREFATORY NOTE. ix
For the rest the writer has not attempted to
present what he has to relate in the usual form of a
novel. His aim has been rather to create around
the selected subjects incidents serving to illustrate
them more fully, in the hope of redeeming them
from mere pedantic expression, and keeping those
incidents in subjection to the main themes.
He has to acknowledge his special indebtedness
for the assistance found in the translations of the
works of Euripides in " The Athenian Drama," and
" The Trojan Women," by Mr. Gilbert Murray ;
also in Freeman's " History of . Sicily," Holms'
" Storia della Sicilia," Scina's " Monograph on
Empedocles," and other works.
CONTENTS.
The Great Mother
Venus of Eryx
The Divine Philosopher
Cyane ....
25
73
173
THE GREAT MOTHER.
THE GREAT MOTHER.
On the ridge and precipitous sides of a high moun-
tain rising from the upper corn-lands of Sicily in
the far north-west corner of the province of Catania
is perched the town of Troina, clinging like a lizard
to a rock. There old Pietro Paterniti was born and
reared, as were his father, grandfather, and many
generations before him.
In age, Pietro was a httle short of seventy, or
perhaps a little over ; he scarcely knew which. Time
went by so quickly that he had lost count ; and,
besides, in Troina there was no fuss about birth
certificates, registers, or such modern inventions
when he was born. So he had nothing to help
him to correct the sum total of passing years, which,
as he believed himself to be hale and hearty, did not
give him any trouble whatever.
In appearance he was of middle height with
white hair and shaggy white eye-brows that met over
blue eyes. His figure was a little bent from stoop-
ing to his work. He was always neatly dressed in
a blue cloth suit and a shirt of home-made linen
4 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
coarsely woven. He wore a well-made pair of
shoes, such as one in the trade should wear as a
specimen of his skill, for he was a cobbler, and an
authority on all matters connected with leather
work. Both inside and outside his house he bore a
Phrygian cap, still much used in Sicily ; he preferred
it to any other head-gear, he said, as it reminded
him of ancient days, and besides, kept him warm
in winter and was a protection from the sun in
summer time.
His life had been' uneventful, and he was con-
tented with his lot. Now that he was older and
had become a little inore stiff in his limbs, perhaps
he would have wished the winds of winter to be
somewhat less keen, the periods of snow and cloud
in the mountain town to be a little less long. But
as the neighbours provided sufficient work for his
wants, he was not without charcoal to warm his
room, nor sufficient food and clothing for his needs
at the worst of times.
He was without relations, and unmarried. The
commari of the town had given up hope of wedding
him to any one of their daughters long ago ; and he
was glad when they finally recognised that his only
wish was to be left alone to work and dream, dream
and work, as he liked, without interruption and fear
of the trouble that a wife and possible family would
inevitably bring him.
Pietro was no scholar. The only education he had
THE GREAT MOTHER. 5
received as a boy was what his father had given
him : to choose a well-seasoned hide at the mer-
chant's shop ; to cut the leather with all economy ;
and to firmly lay and sew the strips together with
good stout thread, so that customers might not com-
plain of creaking shoes or boots which let in the
wet through the soles. In his young days learning
was for priests and avvocati. Even the gentlefolk
thought little of it ; and, perhaps, not one in ten of
the inhabitants could do more in the way of writing
than laboriously sign his name to a paper or a
letter. So in acquiring knowledge he had to be
content with listening to what his customers might
let fall by chance, treasuring what he heard with
great care, and dwelling upon it meditatively as he
sate over his work.
In that way he had heard something of the great
history of the past: the old Sicani, the Greeks, the
Romans, the Saracens, the light-haired Normans,
from whom he with his blue eyes, as he was told,
might have descended. But they were confused in
his mind as beings that lived some time in the past,
with whom the history of the country was in some
way inextricably mixed up — they were so many in
number, and he could not clearly determine who
they really were, what they strove for, and what
they accomplished.
Nevertheless, Pietro was certainly not unmindful
of the fame of his native place ; eind Troina was to
6 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
be admired, and extolled, as well as to be loved, for no
Sicilian worthy of the name may admit that any spot
on earth is half so beautiful, half so civilised, or
half so alluring as his own -paese, without being con-
demned as disloyal to his birthplace and worthy of
the contempt of his fellow townsmen. Besides it
was the highest inhabited town of Sicily, and that
of itself was a great distinction. Troina had also
once been a royal residence with its castle, the cele-
brated fortress and key of Sicily, the hard fought for
prize of Count Roger the Norman, and maintained
against the Saracenic revolt by the Count and his
brave young wife. Indeed, it was behind the very
wall beneath which Pietro lived, that, when the garri-
son was so closely beset by the foe, and all were in
so desperate a condition for the want of the com-
mon necessaries of life, the royal couple had to share
one cloak between them to ward off the extreme
winter cold and be content with the meagre por-
tions of food served out to the soldiery and the
starving inhabitants for their maintenance. So im-
portant a place was it in those days, in fact, that the
heroic Countess was left behind in supreme command
to guard the town when her lord went to distant Cala-
bria to make good his possession of those lands, which
the proud house of Hauteville had conquered on the
way to Sicily from their home in remote Normandy.
Yes, surely, Troina had had a great past, and if
the ordinary human eye to-day only could see in a
THE GREAT MOTHER. 7
well-turned Norman arch and in the neatly joined
stones of ancient buildings vestiges of a silent past,
that brighter and clearer eye of the mind could dis-
cern much more and give colour and definition to
scenes which tradition evokes from the past, adding
greater glory than perhaps is dreamt of in latter
day complacency and local pride of place.
But much more to him were those beautiful beings
he had heard of from a professor of ancient Greek,
who had retired to Troina from his post at the
University of Catania to end his days in his native
place. For hours would Pietro listen wonderingly
to the talk of the learned man who came to chat
with him as he worked. That was in his younger
days, for the professor had been dead many years.
But Pietro forgot nothing of what he had been told.
Even now the names of many of them who peopled
the world then lingered in his memor)^ and he loved
to murmur them to himself, under his breath, for
fear the neighbours might have heard and laughed
at him for calling upon ancient gods and goddesses.
So they were spoken softly, and when he was alone.
Ceres* and Persephone, Apollo and Aphrodite,
Hermes and Hera — he remembered them all. What
dream visions of beautiful faces and graceful forms
they called up ; what noble deeds ; what fierce
strivings ; what soul-stirring adventures !
* Demeter, the Greek name of the divinity, was scarcely known
in Sicily.
8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
But of all the deities, the two who were most to
him and first in his affections were Ceres and
Persephone, for they had chosen his own land for
their favoured habitation. It pleased him to think
that they had lived among the mountains which were
his home. He felt a glow of satisfaction when he
considered that he gazed on the very scenes they
had looked upon, felt the same cool breeze of the
hills, scented the same sweet flowers, basked in the
same sunshine, sought the same shady spots that
they had sought. To the Great Mother and her
Daughter the world owed the blessings of the earth,
the fruit, the flowers, the oil-bearing berry, the sweet
herbs, and, above all, the grain without which men
would fade and wither like the stalks on which it
grows. How great the thought! How deep the
debt of gratitude that could never be adequately
repaid ! Surely a man, if born in such a spot, might
rightly be proud, for he was, in a sense, a compatriot
of those divine benefactors, who had left upon the
world the seal of their presence and filled it with
the lingering fragrance of memories that could never
fail.
Ceres and Persephone — Mother and Daughter ;
they were to him as parent and child. There was
that within him, which compelled his admiration for
the divine pair. The old love of the soil ; the wor-
ship of the earth and its fruit, begotten of the self-
dedication and devotion to its cultivation of countless
THE GREAT MOTHER. 9
generations of his forbears ; the recognition of the
Giver of Gifts — all which had been lost in the cen-
turies and now revived in him, may have been the
cause, perhaps. Whatever it might be, it was a com-
pelling force, a subtle irresistible impulse which
possessed him, against which he could offer no
resistance. He was only aware of a passionate fond-
ness for the Great Mother whom he regarded as
friend, companion, and consoler, who was ever
present in his thoughts day and night.
In his way Pietro was a philosopher and took
things as they came to him, calmly and resignedly.
But he had a reflective mind, and he often paused
to consider what was the inner motive which lay
behind men's thoughts and actions, especially in
moments of doubt such as frequently came to him.
No amount of reflection sufficed here. He could
only admit the force of the spell under which he
lay, and prudently avoid the topic when talking to
his neighbours for dread of being accounted be-
witched, thereby incurring the risk of a visit from
the arch-priest of the town with bell, book, candle
and holy water, to free him from the influence of
the Evil One.
From the back window of his little house of two
rooms, which, by careful saving and small economies,
he had erected on ground that he had also bought,
he was able to see in clear days the immense
table-mountain of Castrogiovanni, on which stretched
10 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the Plains of Enna. There, as he knew, the
Great Mother of the Earth, the Beneficent One, had
lived in a vast temple of stone surrounded by
boundless fields of flowering poppies. That Pietro
could well believe, for from the glow of the sky at
evening he knew poppies must still be growing
there, so brilliant were the clouds that hung above,
so ruddy the haze that enveloped the heights where
was the abode of the goddess. He thought of
Persephone (he would dwell upon the name fondly,
almost caressingly, for to utter it was as if he
listened to the love-song of doves in the spring-
time), the frail, beautiful girl — and remembered that
from that very spot before him she had been ravished
from her companions and carried by her admirer to
his realms below the smoking mountain, to that
nether world whose entrance, it was said, lay on the
slopes of ^tna by the side of the lake eastward
towards Randazzo. Yes, and probably Ceres, passion-
ately despondent, wearily seeking, may have climbed
the mountain where Troina now stood, passing on in
her sorrowful quest for her lost and much-loved
child.
With such thoughts did the days, months and
years pass quickly to old Pietro, the gentle old
cobbler of Troina, and they would have pursued
their even course until the end had not an event
occurred to disturb his peaceful existence. His eye-
sight, which had been keen and strong as that of
THE GREAT MOTHER. ii
a hawk circling round his mountain peaks, began to
fail him ; and, notwithstanding his rule to be self-
reliant and independent, he was compelled to seek
the advice of a doctor of the little town.
When the old man went from the latter's house,
he was a changed man. He had been told that an
operation to his eyes was not only advisable, but
of urgent necessity ; indeed, to risk delay meant
the greater risk of loss of sight within a short time.
Pietro, a man of few words, said nothing. He
could think only of the menace of coming blind-
ness as he walked slowly to his home. In the
horror of the threatened danger, he had not noted
a second warning, more grave even than the other,
which, had he understood, would have made him
yet more pensive and disturbed. The advice given
was to leave Troina at once and seek the assist-
ance of a surgeon, celebrated throughout the world
for his wonderful operations, who, himself a Sicilian,
now settled in Rome, came yearly to his birthplace,
a small town among the lemon groves of the Ionian
Sea, to operate upon his poorer neighbours without
remuneration, save that derived from soothing pain
and doing a kindly action. To him Pietro was
given a letter from the doctor, a former pupil of
the surgeon, which would assure him prompt atten-
tion.
On further reflection, however, the old man
doubted if his eyesight was in such imminent danger.
12 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Doctors were as frequently wrong as right, more
wrong, indeed, than right in Troina, if they were
to be judged by the fate of many poor folk carried
away to their last resting-place, when a little more
knowledge and a little more care might have sent
them back into the world hale and hearty. It is
true he could not now so well see the needle's point
when he sewed at night, nor was he always sure of
striking the little tacks faultlessly, when he drove
them home into the heels and soles of the shoes
left him to mend. But, as he stood that evening
looking towards the Fields of Enna, with their
sombre outline of dark-blue standing in bold rehef
out of the flush of the poppies reflected on the sky,
whither his eyes always strayed before dusk, he
could not, because, perhaps, he would not, credit
the possibility of that wonderful and much-loved
scene being lost to him in the darkness of a con-
tinuous night. He therefore put away the doctor's
letter carefully, and as much of the anxiety as he
could dismiss from his mind, resuming his former
occupations.
But within a short time he could but acknowledge
that his eyesight was becoming gradually worse ;
and great though the effort was, great the expense,
and greater far the reluctance at leaving his beloved
paese, he resolved to set out upon his journey, and
seek the great surgeon without delay.
Pietro had never been absent from Troina, except
THE GREAT MOTHER. 13
on rare occasions when he had visited friends at
their tiny farms during the villeggiatura in spring
or autumn, to breathe the fresh air of the fields, as
did his neighbours. He had resisted any tempta-
tion to chmb the distant heights of Castrogiovanni
and wander over the Fields of Enna, to seek for the
former home of the Great Mother, though he had
often wished to perform that pilgrimage. Travelling
in his part of Sicily, not easy now, was a very difficult
undertaking twenty years ago when -^tna had not
been yet looped with her girdle of iron, nor the hill-
sides cut into by winding carriage rpads as they are
to-day. Horses and mules were for the well-to-do
traveller then ; and even that mode of locomotion
was irksome and dangerous over the rocky, dusty
tracks in summer, and the muddy precipitous ways
in winter. To the very poor, walking was, there-
fore, the only mode of travel ; and what wonder
that most men were content to remain at home and
not expose themselves to these dangers, and the
further one of being detained and robbed on the
road by the evil-minded hordes who occasionally
scoured the country in search of plunder!
One early morning in mid-November, after a long
yearning gaze towards his land of dreams, Pietro,
with a heavy heart, locked the door of his house
and set out on the long journey to the seaboard of
Messina.
Some way down the rough winding path, which
14 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
leads from the town into the valley, the old cobbler
was overtaken by a muleteer and a string of mules
with jangling bells, laden with charcoal from the
forests of Troina for Cesaro, a neighbouring and
rival town, which lay a few miles off the road. Tore,
the muleteer, vacated his seat on the leading mule
and invited Pietro to take his place. He wished
to secure his companionship for the evening at
Cesaro, whence he could start refreshed and rested
the following morning. But Pietro refused. The
men of Troina and Cesaro were not friends. The
latter were land-grabbers, who attacked their neigh-
bours' rights, forgetting they lived no longer in
mediaeval times when might was right by force or
cunning, and when the wish to wound or harass in-
variably found the way to gain that end. No, he
said, he would not trouble the Cesarotani with his
presence even for a second of a minute, nor would
he accept their hospitality and shelter, though he
had nothing to pay for either.
So at the parting of the ways, Tore and his mules
commenced the ascent of the rocky heights of Rapiti,
the peak that dominates the upper valley of the
Simeto, towards his destination, and Pietro continued
his way down the valley, intending to pass the night
at the Fondaco di Bolo — a wayside homestead and
inn by the banks of the river Simeto.
Pietro's bed that evening was but a mattress placed
on a rough wooden trestle, built into the corner of
THE GREAT MOTHER. 15
a large stable shared by cattle and mules, pigs and
poultry, which for all the noise they made through-
out the night must have suffered strangely from
nightmare, insomnia, or unappeasable hunger. By
the flicker of a tiny oil lamp, which hung by a wire
from a beam (a Sicilian peasant will not willingly
sleep in the dark for dread of evil spirits), Pietro
from his corner could see the dim outline of homed
oxen with their heads in the mangers and the dark
forms of horses ; and occasionally a restless pig
would pass below him grunting in search of food.
Above, fowls roosted with heads uoder their wings,
and Pietro wondered how they could thus sleep and
maintain their equilibrium. Bats flitted about the
tiny lamp, and occasionally rats scampered over his
body unheedingly. The old man sighed. Travelling
was not to his liking. He longed for his neat little
room with his comfortable bed, placed so that through
the unshuttered w^indow he might catch the flush of
sunrise as it struck the heights of Enna. Though
weary and suffering, he had not slept except to
dream, and that of a mighty temple standing amid
fields and fields of poppies, and of a beautiful and
benign face that seemed to be omnipresent and to
beckon him towards it. He was therefore up and
astir even before the chanticleers of the farm had
announced the return of day.
Crossing the stony bed of the Simeto easily on
foot — the tardy rains that year had not yet filled
i6 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the water-course, which in winter roars with floods
from Monte Soro and the Serra del Re — he soon
passed the large square block of buildings — the old
fortress-monastery of Maniace, where in the castle
chapel, safely housed behind solid walls, is preserved
the holy picture brought from the East, and painted
by St. Luke himself, once committed by royal
and devout hands to the custody of holy men.
Had his strength permitted, he might have turned
aside out of mere curiosity to see what the country-
men so greatly venerated. But he feared to waste
the little he had left, and plodded on steadily, re-
solved to lose no time in idle dallying by the way.
Then he stood face to face to ^Etna, seeing
nothing between him and the mighty flank of the
mountain, which sprung into vivid reality and near-
ness before him, and soared thousands of feet
upward to the flat summit of the snowy cone. Dense
volumes of white vapour poured from the crater, and
dominated the volcano, spreading above in the shape
of a huge palm tree against the blue sky. All his
life Pietro had daily gazed from a distance on ^tna,
and, as with all who live within sight of it, the moun-
tain played a mysterious undefined part in his life,
as does the sea to many who seek its shores. But
to him the volcano had not the fascination, nor did
it compel the worship, nor the dread, which it
obtained from most people of its neighbourhood.
Indeed he even looked at it regretfully, almost in a
THE GREAT MOTHER. 17
hostile spirit, as the prison of Persephone, the home
of the ruthless one, who stole the maid from the
midst of her companions and bore her thence un-
willingly in his chariot. Yet that day when he
trudged over the large stretch of lava-land, in the
shadow of that mighty presence, he too felt the fas-
cination that iEtna claims, and he could but wonder
at its marvellous beauty and admit the potency of
its charm.
He paused on the mule track as he neared Gurrida,
the lake, which empties itself into the bowels of the
earth, straining his eyes to discover among the rocks
the entrance to the nether world, which he knew
existed thereabout, and by which the girl-goddess
was hurried to her bridal-bed. But he sought vainly,
for a mist floated before his eyes. He passed on.
Then he reached a place, which might have been
the very kingdom of Aidoneus himself, he thought —
a pitiless region upon which the god of the volcano
had set his seal, a dreary black-grey waste of lava
rock and scoria. He had never pictured such a sight,
nor imagined that Hades itself could offer so many
horrors to the eye. It was as if the waves of a
stormy sea, lashed and carried skyward by a driving
wind, had been suddenly turned into stone to which
a scirocco sky had imparted its ashen tint, and then
been split up by terrible convulsions of Nature.
Sharp crags shot upward from the grey uneven sur-
face. Cracks and fissures gave access to illimitable
2
1 8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
depths. All was grey desolation — a wilderness of
jagged stone, a world of ruin, an universe of sombre
destruction on which living foot could scarcely rest,
on which neither shrub nor tree would grow.
Pietro was overwhelmed, and hurried on his jour-
ney, anxious to escape from the spell of so forbidding
a scene, almost fearing that its lord and master might
suddenly appear and claim him for his own. He
shared the superstitious nature of his countrymen,
as he also shared their childlike and impressionable
character.
The sight of Randazzo on its cliff overhanging a
river bed, its ancient towers and campanili, its moss-
covered gateways and battlemented walls, and the
agreeable vicinity of his fellow men, scarcely served
to restore his equanimity ; and not until he had eaten
his mid-day meal and left the town behind could
he dismiss that sombre lava scene from his mind.
His road now was among vines and shady trees
above the bank of the Alcantara — a river washing
the eastern base of .^tna. The country was more
populated, and houses stood by the side of the path
with trellised vines still bearing bunches of grapes
saved from the past vintage. The day was hot for
mid-November and there was a touch of scirocco in
the air. The sun beat down fiercely on the dusty
roadway. Pietro would now willingly have found
a friendly muleteer to offer him a seat; but none
overtook him ; those he saw were travelling in the
THE GREAT MOTHER. 19
opposite direction in charge of mules laden with
purple-dyed skins, bulging and shaking with wine,
which was being transferred from the presses of the
countryside to the cellars in the town.
He was very weary. At times a strange giddiness
came over him, and he felt an overwhelming sense
of pain new to him. He struggled on manfully
though he scarcely saw more than the path in front
along which he stumbled arduously.
Night fell, and he was yet wandering when his
remaining strength gave way, and he had but
sufficient left to drag himself to a small cave formed
by an overhanging rock of lava. Therein a shepherd
or benighted traveller like himself had left a bed of
fern. He stretched himself upon it gladly, and
rested in the balmy stillness of a warm summer night
with stars peeping in upon him.
When Pietro awoke to consciousness the following
morning, he knew he was very ill ; he was so weak
he could scarcely stand. He dragged himself with
difficulty to the opening of the cave, wondering how
he could continue his journey.
He looked out. Dazed and bewildered by what
he saw before him, he gasped : " Enna, the temple of
the Dear Mother herself, surely so beautiful a city
must be her home."
But — it came to him slowly — the Plains of Enna
and its poppies had been left far behind him west-
ward, and what he looked upon was not Enna. Yet
2*
20 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the domes and towers of those fairy-like palaces
which he saw, poised on the rock and glistening in
the sunlight, could be but the home of gods, not of
mortals — they were too beautiful for the habitations
of men, their surroundings too dream-like for an
earthly city.
All about him seemed to be of gold, all except
the sky of the deepest blue, and the silver-grey
buildings of the mountain rock, which rose from the
valley as if from a world of gold. Golden was the
bracken at his feet. Golden the lichen on the old
lava rocks. Golden the leaves of chestnut and oak
stretching up to the walls of the temples and palaces.
Golden the foliage of pear and apple tree. Golden
the spires of poplars fringing the distant river.
Golden the euphorbia flowers which sprung from
the crevices of the rocks. Golden the sunbeams in
which yellow butterflies flitted. And as of golden
flame, the vast plain and hillsides of vines flushing
to their winter death now that they had yielded
their fruit to the pickers.
" Surely it is the home of the Sun-God," Pietro
murmured to himself, " and if I wait patiently I may
see Apollo himself in his chariot drawn by the fiery
horses."
Then his eye caught sight of the Alcantara — the
river of the valley, reflecting the foliage of the
poplars.
" It is Chryseis, the river of gold," he cried ; " truly
THE GREAT MOTHER. 21
I am come into the land of the precious metal that
turns men's heads in the getting and the holding."
Then the golden world before him suddenly lost
definition. It became to him as a vast, surging sea
of molten metal, glittering in the sunshine, above
which were seen, though vaguely and indistinctly,
the asthereal palaces of his imagination.
He leaned his head in his hands and closed his
eyes. Consciousness left him, and he knew no more,
and he remained thus for a long time, motionless,
gently moaning in pain.
Pietro was found in the afternoon by some
peasants and taken in a dazed condition to Castig-
lione, which, poised serenely on its rugged peak of
sandstone rock, had seemed to his fevered imagina-
tion to be a city of temples and palaces.
He scarcely noticed the tortuous and steep ascent
from the valley ajnong the oak and chestnut trees
and hedges of cactus. His only thought seemed to
be to gaze intently westward as turns in the zigzag
path brought him face to face with the setting sun.
Those who had found him in the cave, remarked
that then he wore a sorrowful look as if he saw not
what he sought. They asked him what thought
grieved him, for they were kind folk. He made no
answer. He knew they would have scoffed for all
their charity if he had said he sought the Plains of
Enna where the Great Mother dwelt.
He was carried to the hospital — an old monastery
22 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
once devoted to the cure of men's souls, now adapted
to the heahng of their bodies. The Little Sisters of
the Poor received him kindly. A doctor and a priest
were simultaneously sent for. The doctor shook
his head, saying that it was an internal trouble that
might cause death at any moment, and left after
giving a few directions. The priest, Padre Felice,
waited, and uneasily, for Pietro had declared he had
nothing to tell him, nothing to ask him to do, saying
he was alone in the world and had no messages to
send, and besides, he would not confess himself, for,
he added, he had wittingly sinned against no man
and owed no man reparation.
Old Pietro lingered in a semi-conscious condition,
muttering strange names which the good women in
black garments, who tended him, could not under-
stand. The priest, who yet waited, knew better.
He was shocked that a dying person should call upon
heathen gods for help, for so he interpreted the sick
man's wanderings. He bade the sisters add their
prayers to his for the saving of a heretic's soul, and
seeing his presence was of no avail, also left.
Towards the end of the second day, Pietro some-
what revived. He asked that his bed might be
moved to the window whence he could gaze upon
the valley below and upon the vast stretch of moun-
tains beyond. His eyes eagerly scanned the west-
ward horizon, dwelling on height after height, and
peak after peak. His face saddened. Again he
THE GREAT MOTHER. 23
was disappointed. He silently shook his head. But
soon the lines of suffering relaxed, and he smiled.
" At least there are the rocks of Rapiti, and they
look down on the Great Mother's home," he said
gently to himself. " I see them dimly, but they are
surely there."
He was content. He did not now feel so remote
from the Fields of Enna — the home of his dreams —
and from her who had lived there among the flowers.
The sunset glow quickened rapidly, and the western
sky was ablaze with a flare of light. A ray breaking
from behind a bank of cloud entered the window,
and illumined the face of the sick man and the
figures of the two nurses at his side, striking the bare
white wall of the chamber behind which it turned
to red. The old man smiled happily, and raised
himself with an effort from his pillow.
" The flush of the poppies ! " he cried. " Mother,
I come."
He stretched out his arms to the light as if in
welcome, and fell back lifeless.
So old Pietro Patemiti died, and the kind surgeon
by the sea lost a patient.
The two sisters knelt by the bed repeating prayers
for the dead. " At least we can tell Padre Felice
that the old man may have Christian burial, for he
called on the Holy Virgin at the last, no longer on
heathen gods," they whispered. They had not
understood.
24 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
So Pietro was buried decently and masses for his
soul were said by Padre Felice — as long, that is, as
the few coins found in the old man's pocket lasted
for the saying of them.
VENUS OF ERYX.
VENUS OF ERYX.
CHAPTER I.
Young Padre Giuliano sate alone in a little room
of his uncle's house at Trapani after a long absence
from his old home. He was absorbed in thought,
with his eyes fixed vacantly on the floor. Between
heavily pencilled eyebrows arched in a manner that
any woman might have envied, two vertical lines
marked his forehead, denoting that his thoughts were
sad and perplexed. He remained long in that posi-
tion of abstraction, and the look of embarrassment
and anxiety became more accentuated the more he
pondered. At length he roused himself, and, walking
to the window, met the full glare of a spring day,
made more brilliant by the ripples of the sea which
danced merrily in the sunshine below a balcony
facing the harbour. He murmured half to himself,
half aloud, and wearily :
" I am ordered to do what I have dreaded and
yet feared I might have to perform. It is hard to
refuse. It is yet harder to comply. If it be my
fate, may the saints and the blessed St. Julian succour
me,
Giuliano degli Antonii had been born at Trapani,
28 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
in Sicily, and lived there with his father, his mother
having died when he was young. Of his early years
there is little to say. He came of an old Trapanese
family which had known better days ; the race had
now been reduced to its sole three representatives,
Giuliano, his father, and the latter's brother, Padre
Illuminato — a priest. Of the two elder, the former
was an impiegato in the fiscal department of the
State, but beyond that one whom others regarded
as of little account, and generally passed by in their
estimation of men and things. The other was a
jovial, well-to-do ecclesiastic, a canon of the cathedral,
and by no means an unimportant member of that
body. As Giuliano grew older, Padre Illuminato
developed a great affection for his brother's child,
keeping him by his side whenever he could induce
the boy to be with him, and personally superintend-
ing his education. So Giuliano saw more of his
uncle than of his father, and the Padre obtained an
ascendancy over him such as the other never secured.
It was mainly by his uncle's influence that the boy's
thoughts were directed towards the Church as a
profession, although his parent, being unwilHng that
his name and family should eventually disappear from
among the honoured ones of Trapani, would have
preferred any other vocation for his son.
But the ecclesiastic prevailed in spite of that
meagre opposition, suggesting that it was an easy
matter for his brother to marry again if he so desired
VENUS OF ERYX. 29
to insure the continuation of his race. As the former
was too important a member of the family to be
thwarted in his wishes, being the elder of the two
brothers and the richer, it was not wise to oppose
him in view of the disposal of his property there-
after, so it was decided that Giuliano should enter
the Church, and to the study of Greek and Latin
his instruction was mainly directed, under his uncle's
special supervision.
The good Canon, though a priest of rank, was
neither a bigot nor an ascetic. Indeed, no one would
have supposed that he had any leaning towards a
life of abstinence, for the large and rubicund face
with its merry twinkling eyes, and a large mouth
with a full under lip, about which generally lurked
a pleasant smile, denied all suggestion that he sub-
jected himself to any more mortification of the flesh
than was rigorously required of him as a canon of
the cathedral and a prominent member of the
chapter. His genial nature was well known in
Trapani, and when to that was added a tender
heart, prompting him to lend a sympathetic ear to
tales of suffering and a ready hand to help those
in need, Padre Illuminato's name — thus familiarly
shorn of its full ecclesiastical dignity — was regarded
as a household word for what was neighbourly and
kind.
A student by nature, the Canon's studies were
almost entirely turned to the eeirly story of his own
30 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
neighbourhood, of Trapani, Monte San Giuhano (the
ancient Eryx), of Motya, of Lilybaeum, and the
other celebrated places of Greek and Roman times.
Their stories of rise and fall, of strife and lust of
power, of fierce determination and bloodshed, of
deep cunning and greater bravery, absorbed him.
The mythical and legendary lore which belonged to
them, that romance and poetry which are peculiarly
their own, recommended themselves so vastly that
he lived more in the past than in the present, thought
more of ancient times than even of the future. He
was wont to own he was proud that the blood of
the heroes of those days might well be running in
his veins, for, as all knew, his family had lived at
Trapani for many centuries, and its name was to
be found among the earliest records of the town,
with its evident trace of Greek derivation.
Together with that marked partiality for things of
the ancient world, Padre Illuminato had a special
hobby, of which his more discreet friends en-
deavoured to avoid mention when conversing with
him. But others were not so cautious, and as a con-
sequence their temerity involved them in much
argument, great loss of time, and not infrequently
loss of temper besides. The Canon had convinced
himself that the scenes described in the Odyssey
and the adventures of Ulysses after he came from
the land of the Cicones, were in and round Sicily
itself.
VENUS OF ERYX. 31
To him, Trapani, lying between two harbours,
was surely " the jutting land " of Schcria, the king-
dom of Alcinous and the home of Nausicaa, as
also was Ithaca, the hero's own realm and home,
situated there. In the same way he insisted that
the islands, whence came the suitors for Penelope's
hand, were not the Ionian Isles far away in the
Grecian Archipelago, but were, on the contrary, off
the coast and near the shore of Trapani, which he
and all his friends had gazed upon from childhood.
Such was the Canon's strenuous contention. It
was, as has been said, a dangerous topic to touch
upon, for when fairly launched upon the subject,
he would fetch from their shelf plans, notes, treatises,
and written arguments from which he would read,
and prove to his own satisfaction over and over
again, that in Sicily and at no other spot in the
world could the adventures described in the Odyssey
have happened. On such occasions there was no
stemming the flow of words, no checking the exuber-
ance of demonstration, and the early dawn frequently
found the Padre and his guests — the latter more
often silent and overwhelmed, if not by facts at
least by rhetoric — discussing the subject so dear to
his heart.
32 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER II.
The up-bringing of Giuliano was greatly influenced
by the atmosphere of ancient times thus created by
his uncle, and their conversation was of little else.
The latter had the faculty of vivid description, so
that at times the boy almost seemed to live with
those who had played their part in Trapanese his-
tory, with -^neas, who mourned the loss of his
father, with Dionysius the Syracusan, with Pyrrhus,
" the most renowned prince of his time, the very
model of a warrior king," with the Carthaginian
Hamilkar, and with the Roman generals who finally
became sole conquerors of the island at that spot.
He was more interested in the purely fabulous tales
of Hercules, of Daedalus, of Dorieus ; and yet more
of the mountain city of Eryx, to which St. Julian
had given his name later.
But the reason why Eryx especially appealed to
his boyish imagination was not because it was now
under the protection of the holy hunter, his own
patron saint, whose exploits on its walls were always
the wonder of the devout, and the pride of the
place. Not even because it had such a wonderful
position on the summit of the mountain, mysterious
VENUS OF ERYX. 33
when lost to view in the clouds and mists of winter,
or again beautiful as an enchanted city, glittering
in the sunshine of summer days, all of which greatly
recommended it to his love of beauty. The fascina-
tion of it came from a source more remote and more
engrossing — the thought that there was the very site
of the Temple of Venus, the home of the Goddess
of Love and Beauty, the shrine of the Peerless
One, which had called men from all known lands
and from time immemorial, to worship before the
wonderful statue of marble which stood within the
walls of a mighty fabric.
When the unimpassioned days of boyhood had
been lost in the quickening of the senses — when
Giuliano felt the first impulses of adolescence stir
in his veins, his thoughts would turn to the goddess
and her charms, half wondering, half realising why
those of the ancient world, whether hailing her as
Istar or Ashtaroth, Aphrodite or Venus, as they came
from Assyria, from Phoenicia, from Greece, or from
the western shores of Italy, flocked in thousands
thither. The partial knowledge stirred him deeply,
the wonder scarcely less.
Therefore, perhaps. Padre llluminato was not cir-
cumspect in dwelhng upon the rites and ceremonies
celebrated of old in the precincts of the temple, on
the fairer attributes of the goddess, and on her
charms which men recognised in her, before a boy
so impressionable as his nephew. True, he refrained
3
34 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
from imparting information likely to raise a blush
to any cheek, though as he was greatly wrapt up
in ancient lore of the gods, he would frequently fail
to distinguish between what might conveniently be
said and what left unsaid before a child. At times
Padre Illuminato in his enthusiasm even dug down
so deeply to the roots of the family tree as to hint
at a divine origin for his house (was not the family
degli Antonii descended from that Antones who was
the son of Hercules, and therefore it might be said
with the blood of the goddess herself in its veins ?).
No matter if those present would laugh covertly and
tap their foreheads significantly if secretly when the
Canon was in one of those genealogical moods. The
boy scarcely noticed their sarcasm, and eagerly
listened to what his uncle said. Such remarks were
certain to have their effect on an observant mind,
and to increase his absorbing interest in the great
goddess who had reigned supreme in her fortress
temple on Mount Eryx.
When Giuliano was sixteen years old, his father
was transferred to a post at Syracuse, and the former
accompanied him. At Syracuse it was agreed that
Giuliano was to enter the semmary for young priests.
There his education began a new phase, being prin-
cipally devoted to a study of sacred writings and
the usual routine of instruction followed by those
about to enter holy orders. He was kept strictly
to his work by the Rector, who not only was informed
VENUS OF ERYX. 35
of his peculiar up-bringing by his relative, but noticed
from his conversation that Giuliano thought too
much of the past history of Sicily. The head of
the seminary was a different type of man from his
uncle. Indeed no two men could differ more greatly
in their opinions, nor were so widely apart as the
austere and ascetic Rector and the lenient, kind-
hearted Canon. The former's efforts were therefore
mainly directed to wean the boy's thoughts from
pagan things, to wipe out from his memory what
his uncle had taught him, and, instead, to direct
his whole mind to the contemplation of the sufferings
and rewards of the saints and martyrs of the Church,
whereby hoping to arouse the keenest anxiety for
his soul's welfare. In that the Rector so far succeeded
that Giuliano — a docile lad at all times — began to
regard most of what he had learnt from his uncle as
impious, and dreaded the moment when he might
be called back to Trapani to associate with him.
That dread was considerably increased by what
had occurred to him when he first went to Syracuse.
Having a few weeks of leisure before beginning his
studies, he had devoted the major portion of his
time to seeing the remains of the Greek occupation,
as his uncle had recommended — the temples which
had been dedicated to Minerva and Diana, the
springs sacred to Arethusa and Cyane, the Latomie,
or quarries (where the Athenian prisoners had died
by thousands after the siege), and the two columns
3*
36 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
solitary in their grandeur across the greater harbour,
the sole vestiges of that splendid palace-temple of
the Olympian Jove, the home of untold treasures,
rivalling those of Eryx itself. He would go to the
cathedral of the city, converted from pagan uses,
still occupying the site and enclosed within the
columns of the old heathen sanctuary. There he
loved to linger during the frequent masses, and
think to see in the display of a present ritual the
processions and ceremonies of more remote days.
Once again he gladly lived in the recollection of
all that his uncle had impressed upon him so care-
fully and so fully, dreaming many dreams and call-
ing up imaginary pictures of the doings of ancient
times.
But among all the vestiges of Greek and Roman
days with which Syracuse abounds for those who
know how to look for them, the greatest attraction
was what a little room in the museum presented,
and scarcely a day of his short holiday passed that
he was not irresistibly drawn to it. That which he
sought so continuously had burst upon him unex-
pectedly soon after his arrival. What he there saw
was the marble statue of Venus — Venus rising from
the sea, or, as the old custode told him, that Aphro-
dite Anadyomene — for it was the Greek idea, not
the Roman, which here found expression — of which
his uncle had so often spoken as being possibly a
counterpart of, or similar to, the chief ornament of
VENUS OF ERYX. 37
the temple on Mount Eryx, which, alas, Claudius
Marcellus had removed to grace the temple of the
goddess at Rome, leaving the Sicilian fane bereft.
Giuliano did not rightly understand why this
statue appealed so greatly to his imagination, claimed
so large a share of his admiration, for it was head-
less, and part of the right arm was missing besides.
Found in a garden outside the present city at the
beginning of the nineteenth century, there was not the
care ui excavating such things then as is now be-
stowed ; or, perhaps, those who buried it may have
secreted the remains of a much • venerated object
after profane hands had mutilated it. Who could
tell ? Anyhow, the head was missing, and only the
imagination could supply the features of the face,
which must have been of singular beauty, had they
corresponded with the seductive and faultless lines
of the remains of the sculptor's work.
Giuliano was young, and, as has been said, im-
pressionable. To his youthful appreciation, nothing
could surpass the beautiful contour of the gleaming
shoulders, the voluptuous moulding of the torso, the
wonderful curves of the limbs. Surely nothing so
sublime had ever been seen before, he thought, no
living being, no work of art so perfect in form as
this.
It was curious that he did not greatly regret the
absence of the head. He had often imagined to
himself what the great Venus of Eryx may have
38 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
looked like in her temple. His uncle had drawn
her picture for him many times, and his fancy was
well acquainted with that sublime profile, the cluster-
ing hair on the lofty forehead, the straight nose
above the small seductive lips of a mouth that seemed
only to speak of love and beautiful things. The
full face, with pleading eyes under arched brows,
with chin slightly raised imperiously as if command-
ing that praise and adoration which men were fated
to yield from their birth — all were known to him,
and these he easily restored to the statue as he
gazed upon it. His imagination would even im-
part the flesh tints to the marble, the colour to the
eyes and hair.
Little by little the marble figure obtained so great
a power that it obsessed him. He worshipped it
for its beauty. It became to him almost a living
being, and he could not dismiss its faultless image
from his mind. At night he dreamt of it ; in the
daytime it accompanied him in his wanderings.
Once when he went to the museum and found men
arduously working to remove the statue from its
wooden pedestal to one of stone, he could have
cried out for anxiety that by falling it might lose its
beauty irrevocably in a hundred fragments.
Giuliano, though only sixteen, had left boyhood
behind. In the South, youths reach manhood at an
early age, and his feelings thus curiously aroused
and accentuated were not a boyish fancy for an
VENUS OF ERYX. 39
object pleasing to the eye ; they were, on the con-
trary, of a stronger nature, in which new-born
impulses of the senses played their part. It was
not that the lad was in love with the image created
in his mind, recalled and intensified by his admira-
tion for the statue. He was yet too young to be
in love, and the idea was, besides, preposterous.
But it was a sentiment akin to it, awakening for the
first time desire in his heart and a yearning for the
other sex, the natural inclination of manhood. His
feelings puzzled him greatly, and he was by no
means happy.
He had been careful to conceal the state of his
mind from his father and his friends. None would
have understood had he confided in them, and the
former was scarcely interested in anything beyond
his ordinary routine of daily work and the usual
events of a monotonous life in a Sicilian country
town.
When the hour came to enter the seminary,
Giuliano greatly regretted his loss of liberty. Thence-
forth his time was given to study, his leisure moments
to the companionship of lads unable to share his
thoughts. It was a rule that the pupils were not
to be left alone ; and he was therefore always in the
presence of a tutor to watch his every action, and
to report all he did to the Superior. Confidence in
the natural rectitude of youth forms no part of its
education in the South.
40 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
As has been said, the Rector had discerned much
of Giuliano's love for the old paganism, and set
himself strenuously to counteract it. It was not
a difficult task. Giuliano was largely influenced by
those around him, and found it difficult to oppose
the opinions of those he associated with. So little
by little it came to him that he had been following
the false gods spoken of by the Scriptures, that he
permitted his thoughts to be absorbed by those who
were the cause of the idolatry of ancient times and
of the blood-shedding of the holy saints and martyrs.
Had he himself not been a pagan, even, in the
absorbing interest which he had taken in the gods
of old ? he asked himself with fear and trembling.
As his love increased for the sacred things of the
Church, of which his life was now so full, that fear
grew in strength until the Rector complacently ad-
mitted to himself that he had no more promising
pupil than the young man, nor one in whom the
true spirit of the priesthood was so abundantly
manifest.
But the effort to Giuliano to cast out from his heart
his early teaching — his love for the old legends and
myths, his pride in the history of his native land,
and above all the proud boast that his forefathers
had taken their share in those immortal exploits,
was very great. Greater still was the effort he made
to drive from his remembrance Venus Erycina,
and her white statue in the museum. But he had
VENUS OF ERYX. 41
brought himself to acknowledge that that curious
influence which had possessed him so singularly must
surely have been the work of the Evil One himself.
He admitted with shame that the thoughts which
the image had prompted, vague and undetermined
as they were, were not always such as would have
borne the searching light of day nor the critical
examination of the outside world.
So, though he would not speak of the matter to
his confessor, he poured out his soul in silent prayer
and contrition, vowing, if strength were given him,
never to put himself voluntarily in peril of so great
a temptation. During the several years that he re-
mained at his studies at Syracuse, therefore, Giuliano
never set foot inside the museum again. It is true
his eyes would involuntarily seek the window of
that building behind which the statue stood on its
marble pedestal, as he walked with his companions
by the side of the Great Harbour. But when sud-
denly he recalled his vow, he averted his gaze,
repentantly checking any thought that might be
contrary to his pledge, and with fear, for there was
always an undefined dread, perhaps a premonition,
lurking in the innermost recesses of his being, that
that incident was not done with, that the fascination
which the Venus of Eryx had exercised upon him
earlier in life was not entirely left behind, and might
again confront him in the future.
42 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER III.
Soon after Giuliano had completed his studies and
had been ordained priest, an urgent letter came from
his uncle the Canon, asking him to return to Trapani
immediately. The latter was getting old, he said,
and wanted to see his nephew. Besides he had
important news to give, which he thought might be
welcome. So Giuliano went back to Trapani, reluc-
tantly, yet strong in the belief that he had little to
fear now from any danger to his peace of mind a
reference to pagan times might cause. Moreover he
contemplated but a short visit to his uncle, counting
on the promise and influence of his friend the Rector
of the seminary to be appointed soon to one of the
Syracusan churches, and there find his proper sphere
of life work.
But no sooner had he entered the old Canon's
house, and heard what the latter had to communi-
cate, than all his hopes were shattered, his misgivings
newly aroused, and he sought his room in that state
of doubt and perplexity already mentioned.
The Canon, anxious to have his nephew near
him in the future, and unable to secure a vacant
VENUS OF ERYX. . 43
post in Trapani, had induced the Bishop to nomi-
nate his young relative as priest at Monte San
Giuliano (or, as he would still call it, Eryx), whither
he was to repair at once as the post had been
definitely accepted for him.
The intelligence had overwhelmed Giuliano. Like
a flash of lightning, the dread of the old paganism,
from which he had lately freed himself, the danger
old associations might bring him, and, above all,
that subtle and incomprehensible fascination exer-
cised by the image of Venus Anadyomene, which
had crept into his life and threatened not only
destruction of his mind's peace but perdition to his
soul, confronted him again. The proposal to go to
Eryx, the very home of the goddess, where the
recollection of her beauty would be a perpetual
temptation and a standing menace, could be but one
prompted by Satan himself. The atmosphere in
which he was called upon to live in future would be
impregnated with unholy recollections. Even the
ground he trod would exhale the miasma of the
unspeakable orgies of the place, and the stones which
had witnessed them would be perpetual reminders
of the wantonness, the lust, the shameless libertinage
of centuries. Truly no place in the world could be
so wicked and so tainted as that polluted Eryx.
How could he live there and keep himself from
contamination? How could he ever find the mind's
tranquillity without which his ministry must be
44 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
futile, his preaching a mockery? For a long time
there was no possible answer to his doubts, no hope
that his appointment could bring him anything but
sorrow and mental suffering, and probably much
worse.
Yet, when he became calmer, he asked himself,
was all his training as a priest to resist the world's
temptations of no avail? Had the past years of
abstinence and self-restraint been futile after all?
Was he so miserably weak in character and moral
stability that the rigid discipline which he had gone
through had wrought no permanent change for good
in him?
Again, he pondered, would it be right to refuse to
face temptation? Was it not possible he had been
chosen by Fleaven for some special work which, it
was decreed, he alone could perform ? Besides,
should he thwart his uncle's dearest wishes and
oppose the desire of the Bishop who had selected
him for so important a cure of souls ?
He sank to his knees and prayed fervently to the
Madonna for courage and guidance, and principally
to St. Julian, Protector of the christianised pagan-
fastness of Eryx, remembering that the divine hunter
had also endeavoured to escape from his destiny
and yet secured heavenly protection and the greater
guerdon of sanctification at his death. Surely, he
meditated, he might venture to hope that if he were
assailed by the Evil One, the saint, who had once
VENUS OF ERYX. 45
appeared on the walls of Eryx in bodily form and
put to confusion the pagan enemies of the city, might
also extend his protection to him who bore his name
in any hour of dire necessity and danger to his soul.
When he rejoined the Canon later, he informed
him he would accept the Bishop's offer, and was
ready to start for Monte San Guiliano as soon as he
should be ordered to do so.
46 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER IV.
The first few days at his new abode were so occupied
by Giuliano in learning his duties that there was no
time to allow his thoughts to wander to the memories
of the past. In fact he had now persuaded himself
that after all there was not the great danger in them
on which the Rector of the seminary had insisted,
and in any case he was now strong enough to with-
stand it under any circumstances.
So one afternoon, having a spare hour or two,
he climbed to the top of the mountain where the
Temple of Venus stood. If he had misgivings on
first visiting the scene of so many of his dreams, for,
strange to say, he had never been there before, he
told himself it was wiser to face the danger at once,
if danger there might be, and thus be prepared to
meet it with resolution and resignation.
When he had gained the summit, passing by the
mediaeval castle, now a prison, which stands at one
end of the plateau, he was surprised that so ordinary
a spot should have acquired so sinister a reputation
in his mind. Of the old Temple of Venus nothing
was to be seen except a few massive and well-cut
VENUS OF ERYX. 47
stones that had served as part of its foundation, and
a large oblong opening in the ground built in masonry
which had been, perhaps, a receptacle for the water
needed for the inhabitants of the temple-fortress.
All the rest was much as another mountain top : a
circumscribed and irregular grass-grown space covered
with flowers, among which were wild myrtle, poppies,
and a briar rose or two springing from the crevices
of the stones. He laughed to himself that so harm-
less a spot should have held out so many terrors to
his imagination.
He sate down on a rock near the old cistern with
a flock of sparrows for his sole companions, the soft
cooing of doves as the only sound to break the hush
of solitude, and, forgetting all else, gave himself up
to recalling one by one the incidents associated with
Mount Eryx ; of Daedalus, its renowned architect,
that heaven-born artisan and artist, at once the
designer as well as the dreaded prisoner of the
Labyrinth.
There was a rich mine of poetic lore, an inex-
haustible store of historical associations to draw from
the spot, and Giuliano was happy in his recollec-
tions. He readily surrendered himself to the enjoy-
ment of the moment, scarcely noticing the superb
view which stretched around him, so absorbed was
he in the ancient history of the place, so content to
bask in the warm rays of the sun amid the wild
flowers around him.
48 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
The moments flew gladly by. Then he slept —
he never knew how long, for when he woke all
thought of time vanished, and all feeling save one
of intense amazement at what he saw before him :
the figure of a young and singularly beautiful woman,
dressed in white with a girdle at her waist, standing
by the side of the old reservoir as if she had risen
from its depths.
" Venus — the statue ! " he gasped below his breath,
not knowing whether he was awake or dreaming.
Then, returning to full consciousness, all the agony
of dread, all the dire apprehension of the past, all
the same fierce desire, seized upon him again, for
in her who gazed smilingly at him now he recog-
nised the same face with the large expressive eyes
and the winsome mouth such as his youthful fancy
had given to the beautiful body and limbs of the
statue of Venus in the museum of Syracuse. In an
instant it flashed upon him that his supreme hour
of temptation had come ; that here and now began
the battle between the power of good and the power
of evil from which few men can escape, and which
a strange foreboding had bidden him to fear. Yet
he could not fly, nor even move from the rock on
which he sate. His limbs refused their office. His
eyes remained fixed on those of the girl opposite him.
A ringing laugh greeted his gaze and evident
discomfiture.
" You are Padre Giuliano degli Antonii, the new
VENUS OF ERYX. 49
priest from Trapani, I think," she said. " I saw you
go up to the castle and I thought I would follow
to make acquaintance. I am Venerina, the daughter
of Don Antonino Zurria, the notary."
She looked hard at Giuliano and waited for an
answer. But none came.
" Since we are to be neighbours and fellow towns-
folk, it is well we make friends at once," she con-
tinued without advancing. Something in the young
man's face prevented her moving from where she
stood, though she held out her hand.
By this time Giuliano had partly regained his
composure, and rose to his feet, replacing the broad-
brimmed beaver hat which had fallen from his head
as he slept. He would not trust himself to speak,
but he could not take his eyes from the girl's face.
He ignored the proffered hand. She turned and
stooped to pick a flower at her feet, showing her
side-face, which Giuliano noted to his astonishment
and dismay had also the same classical profile with
the clustering hair about the temples and the
seductive mouth of the image he had once silently
worshipped in his heart.
The girl was far from behig repulsed by the
cold, unresponsive demeanour of the young priest.
Though she could read no outward sign of the
favourable impression she evidently desired to make,
she perceived that below the surface was some deep
emotion caused by her appearance, which, if not
4
so TALES OF OLD SICILY.
flatterin*^ to her vanity as a woman, was, at least,
interesting and worth discovering for its own sake.
" Yes," she continued, " I heard you preach in
church this morning, and," she added boldly, " I
liked your looks, for you seem different from the men
of these parts."
While speaking, she looked into Giuliano's face
with a bold stare, and then surveyed him from head
to foot. What she saw pleased her, for the young
priest was tall and prepossessing in appearance, with
an oval face and large pensive eyes, a mouth and
chin weak rather than strong, and more fitted per-
haps to a woman than a man, and with dark hair
which grew thickly over a high forehead — in short,
a type of man likely to be attractive to women. In
spite of her attempt to enlist his sympathy, the last
words that the girl spoke seemed to recall him to
a greater sense of danger, for his eyes left her face
and sought the ground in confusion. Then, lifting
his hat ceremoniously and bowing gravely, he passed
her without raising his glance and quickly began
his descent into the town.
VENUS OF ERYX. 51
CHAPTER V.
Venerina Zurria was well known in Monte San
Giuliano for her wonderful beauty, which men and
women extolled. When both sexes agree as to the
good looks of a woman, there is little more to be
said on the subject. The few "artists who found
their way to the remote town were loud in their
praises of her. Young men of the place wrote
sonnets in her honour, in which they declared that
Venus had returned to her favourite abode, accom-
panied by her son, since a glance from the eyes of
Venerina Zurria was like a dart from Cupid's bow —
swift, sure and destructive.
But there praise of Venerina ceased. The women
of Monte San Giuliano did more than shake their
heads when other qualities besides her beauty were
discussed. Some had words of pity because she had
been brought up by a crusty and penurious father,
who let her run loose from childhood and cared
little about her education or the company she kept.
Others had no good to say of her. They were
mothers and sisters and sweethearts of young fellows
whom she had allured by her charms, played with
4*
52 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
for a time, and then cast off to find others to satisfy
her appetite for adulation and mischief-making. Few
things pleased Venerina Zurria more than to draw
a young fellow away from his -promessa and keep
him dangling at her side. She did not spare young
married men either ; and many were the houses into
which she had brought despair. That frowning
precipice which sank many hundred feet perpendicu-
larly from the plateau of the temple into the plain
below had seen more than one despairing wretch
dash in desperation from its summit to find death on
her account. " Venerina del Monte " — the " Little
Venus of the Mount " — as she was called, had no
good repute therefore ; though it was long before
young Padre Giuliano heard as much concerning
her. He was not one to listen to women's tales,
and with men he did not greatly associate, so no
rumours reached his ears. He was chiefly concerned
in endeavouring to drive from his thoughts this new
menace, which had taken bodily form and substance,
though to his horror he recognised that from day
to day she, the woman, was fast acquiring the in-
fluence that the statue, or its perfected counterpart
created by his imagination, had formerly had over
him. Indeed, strive as he might against his thoughts,
wrestle as he would against what had now become
a persistent longing, he could not dismiss her from
his mind, nor her image from his brain.
In the earlier days of his trial he had attempted
VENUS OF ERYX. 53
to persuade himself that Venerina with a face so
beautiful might, indeed must, be one whose acquain-
tance could have nought of harm in it, whose friend-
ship would be of value, whose companionship would
be helpful and disinterested. He could associate no
evil with those steadfast eyes, that engaging smile,
that marble brow. Such thoughts came to him when
he tried to free himself from the difficulty which
beset him, hoping that after all he might not be the
special mark for the machinations of the Evil One,
as he feared, and that his apprehensions of coming
misfortune were ill-placed and even childish. But
then his common sense told him no modest girl, no
woman with self-respect could have acted as she had
acted when he first saw her on the site of the temple.
Soon he could not disguise the fact that Venerina
was deliberately throwing herself in his way with a
given object, which, he shuddered to think, went
perilously near to what he dreaded : the falling away
from that path of a pure life which his sacred calling
imperatively demanded of him.
Venerina Zurria had indeed marked the young
priest as her prey. She was tired of the ordinary
quarry that the sparse population of Monte San
Giuliano provided for her, and she lost no oppor-
tunity of endeavouring to entice him into her toils.
Seeing that she had made a mistake in too openly
showing her intentions at the beginning of their
acquaintance, she tried other methods to obtain
54 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
his goodwill. She endeavoured to secure him as her
confessor. In that she failed. She attended the
church at which he officiated, and by her devout
demeanour and constant attendance hoped to enlist
his sympathy. In that she partially succeeded. She
waylaid him in his visits to the poor, and, for a time,
even took upon herself the special care of certain
sick folk whose houses he frequented. As the last
effort proved irksome, her charitable intention was
soon discontinued.
The less successful her efforts to attain her end,
the more eager she became, for her self-love was
now not only wounded by the studied indifference
outwardly shown her by Giuliano, but her passion,
which could never be long restrained, impelled her
to try and win at all costs what she had set her
heart upon to gain.
Though outwardly calm and self-possessed, the
young priest was now a prey to the most conflicting
emotions. At times when the ardent southern nature
stirred within him, he cursed the fate that had
driven him to adopt a profession which cut him off
so completely from the ordinary love of man for
woman. " What had he done," he asked himself,
" that the natural instinct of humanity for an ideal
companionship should be for ever denied him ? "
At others he would recognise the full extent of
mortal sin which that rebellion of the flesh against
the spirit implied ; and he would pass sorrowful
VENUS OF ERYX. 55
hours of contrition in acts of penance and supplica-
tion for strength to withstand so hideous a tempta-
tion. Some days he would be Riled with loathing
for the cause of his trouble ; at other times he was
overcome by Venerina's apparent faultlessness of
conduct and her extreme beauty.
Later, when he could no longer disregard the
friendly warnings of those who saw through the girl's
attempt at his undoing, he was brought to a yet
lower state of misery and dejection. Unable to
cast her image from his heart, he recognised that as
Venus was worshipped by the men of old by the
lowest of all incentives, the wish to gratify the
passions, he, too, was far from being able to attribute
his admiration of her solely to the love of beauty
for beauty's sake. When that knowledge fully burst
upon him, Giuliano's mental misery touched the
lowest depth, and he asked himself whether any-
thing was left to him but death by his own hand
with perdition to his soul, or living to face everlasting
and irredeemable disgrace before the world.
Until now he had suffered alone. He was one of
those reserved natures that refuse to declare their
troubles to others. At Syracuse he had not taken
his doubts and perplexity to the confessional — they
had been perceived by the keen and watchful eye
of the Rector without his divulging them. And at
Monte San Giuliano his pride again forbade him to
acknowledge his weakness to any one of his fellow
56 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
clergy as was manifestly the duty of an ordained
priest. He could not bring himself to own even to
himself that he was conquered by what, as he had
been taught, was the basest passion of mankind.
So he had suffered in silence and alone.
But now that he must declare himself all but van-
quished, recognising that either his health would
give way entirely under the strain of that terrible
anguish, for with fastings, midnight watchings, and
sleeplessness, he had become emaciated and weak,
or that he would yield irrevocably to the temptation
which assailed him, he felt he could no longer stand
alone and must seek worldly as well as spiritual
assistance. He therefore resolved to write to his
uncle, the Canon, a request to visit him, saying he
was too ill to midertake the long ride to Trapani,
and asking him to come without loss of time. To
him he would unburden himself, knowing full well
he could rely upon his sympathy and counsel, his
assistance with the Bishop, and upon his sanction
and approval if he felt compelled to forsake his post
and flee from temptation. He therefore despatched
a letter to his relative, without mentioning the special
cause of the summons, and anxiously awaited his
cominsf.
VENUS OF ERYX. 57
CHAPTER VI.
Two days after the letter was sent, Canon degli
Antonii arrived on a mule, hot and dusty. The day
was sunny and the road with its steep ascent dry
and scorching.
His joy at being once again on Mount Eryx was
even greater than that of seeing his nephew.
Many years had elapsed since he" had climbed the
sides of the mountain — some ten or more, he said,
for, as he owned, looking down at his figure, the
path was not an easy one either for him or the beast
which carried him.
He insisted on going at once to the site of the
temple, forgetting that the urgent summons he had
received suggested Giuliano might have something
to communicate without loss of time. He declared
there was no more delightful spot in the world
whereon to sit, and as for confidences it was a place
as secure from interruption as the centre of the
Sahara or the North Pole.
Giuliano wished to speak then and there, and he
would have preferred any other place than that pro-
posed by his uncle in which to make his confession.
But, anxious to humour the old man, and fearing
that the pleasure of a visit to the site of the temple,
58 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
on which he had set his heart, might be marred if
attempted after hearing what he had to tell, he
acquiesced, and the two priests climbed slowly to
the spot where Giuliano had first seen Venerina.
Padre Illuminato, on reaching the site of the
temple, drew from his pocket a small map of the
adjacent coast and mountains, which lay below in
a far-reaching panorama, and began to study it
attentively, oblivious of his nephew, who stood by
his side bracing himself for the effort to speak.
" Mio Padre " he began, but the Canon's
thoughts were far away, and he interrupted him,
saying :
" See, there are the three islands at our feet —
the islands of the suitors in the Odyssey — Dulichium,
the long strip by the shore, and Samne and Zacynthus.
There," said the Canon, pointing to each with his
finger as he spoke, " is ' Ithaca on the horizon, all
highest up in the sea towards the West.' There, on
the spur of the mountain near the sea," he continued,
waving his hand towards the north, " ' is the cave of
Polyphemus, where were the vessels brimful of whey,
and the racks loaded with cheeses,' and where to-day,
as I have seen frequently, flocks are herded at night
in the same cave. Imagine the terror of Ulysses
and his men," said the Canon, warming to his sub-
ject, " when surprised by the one-eyed giant they
were imprisoned by the big rock he rolled against
the cavern, which no man except he ' nor even
VENUS OF ERYX. 59
two and twenty waggons could carry.' Imagine, too,
the horror when the giant ' gripped up two of the
men, dashed them on the ground, and ate them raw,
blood, bones and bowels, like a savage lion of the
wilderness.' All that happened over there on the
flank of the mountain. See," pursued the Canon,
taking by the arm the younger priest (who had now
given up all hope of speaking until his uncle should
have tired of his Odyssean reminiscences), " there also
are the real rocks thrown by the giant — the first,
the Formiche, the second the isle of Asinelli, flung
a little behind the ship of Ulysses. Even Pantellaria,
the home of Calypso, and Ustica, the kmgdom of
yEolus, can I see. What wonderful clearness of
atmosphere there is to-day, and what a superb view ! "
The scene the two men looked on was indeed re-
markable, and Giuliano ahnost forgot the aching care
at his heart as he gazed. Around them, and in close
proximity, were the silver grey rocks of the precipi-
tous mountain, standing in solitary grandeur and
rising two thousand feet from the sea. and plain in
bold outline. On the western side clustered the
houses of the modern town with their grey red tiles,
invading the once sacred precincts of the temple ;
and among them, with its towers and gateways, the
walls of the once hallowed spot built by giant hands,
walls which for their gigantic structure will survive
long after many a proud city of to-day shall have
passed behind the veil of years. Landward and east-
6o TALES OF OLD SICILY.
ward in the direction of Calatafimi and Alcamo lay
Sicily, with its countless peaks vying with one another
as to which should touch the sky, yet pigmies when
compared to the " Mountain of Mountains " — JEtm,
with her snowy cone and column of vapour many
miles away in the haze of distance. The Canon
descried at no great distance, and pointed out the
heights where stood Segeste, the proud Elymian city,
which once boasted its lordly rock-cut theatre, know-
ing to-day but the tread of shepherds where thousands
had once thronged, and the bleat of goats where the
treasured lines of poets had awakened the echoes
of the hills ; and, hard by, on the brink of a
precipice, in majestic solitude, the temple of mighty
columns, unfinished, unadorned, yet matchless in its
incomparable grandeur.
To north, south and west of the two men — one
enthusiastically eloquent, the other pensively silent —
was the sea, sparkling in the sun as a gem of count-
less facets, and of a blue so intense, so limpid, so
vivid, that in the sky alone could it find a rival.
Fringing it on the one hand was the coast line, with
promontories of reddish marble, and fishing villages
nestling in its bays ; on the other the towns of
Trapani and Marsala (the " Troy of Sicily "), with the
site of the long lost Motya on whose waters was
fought that supreme battle which saw Rome avenged
for her defeat at Adherbal's hands, and vanquished
Hanno cede the supremacy of Sicily. Beyond, again,
VENUS OF ERYX. 6i
the deserted solitude of the ruined temple-city of
Selinous, with its broken columns lying pell-mell on
the shore, as mighty in its fall as ever it was in its
days of prosperity and pride.
It was a long time before the Canon had ex-
hausted what he had to say, or could withdraw his
eyes from the scene which had so great an allure-
ment for him. Finally his thoughts came back from
his pet subject, and he remembered his nephew had
something to impart.
Then the latter related as much of his temptation
and difficulty as he thought advisable, being careful
to avoid dwelling much on his training at Syracuse
and the Rector's influence over him, for he knew
that to do so would probably raise in his uncle a
spirit of opposition, and possibly cause an elaborate
argument in defence of his favourite theory. He laid
greater stress on the relentless persecution at the
hands of Venerina Zurria, to which, he said, he had
been a victim since his arrival.
At first the old priest was inclined to be sceptical
about the temptation to which the younger alluded ;
especially when Giuliano inadvertently referred to
her great beauty and classical features. But sub-
sequently moved by his earnestness and evident
distress, he offered what advice and comfort he
thought desirable, and promised to approach the
Bishop to ascertain if he would obtain the removal
of his nephew to some other cure.
62 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
The two priests then drew from their pockets books
of devotion, the older one disappearing from sight
and seeking the further end of the plateau, the
younger leaning against a ledge of rock which, as
it happened, was the same spot where he had first
seen Venerina Zurria soon after his coming to Eryx.
He did not remember that where he stood had com-
menced all his trouble, but after being absorbed in
his reading for a time it flashed suddenly to his
recollection. At the same moment a sense of un-
easiness possessed him, and with it the knowledge
of the near presence of some one yet unseen. Raising
his eyes from the book, he saw that Venerina her-
self had approached noiselessly and again stood
before him. He made as if to move away, but she
stopped him.
" No," she said angrily, " you shall not avoid me
further ; you have fooled me long enough."
Then, in order to try and win the young man's
attention, the girl dropped her voice suddenly, say-
ing caressingly :
" Why do you always shun me ? I have few
friends, none, indeed, who can help me like you.
You know the world and its temptations, therefore
you can pity one who has been a victim."
Giuliano was silent. He felt he was again fascin-
ated by the spell of the girl's gaze as a bird by a
serpent, and by her caressing voice, as the snake in
turn is fascinated by the music of the charmer. Her
VENUS OF ERYX. 63
eyes seemed to penetrate to his inmost soul, to see
the fear, the longing, and the shame which lingered
there. He could not move.
" You cannot be aware how greatly I need your
help," she continued ; " my mother died when I was
yet a child, and my father never loved me. The
women here are unkind ; they are jealous of me.
They vent their spite by telling wicked tales. I have
no friend ; I sorely need one. Will you not be that
to me f "
The young man shook his head. " It is impossible,"
he said below his breath.
" Impossible ! Why ? " she asked. " You have no
one here to care for you. You are among strangers.
You, who, above all others, have need of one to talk
to, to advise with. Why not be friendly ? "
There was no response, only that despairing look
on the young man's face, first seen when he was
told of his nomination as priest at Monte San
Giuliano, and which had now finally settled there.
Venerina could see that her words were taking
effect. She was not sure whether favourably or not,
but her hopes rose, and she continued :
" Do not fear what the neighbours will say about
me. I have always had my own way, and I go where
I like and do as I please. If you do not wish it,
we need not be seen together. No one need know
we are friends."
She approached nearer when she spoke the last
64 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
words, so that her gaze was more direct as she looked
earnestly into his eyes for an answer. He shuddered
slightly. He felt all the subtle potency of her
charm, and a voice within him cried aloud to take her
in his arms and press his lips to hers. But he only
shrank against the rock.
Seeing that passion was making his blood course
wildly in his veins — at least, so she interpreted the
look she saw in his eyes — she changed her tactics.
" Think of the sunny hours we might pass together,"
she said. " You have sick people to tend in the
country. We could meet constantly on your way
to visit them. Then you could tell me all your cares
for the sick and suffering, I all my hopes for the
future. Hand in hand we would sit among the
flowers, weaving plans in which you and I, I and
you, would always be the central figures. No, do
not say it is impossible."
She advanced still nearer to him, and placed her
right hand on his shoulder. Her breath brushed his
cheek. Still he made no reply. His face was as
pale as the spent embers of a wood fire. The veins
on his forehead stood out as cords. His breathing
came short and laboured. His fists were tightly
clenched, so that the nails rail into the palms of
his hands.
The girl, whose body now nearly touched his,
raised her left hand, laying it on the other shoulder.
As she was gradually encircling his neck with her
VENUS OF ERYX. 65
arms, she inclined her head upon his shoulder, so
that her forehead touched his cheek. She met with
no resistance, and though the thought flashed through
her mind that she might be embracing a carven image,
she imagined the victory was hers, and felt the thrill
of triumph.
But she was wrong in her surmise. Giuliano, with
a face now distorted with anger and repugnance at
that first contact of a woman's skin with his own,
which for him to suffer willingly was the deadliest
sin of all, tore himself apart, casting the girl from
him with so great a violence as to "throw her to her
knees. He took one step forward, saying in a firm
voice :
" I refuse your friendship. I will have none of it.
That is my sole and irrevocable answer."
Venerina recovered herself slowly and confronted
him, now with her face aflame with passion.
" It is war between us then, war," she cried
furiously, " and you shall soon learn what that
means. I would kill you here and with this instantly,"
she added, dramng a knife from below the folds
of her dress, " but it would be over too soon. I'll
wait and see you gradually waste away from sheer
terror, for though the blow will fall some day you
will not know when it will be struck nor whence it
come. Yet you shall die."
The young priest had regained his composure, and
did not flinch.
5
66 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
" But first you shall be stript of what little reputa-
tion you have. People shall shun you as plague-
stricken, and it will be my work. You shall be
branded as an untrue priest, and my hand will be
m it. You shall be known as a danger to men and
women on account of your false vows, and I, the
' Little Venus of the Mount,' shall be the cause of
your undoing."
Again Giuliano made no attempt to speak, nor
even to move. At the moment he would have wel-
comed a mortal stroke from the knife which the
infuriated girl still brandished in her hand, emphasis-
ing her vows of vengeance as she spoke
But soon a softer light shone from his eyes, a
calmer look crept over his face. The knowledge
that he had been strong enough to face the danger,
to resist the temptation at the supreme moment, and
finally repulse the girl's attempt to ruin him, forced
itself irresistibly upon him, and all except the thought
that he had saved his soul was as nothing to him.
His peril was now past.
Venerina noticed the change, and redoubled her
invectives.
" You laugh at me, I see it in your eyes," she
hissed ; " but you will laugh no longer when all the
world is told that you, false priest, have made ad-
vances to me under the cloak of religion, and have
been spurned. People know I am bad. Yes, I am,
bad and wicked to the bone — and for that they will
VENUS OF ERYX. 67
laugh when they hear that I will have none of you.
Faugh ! I loathe and detest you ! You, with your
pale thin face and bloodless body! Why did I ever
desire your love ? There are plenty of men to be
at my feet for the mere lifting of my finger. Nino
Grassia, in spite of Placida, the girl he married three
months since, and who cries her eyes out with
jealousy on my account, worships the air I breathe,
the very ground I walk upon, besides a host of
other men who follow me."
Seeing that Giuliano maintained a rigid silence,
she went on, though her voice was hoarse and she
was nearly hysterical from rage.
" At all hours you shall remember Venerina Zurria.
When you see the covert sneer at your name, the
avoided glance, the fear of little children when they
fly at your approach, the contempt of those you
honour, the active malice of your enemies, the silent
coldness of your friends — think of me then, dream
of me at night as the evil genius of your life, as
one who will thwart your every aspiration, your every
wish to live down your ignominy. Ha ! ha ! What
will your uncle the Canon, that silly old man who
lives at Trapani, who thinks of nothing but the
ancient Greeks, say when he knows that his nephew
has fallen irreparably in love with the Little Venus,
and has sold his soul in exchange for her smiles ?
And what will you feel when the old Bishop is told
of the conduct of his young friend ? Can you not
5*
68 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
picture his severe face, hear his solemn words,
followed by his curse for the renegade priest who
has betrayed his trust ? Think of all that lies before
you," she shrieked, advancing as if to strike him,
" and remember that I am working day and night
for your undoing, and I will never cease to "
" The good Bishop shall hear of all that you have
said and why you have said it," exclaimed a voice
in measured tones from behind Venerina. " I will
take upon myself to inform him minutely."
The girl turned round and faced the Canon, who,
unheard and unperceived, had approached from
behind the rock.
" Yes," he added, seeing the girl's confusion, " I
am well able to report faithfully, for I have listened
to all you have addressed to my nephew. I would
not interrupt you, for it was well he should know
you as you are, and once for all, casting you from
his life, escape from the spell which you have put
about him."
Venerina, taken by surprise and condemned by
her own confession, was cowed at first by this un-
expected witness ; but regaining self-possession, she
was about to renew her attack and defy both men.
" Stay," said the Canon, drawing himself up to his
full height and raising his hand, " I listen to no
more menaces. And beware that I am about to
make a sworn declaration that you have threatened
the life of my nephew, and that on the smallest
VENUS OF ERYX. 69
future annoyance you shall be arrested and held up
to the scorn of your fellow men."
The girl made no reply. Her hand sought the
opening in her skirt for the knife she now missed,
and which she had dropped on the ground in her
agitation. The Canon saw the movement, and step-
ping forward placed his foot upon the weapon.
" No," he said, " that vengeance is also denied you."
He stooped down and secured the knife.
With that, the Canon, seeing that Venerina did
not depart, beckoned to Giuliano to follow him, and
they moved away out of sight, leaving the girl alone
where she stood.
The two priests continued in earnest conversation
for some time, and it was decided that both should
return to Trapani for Giuliano to make full con-
fession to the Bishop, and await his decision as to
what his future should be. The older priest did his
best to comfort his nephew, and not without com-
punction, for he was aware that he was not altogether
blameless, now that the latter lay bare to him at
last the peculiar form in which his temptation had
assailed him.
" I had lost sight of the Venus Pandemos, when I
thought of Urania — tliat beautiful Venus Anadyo-
mene who rose from the foam of the sea," he said
sadly, adding humbly, " may be I erred, and I ask
forgiveness since it has brought unhappiness to one
I love."
70 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
They continued talking earnestly for some time,
when their attention was suddenly aroused by a
piercing shriek and a man's cry, followed shortly by
another scream less loud, which seemed to proceed
from a remoter spot.
Venerina Zurria had remained motionless with her
eyes fixed on the ground, where Padre Illuminato
and Giuliano had left her. She was perplexed and
undecided whether to follow and continue to vent
her anger upon them, or to acknowledge herself
defeated and depart. So deeply was she absorbed
in considering what would be the better course that
she failed to hear the approach of a woman, crouching
and stealthily moving from rock to rock towards her.
The latter drew slowly nearer, her steps deadened
by the grass and flowers. The woman's face showed
signs of suffering, and there was a hard look of
determmation about the mouth and eyes. Her right
hand was hidden beneath her apron.
Then there was a spring and a sudden rush for-
ward. The hand beneath the apron was withdrawn,
steel flashed in the air for an instant, and a long thin
blade found its home in the back of Venerina Zurria.
The girl uttered the piercing shriek which the two
priests heard, and fell to the ground without a word.
The murderess knelt down, and putting her mouth
close to her victim's ear shouted, " I, Placida Grassia,
have done this, because you stole my Nino from
me." Then she fled.
VENUS OF ERYX. 71
When the Canon and Giuliano hurriedly reached
the spot where Venerina lay with the knife buried
in her back, they found her dead — death had been
instantaneous. As they supported her in their arms,
the cusiode of the old castle ran towards them. He
had been looking from a window of his room after
his siesta, he said, and had seen a woman creep
towards and strike another in the back. He had
shouted to warn the one and deter the other, but
he was too late ; the blow fell, and the murderess
turned and ran the quicker towards the edge of the
precipice rising sheer from the valley. There,
uttering a cry, she flung herself over, and, added
the man, crossing himself devoutly, " May the blessed
Virgin have mercy on her, for she, too, must be dead
in the plain below."
Sending the man at once into the town to summon
the authorities, the two priests silently laid out the
body of the murdered girl, closing her eyes, and
folding her hands over her bosom. Giuliano took
the small crucifix which he wore round his neck and
placed it on her breast.
The old Canon nodded approvmgly, whispering, " It
is well. We may not judge her now."
Then as the westering sun was tracing a pathway
of gold on the sea, the chaunting of a litany for the
dead rose from the lips of the kneeling priests and
was wafted on the still air of the summer evening
upward from the plateau of the old temple of Venus —
72 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
a prayer for mercy which was accompanied by the
music of the sea's gentle murmur below and the soft
chorus of doves among the grey rocks of the world-
famed mountain.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER.
CHAPTER I.
One night four centuries or more before the Christian
era, when Pericles ruled in Athens and the Pelo-
ponnesian strife had scarce begun ; when in Rome
the Decemvirs had fallen and the Consuls been re-
established ; when Sicily had freed herself with
effort from the selfish sway of tyrants and was pro-
sperous and powerful, two youths sate on the semi-
circular seat of white marble which then faced the
temple of Hera below the city of Acragas (Girgenti)
in Sicily.
The night was one of late Spring. The bees had
long ago sucked the honey from the white and pink
blossom of the almond trees which grew around in
thick groves, their fresh foliage and green velvet-
covered fruit catching glints of moonlight as they
moved to the gentle stir of the south-west wind.
The moon at its full was past the zenith, dropping
to the shining floor of the sea which glistened far
below — a blue-black expanse shot with silver. The
subtle scent of irises, of mint and of wild hyacinths
filled the air. At times the stronger fragrance of
'je TALES OF OLD SICILY.
roses came on the breeze from the near gaxdens.
All was silent in the hush of a great calm save for
the chirp of the cicala, the continuous croak of the
tree-frog, and the occasional hoot of the aziola.
The two youths, who silently rested within the
precincts of the temple, were Hylas and Sikon — the
one a Greek of Acragas, the other from Palica, the
Sikel city of the mountains, once a noble among
a noble if primitive people, but now a freed slave
among the Sicilian Greeks. The young men, equal
in age and height, were both comely in face and
figure. There similarity ceased, for Hylas, who
vaunted his descent direct from the Rhodian founders
of the city, was fair of countenance, with the classic
regularity of profile and clustering hair about a high
forehead of which the marble of Praxiteles has made
immortal record ; while Sikon possessed the darker
skin and more marked features of the old possessors
of the land. And in this the two also differed.
The former had the languid eyes and winning smile
of one nursed in luxury, whose nature inclined to
pleasant thoughts and kindly deeds, perhaps because
the world had scarcely reckoned him as yet among
its foes ; whereas the latter possessed the look of
determination and self-reliance which adversity
stamps upon haughty natures, indicating hidden fires
of fierce resolve, dormant or active, as love or hate,
pain or pleasure, determine.
There had been a long silence. Hylas sate with
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. yy
bowed head looking on the ground where, strewn
at his feet, lay petals of a rose torn from the stem.
Sikon gazed at him sadly. At last the latter said
soothingly :
" Do not be cast down. Though you have not
spoken, I readily divine the cause of your melancholy
— the reason of this summons to meet you here so
late. Speak to ease your mind of evil thoughts,
and let the stream of kindliness that flows between
you and me wash away the bitter undercurrent of
regret."
" Forgive me, Sikon, for my mood, which is beyond
all effort to control," Hylas replied. " And forgive
me too for calling you away from the feasts and
merry-makings in the city. I would wish you to
be there, albeit those very joys are hurting me as
if Prometheus lived again and I were he."
" That is naught, oh, Hylas. I took no part in
those festivities, nor would I willingly, knowing that
every goblet quaffed, each jest, each shout of joy,
must cause you pain."
" What ! Though we have not met now for a
month or more, you know all my secret ? " the other
rejoined.
" I know what all the world knows," was the
answer : " how Aglaia, the daughter of Antisthenes,
who to-day has wedded that man of evil doing, that
Thoas "
" Sikon, what is this ? You spit upon the ground,
78 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
as if the name you speak is unholy to you, unclean.
I, truly, have no cause to reverence that name, but
you "
" Ah, there are things which none can stomach,
names which choke men in the utterance if by
chance they rise to the lips unheedingly,". Sikon
answered. " Yet think not of me. For you and for
your sorrow is my chief concern. As I was saying,
I know full well Aglaia has played you false, has led
you on to love her and then spurned you for another,
aye, chiefly for love of gold and of that flitting shadow
which men call power, for her husband at any rate
can give her those."
" It is true, my friend," Hylas answered, " and I
am here since dawn lamenting what I could not stay
to witness — the revelry of her marriage day. I
wandered far among the temples and the groves,
seeking to forget, but I have been pursued by that
relentless torture of rejoicing in the city. Even here
the scene has haunted me ; I picture to myself the
great occasion for which Antisthenes has pined to
show the world his wealth and lavish of hospitality
at the wedding of his daughter.
" Nay, do not dwell upon what is past and done,"
Sikon objected ; " Aglaia is now another's wife, and
is lost to you. And yet "
" Yet the scene is ever present," continued Hylas,
not heeding the interruption. " I know the pro-
gramme of the day, since perchance I was an un-
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 79
welcome listener to the order of the feast. I know
full well, though I saw her not, how Aglaia, robed
in white, left her father's house as dark came upon
the city, torches without number flaring in the night
to light her on her way to her new home, and how
eight hundred horses swelled that great procession
through the crowded streets. It was of course an
opportunity for Antisthenes to vaunt the splendour
of his riches, even in these days of show and pomp
that make Acragas so famous. He could not forego
the chance to outvie his fellow men."
" It is true," Sikon replied, " and only once — at
least so men said to-day — has Acragas seen the like
of it, and that when Exenetos, a victor in the
Olympian Games, made triumphant entry in a chariot
escorted by three hundred more drawn by milk-white
horses. When I hurried at your bidding to find you
here, Antisthenes himself was feasting the people
in the streets at long tables spread with meats and
all that dainty mortals could demand, aye, and thirsty
ones as well, for amphorae of wine stood against
the walls in endless rows in a manner that Gellias
with his hundred tanks or more of vintage must
surely envy. Thousands came, even the unbidden,
for strangers from afar were made doubly welcome."
" The din and noise of that great carousing reached
me here," said Hylas absently.
" Yet that was nothing to the revelry within the
house of the giver of the feast, where precious
8o TALES OF OLD SICILY.
vessels weighed the board with priceless wines and
luxuries," Sikon continued. " Men marvelled at the
prodigality that Antisthenes displayed."
" I see it all so clearly," Hylas murmured : " the
guests in hundreds bedecked with jewels, gold as
plentiful as copper in a rich man's kitchen ; even the
servitors in costly garb such as you or I would not
disdain to wear ; the halls garlanded with flowers ;
the calls for wine ; the noisy hum of conversation ;
the bursts of merry laughter ; and, most seen of all,
Aglaia with her smooth white skin and jet black
hair, the mistress of the banquet — at her side the
man she now calls husband — her lustrous eyes turned
on him, eager with anticipation of fulfilled desire.
Ha ha ! " he laughed harshly ; " no need to tell mc
what you have gazed upon, for with the eye of
jealousy I have seen all, not once, nor twice, but a
thousand times or more."
Sikon tried to interrupt his thoughts, but without
avail.
" In my solitude," Hylas continued, " I cursed the
day and hour which first brought Aglaia to my sight.
And as if the Fates had not already filled my cup
of suffering to overflowing, they pursued me here.
At the solemn moment of the night when the cups
were poured out in libation to Aphrodite, impiously
proclaimed Protectress of a feast of which Love knew
naught, by given signal from the citadel, as if by
magic these mighty temples round me blazed with
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 8i
fire, a trick to cajole the world that the gods them-
selves sanctioned the cursed union. Though that
luridness, which painted the giant structures with
touch of flame, was wonderful to behold ; though
the mountain city with all its palaces and towers
glowed like the abode of the Lord of Hell ; though
the hills and plains and sky and sea reddened to the
flare of that strange illumination, I fled into the
darker recesses of the groves to shut from my eyes
the unholy glare, which seemed to scorch my brain.
It was all in vain. The trembling leaves, the spread-
ing branches, the ground itself around me shone,
and the stars with the moon above me were as blood
— all the world conspired to mock me with that
direful light."
" Hylas, speak not so ; no woman is worthy "
" Ah, if I could think like you," Hylas answered ;
"you, to whom a woman's love means so little now,
since, as you say, you have no thought but for your
wrongs, of which you will not speak save that you
will be revenged some day. Revenge ? Ah, it
might be sweet ! Tell me," he added with sudden
interest, " is it truly said that you have vowed to be
avenged : that by that awful lake among the moun-
tains of your native land, in which no fish can hve,
nor even bird traverse in its flight, where the infernal
fires belch forth their poisoned breath and churn its
waters into black and boiling foam, solemn oaths
bind men for ever if sworn in the names of those
6
82 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
twin gods you worship ? Tell me, have you thus
sworn ? "
" Seek not to penetrate my secret, Hylas," Sikon
replied evasively, " for fear your affection for me
vanish as surely as the snows on Etna's flanks in
summer. What knows your soul of hatred ? What
of vengeance ? Or, if it know them, how faintly,
as a stream of purest water is tainted by one drop
of vinegar."
" How strange you are, my friend, and how
mysterious," Hylas rejoined. " Yet scarce so strange,
so unaccountable as our friendship either, for in
nature we are far apart. Since you will not answer
one, I will ask another question. Why is it, think
you, that you and I are friends, each sworn to help
and maintain the other: I so indolent, you so reso-
lute and strong ; you one in whom I trust, as much
indeed as in that great man, my Master? Sikon, I
know not why I love you, for you and I are as if we
had been born in different worlds : you a Sikel from
the mountains, where life is hard and strange ; I
an Acragantine, reared in luxury, knowing naught
but ease and careless self-indulgence."
" Seek not to penetrate that greater secret either,"
Sikon replied, " for who can say why mortals love ?
It were tempting all the gods to seek a cause for
so great a mystery. Let be. The fact remains, and
it should suffice."
" Yet," continued Sikon, seeing what he said
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 83
interested his companion, or at least served to dis-
tract his thoughts from brooding on the events of
the day, " this I may say — that from the time, now
two years since or more, you took me to your house
a slave, when Ducetius, my king, fell from power
before the hosts of Acragas and Syracuse, and I was
held with other prisoners captive — naught but kind
words and helpful sympathy to rouse me from my
misery have I received. And then you gave me
freedom, to make me, as you said, your equal, though
that I can never be, for he who gives must always
be the greater, not he who takes. I have good
cause to love you, Hylas, even for mere gratitude.
And as yet I have not been able to repay my
debt."
" There is no debt to pay, Sikon."
" I do not know. A time may come, perhaps is
near at hand, when I the barbarian, as men call me
here, may well requite that debt. Perhaps to-day,
or yesterday, for midnight is now past, has seen the
beginning of that time."
" Sikon, sheathe that dagger with its quaint device
to hurt," said Hylas hurriedly ; " I fear to see it in
your hand. I want nothing but your sympathy and
friendship to help me pass these weary love-sick
days. As for hatred and that malice born of envy,
they should be laid aside, even the jealousy which
now consumes me, else will Empedocles, my Master,
say I am no worthy pupil, and mock me that the
6*
84 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
first tussle with the enemy of my quiet has proved
too grave a fight for my craven spirit."
" That is well said, oh Hylas. I see your courage
is returning," Sikon replied, replacing a dagger which
in his excitement he had taken from the folds of
his robe. " Let no sad thoughts vex you longer.
Count on me at all times. I promise you my help
to bring laughter to your heart. And that I swear
by the Divine Pair — an oath I will renew by the
shore of the holy lake, than which none is more
sacred to a Sikel. But let us talk of things less
sad. Tell me of that great Empedocles, of whom
the whole world speaks. Is he the true sage, magi-
cian, seer and healer that men say he is ? "
" Silence, speak not so loud, Sikon," Hylas replied
in a whisper ; " some one approaches, and by the
sacred fire of Hera I think Empedocles himself
comes. I know him even from afar by the clang
of his brazen shoes. Yes, it is he, communing with
himself aloud as is his wont. Beware that we disturb
him not in his meditations. Let us await his coming
here without a word above a whisper."
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 85
CHAPTER II.
A SOUND of footsteps was heard on the sun-baked
ground, and Empedocles, the Philosopher of Acragas,
approached slowly by the path or terrace between
the side of the temple and the' furthermost angle
seaward of the great wall of the city. The two
youths were hidden from sight by the marble
balustrade of the terraced seat on which they rested.
The tall figure of Empedocles, conspicuous for its
grace and dignity of carriage, was clad in a flowing
robe of purple. His head was adorned with a
Delphic crown of gold, holding in place curling and
abundant hair above a massive forehead. Un-
conscious of their presence, he paused so near the
young men that Sikon, in the bright moonlight, was
able to plainly discern the features of a nian of middle
age, at once noble and regular, of which the almost
serene beauty was marred by a melancholy of thought
and suffering written about the brows, yet redeemed
by a look of kindness, almost of pleading sympathy,
in the eyes. The nose was straight ; the mouth firm,
with compressed lips.
86 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Empedocles, wrapt in thought, was speaking to
himself in disjointed sentences. He had strolled
from the higher part of the city by the pathway
leading to the Golden Gate, but half-way, turning
to the left, had gone in the direction of the Temple
of Demeter and Persephone, thence he had continued
his way to the Temple of Hera, following the fortifi-
cation, half wall of massive blocks of yellow stone,
and half cliff, for Theron the Tyrant had impressed
Nature, too, for the work of strengthening the cele-
brated defences of Acragas, which he had imposed
upon the Carthaginian slaves captured at Himera.
Empedocles had evidently been among the guests
present at the wedding of Antisthenes' daughter, for
in the words that reached Hylas and his companion,
it was easy to understand contempt and protest,
sorrow and pity against the useless prodigality of
that entertainment entered largely into his thoughts
and excited his anger. After a while the Philosopher
roused himself from his reverie, and mounting the
stylobate of three steps to the corner of the temple,
leaned against a column and gazed towards the city.
All sadness faded from his face.
" See how the fairness of what he looks upon
soothes him," whispered Hylas to his companion ;
" it is ever thus. All things beautiful are to him as
rain to parched meadows. Nature in her sad and
joyous moods alike, the sound of music, what is
best in painting and sculpture, lofty thoughts, high
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 87
ideals of life, above all, noble efforts of men to
help their fellows, soothe and comfort him for the
time, until the world intrudes once more with its
crude realities."
Sikon, not understanding, and wondering how such
things could be, let his gaze wander to what Em-
pedocles saw with so great a content. He, child
of Nature as he was, also was moved. Northward,
against a sky studded with stars innumerable, which,
with the light of the moon, made night almost as
bright as day, a high mountain, crowned by " the
fairest of mortal cities," rose majestically in the dis-
tance, with its fortress, temples and columns standing
out clear cut against the sky. To the right was the
Rock of Athene, surmounted by the shrine of the
Goddess; and stretching from that sacred spot to
the plain in terraced regularity the more humble
houses of the poor. Lower down, stately residences,
porticoes and public buildings nestled among olive
and almond trees. On either side Theron's famous
wall, pierced with gates and dotted with low towers,
enclosed the vast extent of the Greek city. South-
ward and beyond the wall was the sea ; and east and
west the silver thread of two rivers, like serpents in
the shadow, glided tranquilly to the shore.
But beyond that scene so seductive to the eye,
and yet more remarkable, were the monster edifices
erected to the chosen deities of the Acragantines, in
a long majestic line temple after temple, in whose
88 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Doric simplicity, beauty and elegance, grandeur and
magnificence met in friendly emulation. Far away
on the right was the temple of the Great Mother and
her Daughter, the divinities worshipped in the earlier
days of settlement. Then that of Hera, to which
Empedocles had come silently to the presence of
the two friends. Further westward the shrine of the
Healing God, with its heavy entablature, in
silent beauty at the very verge of the cliff. Then of
Herakles by the Golden Gate, wherein stood the
bronze statue of the deity, so beautiful as to excite
wonder and cupidity in those who looked upon it ;
and where also was the yet more priceless treasure of
art — the picture of Alcmena, the mother of the divinity,
than which Zeuxis declared he had never painted
one more wonderful. Again the monster fabric of
Olympian Zeus, surpassing all others in its size.
Then the temple of the Twins ; and lastly of
Hephaistos by the murmuring waters of the river.
Around were shady groves, in which curving palm
branches mingled with the dark spires of cypresses ;
luxuriant gardens, where delicate blossoms added
their scent to the fragrance of herbs and wild flowers ;
plains and valleys, mountains and the distant out-
line of the sea ; all making a scene of untellable
loveliness in the silver radiance of a summer night.
Empedocles remained a long time contemplating
what was before him. Then, with a sigh, he turned
to go, murmuring sorrowfully :
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 89
" Beauty, ah ! yes, of that the world is full. But
men know it not, nor even seek to learn its power."
He descended the steep steps of the temple and
continued his way towards the Golden Gate, passing
slowly into the shadow of the night. The two young
men watched as he went, listening to the sound
of his brazen shoon until that too was lost in the
distance .
Then vSikon, addressing his companion, said :
" Tell me more of him. He fills me with great
wonder, for there is that about him which binds me
like a spell. Even yonder he seemed as if he were
one apart from us, of another race, indeed."
" You say truly, my friend. He is that and more.
Among men he is supreme. Later I will speak of
him, but not here. Now he is gone let us walk a
little. To my home I cannot return. The very
thought of walls and doors oppresses me. I would
suffocate within a house."
The young men rose. Passing the Temple of
Heral<les and leaving the Golden Gateway to the
left, they descended from the higher plateau and
soon reached the precincts of the temple of Olympian
Zeus — that stupendous thank-offering for the victory
of Himera which Theron the Tyrant commenced,
but which neither he nor any man lived to see com-
pleted before ruin came to it. The shadow of the
immense edifice with its colossal columns lay long
and black on the eround about them. The enormous
90 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
carved Atlantides, supporting the sculptured Metopes
and the roof, towered above them. Here they
tarried.
" There is no better place than by so great a temple
to speak of so great a man," said Hylas, settling
himself comfortably within the fluting of a pillar,
so largely and deeply cut as to receive his entire
body. Here will I tell you something of Empedocles
as you wish, though it were presumptuous of me, so
young, to say much concerning him. This is what
I know. His father was Meton, and he a son of
the older Empedocles, who won the crown for victory
in the Olympian games. The old man was a pupil
of Pythagoras, from whom he acquired his learning
and ways of life. Empedocles the younger was a
victor in the games. That he also wears the crown
of victory is no small part of my master's honest
pride, for there is no greater glory to us Greeks.
You remember what Lacon said to Diagora of
Rhodes, when he, victorious, also saw his two sons
crowned ? "
Sikon shook his head, " The Sikels set not much
store on athletic games," he said. Hylas smiled com-
passionately and continued :
" Lacon said — it shows how we confide in manly
energy and courage — ' Die now, Diagora, for greater
honour cannot come to you than this.' There was
nothing left to live for, Lacon thought. As for
my master," Hylas continued, " wealthy by birth.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 91
Empedocles grew up, administering well the riches
of his house, leading a sober youth, honourable and
refined. He sought wisdom from the Muses first,
and then from men whose fame goes far beyond
our Sicily and Greece. First to Xenophanes he
went, but he soon out-learnt all that that philosopher
had to teach ; then to Parmenides of Elis, the great
and wise, who loved him above all his pupils, and
taught him until there was no more to learn. From
him, as Empedocles has told me, he acquired the
love of poetry wherewith he clothes his words in
verse, the better, as he says, to convey the lofty
expression of his thoughts. Then to Nature and her
philosophy he turned, to the glorious heights of
which he wished to climb. From the writings of
Pythagoras he drank deep draughts of wisdom,
steeping his soul in the subtle wisdom of that sage.
At heart he was and is of the Pythagorean School,
though latterly it would have none of him, nor he
of it ; its rules of conduct were too eclectic, too
discretional. He is too great to accept the hat of
one man."
" To us at Palica, even the name of Pythagoras
was known," interposed Sikon, who listened with
attention to what Hylas said, " and Ducetius laid store
on what he taught, in theory that is, for, as you
know, our king was no friend to Grecian domina-
tion, and Pythagoreans aimed at power no less
menacing for the subtlety of its hold."
92 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
" Finding that great school too narrow and in-
complete," Hylas resumed, " Empedocles started for
the Eastern world, the true seat of deeper learning.
There he plunged into the Oriental mysteries of
theologies, which, he says, are much above the Greek
ideals of religious thought, as the crested wave above
the caverns of the sea. There he dwelt among the
priests as one of them, to learn the great secrets of
theurgic magic — the key that opens to the benign
presence of the deities of Intelligence and Power,
by whose aid mortals may hope to approach the
throne of the great divinity.
" Afterwards Empedocles came to his Sicilian home,
strong in resolve, stronger yet in the holiness of the
cause he had adopted — the desire to help his fellow
men. But the time was unpropitious. Tyrants
reigned in Acragas, and the people were untaught,
unwilling, not knowing what the great Reformer
planned for them in his heart. He waited as a tree
the sun and rain to bring the buds to blossom. Yet
he was not idle. Hundreds flocked to hear him
speak of things lost sight of in the clash of war,
in the tyranny which crushed men to earth, in the
search for riches, in self-indulgence, for who in
Acragas then thought of Nature's laws and the duty
of man to man, of wisdom and the fairness of virtue ;
above all the beauty which underlies created things,
that beauty which Empedocles said just now ' men
ever fail to see ' .'' "
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 93
" How did he assert his power ? How did men
come to know him ? " Sikon asked.
" Theron died, and Thrasydaios, who came next
to rule, hated and scorned, defeated also by the
greater Hiero of Syracuse, fled, and met his death
at Megara. Thus the house of Emmenid fell, and
with it ceased the years of slavery that Phalaris
had brought. At last the opportunity arose for
which Empedocles longed. He came from his re-
tirement and proudly proclaimed himself. Fearful
that the tyranny might arise again, anxious that
greater liberty should befall his native land, boldly
at a banquet he accused his host, and one, a favoured
guest, who was in power and held high office, of
designs against the State — plans well studied as he
knew, and now confirmed by the action of the guests
who dared to acclaim and treat that one as king.
Before the Senate he denounced them both, host
and guest, for treason ; and they met their fate.
Empedocles was their accuser, and the champion
of the people's cause. Soon, word by word, and
phrase by phrase, his wisdom caught the ear, and
then the fancy of the multitude. Thus he acquired
his power. No sudden change was meant, no
hasty revolution. The Sage but sought to turn
men's thoughts from evil, and make them seek the
good."
" How strange it seems," said Sikon, sitting down
on the highest of the several steps giving access
94 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
to the floor of the temple, where Hylas joined him,
" how strange that a man by means of words should
win men's minds and hearts. With us it is by
deeds alone we gain their confidence."
" Had you heard Empedocles speak more often,
Sikon, you would no longer wonder at his power,"
Hylas replied. " His voice is as the music which he
himself at times draws from the lyre he plays with
so great a skill, sweet and full of fascination. Yet
his words are much more potent, for they betray the
inner power, the man of learning, the seer, the poet,
the man of State. In speech is no limit to his
imagination, he moulds men's minds like clay on a
potter's wheel. Thus he dominates the suave and
courteous Acragantines, raising them to the further
heights of great enthusiasm, or thrusts them to the
lowest depths of suffering and despair. I have seen
them cry and laugh for joy at the pictures which
he draws, and then bemoan their fate in sobs and
sighs. Aye, shout and storm with rage and fury,
passing from passive hearing to muttered curses,
thence to fevered action for the wrongs so vividly
described. Before Empedocles none knew so well
nor taught the power of Rhetoric, nor deemed it
even an art to cultivate. Only now has that school
arisen at his bidding, seeing the authority which
speech bestows. Yet am I persuaded his hold on
men comes not from words alone, sublime as they
may be, for there is much which underlies the charm
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 95
of his discourse — sanctity of life, a singleness of aim,
which make men honour him the more."
" So great his power, why then did Empedocles
refuse the crown of sovereignty the people offered
him ? " Sikon asked. " It is said he might have been
king."
" Those who love him not, and there are many
here, since the ancient rulers deprived of power, and
moved by hate, are thirsting for revenge, say he
feared to lose the people's constancy. But it was
not so — far from it. ' What ! ' he cried, when the
citizens, hailing him as their saviour, begged him
wield the sceptre for their sakes, ' what ! cast to
the winds the labour of my life, my tenderest hopes,
and become a king ? Have I preached equality and
the common rights of man only to help me climb
a throne ? The thought is vile ! ' He scorned the
joys of kingship, if joys there be. Yet, withal, I
think he truly began to reign when he refused to
govern ; for then his throne was planted firmly in
the people's hearts, and his head adorned with a
brighter diadem than one of gold — that of gratitude
and love."
" What of his music — that subtle influence he em-
ploys, of which I have no knowledge, except it be
a noise the shepherds make with reeds upon the
mountain sides ? " Sikon asked " They say he is
so great a master upon the lyre that he charms
away the evil vapours which assail the brain."
96 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
" Alas, poor Sikon," was the answer, " you have
much to learn, since you speak of music thus. To
us Greeks, music is not noise, but as the voice of
gods ; or, as some say, the sound of the sea, the
moan of the wind, the joyful song of the birds by
day and night, caught and stayed in mid air, and
there combined returned to the earth in melody. A
healing art, a spell, too, is music, that is often used
for suffering man. Priests say it makes us pure.
Surely it induces rest, when tired eyelids will not
close in sleep. It soothes, consoles, and even cures
distempers. Why, only a week ago or more, in the
house of Anchites, father of the wise Pausanias, a
mad youth, charmed by the Sage's music, was cured
of his insanity. I was a witness of the cure, and
saw the young man drop the sword by which he
sought to kill a friend, trembling at the notes from
Empedocles' lyre, as the wild beasts when Orpheus
played."
" And what about his power over wind and rain,
for I have heard it said he may stay the gales that
cause destruction, and bring moisture to crops that
languish ? "
" All that and more my master does," rejoined
Hylas. " In bleak districts where dread .^olus holds
sway, raging among the valleys and the hills, he
has made men build great walls to still his fury.
And on the mountain sides, where all before was
barrenness, trees grow at his command, which invite
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 97
the rains, calling from the earth its fields of waving
corn and grass. Thus has Acragas become a pasture
land, in which untold herds wander as they will. At
Selinous is he worshipped as well as here. When
the city was struck down by pestilence, which carried
off young and old, causing women to miscarry for
very fear, his greater knowledge discerned the
cause — a stagnant stream poisoned by the sun,
which, at his own cost, he purged by channels from
other streams, thus changing the stinking waters
into bright and sparkling flood. Thereat the Selinun-
tines in their gratitude hail him as a god, according
him divine honours, of which the medals struck to
commemorate the noble deed will perpetuate the
record for all time.
" But see," Hylas continued, " morning paints the
East already ; and since evil dreams, even if dreaml
by men awake, should end with night, we will go
up to the city, and, as Empedocles would enjoin,
face serenely the suffering that perchance the day
may bring."
98 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER III.
" Thoas has fallen ! Great Thoas is dead ! " was
the sinister rumour that flitted silently through
Acragas like night-birds on the wing early one
morning several months following that moonlit
evening when Hylas and Sikon had talked together
among the temples. The information had been
whispered secretly to a trusted companion by a slave,
who, fearful to be the first to make known so dire-
ful an event, had found his master at daybreak lying
dead on the floor of his room. Then it spread
rapidly to the many awe-stricken dependents of the
dead man.
The news descended to the street. From the
Acropolis, where Thoas had his dwelling, it passed
from' mouth to mouth, as ill news will, mysteriously
and rapidly, to shops and markets, to the squares
and public meeting-places, from house to house, to
the terraced ways beyond, to the plain, to the temples
where many had already gathered to pay morning
tribute to the gods, to the gardens about the Fish-
pond — the favoured haunt of idlers during all parts
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 99
of the day, and, through the gates of the city, to
the Emporium, to the fisher-folk by the sea, to the
farther harbour and to all the country-side. That
wave of evil tidings became at last like a rushing
torrent, gathering force as it went and sparing none
on its course.
The announcement was received with incredulity
at first, then with concern and amazement, for the
dead man had been seen in health the day before,
and all the more because he was still in the forefront
of men's observation, not only because of the high
place he occupied in the State but .on account of the
remarkable rejoicings on his marriage with the
daughter of the rich Antisthenes.
" Thoas dead ! " The words were on the lips of
everyone. Further information soon followed, which
increased the consternation. It was said that his end
had come by foul means, that he had been killed
during the night, or rather in the early hours of the
morning, for when found his body was yet warm,
though set with the rigour of death.
What had been before amazement then turned to
indignation. A sudden death among the several
hundred thousand inhabitants of Acragas was of
small moment ; even that of one of power and
opulence as was Thoas would be short-lived and
soon forgotten. There were many other things to
demand attention among the pleasure-seeking
crowds of that wonderful city. But a murder, and a
lOO TALES OF OLD SICILY.
mysterious murder too — for beyond the fact that
Thoas had been found lying in a pool of blood on
the floor, struck down, none could tell by whose
hand— stirred the people to the depths of their
being, and roused them from the apathy born of
self-indulgence, which was the principal feature of
their easy-going and luxurious existence. Now
instead, listless minds became suddenly alert, aiid
idle folk active with an energy begotten of curiosity.
People forsook their occupations and poured forth
from the houses to gather in knots and discuss the
occurrence. Shops were left unattended. Those in
the country hurried homeward at once on learning
the news, unwilling to be absent from the scene of
so startling an event.
The popular feeling swelled and grew in intensity.
There must be a hidden meaning for the crime, men
said. And what ? Thoas, it was true, had enemies
— men rich and powerful seldom escape them,
especially one who derived his wealth from many
sources, principally usury as did he. But, though
the man enjoyed no great esteem in the minds of
his fellow citizens, it was not likely he had fallen a
victim to a revengeful debtor, for he was not an
exacting creditor, though careful to demand ample
security for what he lent.
No, the cause must be sought elsewhere. Some
nodded their heads wisely, and alluded darkly to
Aglaia, the widow, who, they said, probably knew
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. loi
more about her husband's death than most if she
chose to speak, for of late angry words had passed
between them, and discord reigned in the house of
the newly-married pair.
Besides it was whispered that Aglaia, soon after
marriage, which everyone was aware was a loveless
one, had recalled to her side former admirers, with
whom she passed her time when Thoas happened to
be absent during his frequent journeys on business.
The voice of scandal, in fact, had been busy with
her name, and as she was known to be of a
passionate and wayward nature, -rumour was not
checked by any admiration for her character.
Conjecture followed on conjecture, doubt upon
doubt. Speculation of all kinds was rife. Theories
were propounded and eagerly listened to. The most
extravagant solutions were suggested and obtained
credence. So great, indeed, seemed the mystery, that
it was even avowed the death was the work of the
immortal gods, whom Thoas must have offended in
some unknown way.
Again, many declared the crime a political one.
Party feeling ran high in Acragas, and it was main-
tained that Thoas had fallen because his wealth was
known to assist the cause of those who, ousted from
power through the working of Empedocles, had lost
none of their animosity, and were but awaiting the
opportunity to avenge themselves, and to wrest from
the people the greater authority which Empedocles
LTPRARY
UNIVERSITY OV C^ITFORNTA
102 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
had placed in their hands. To forward that view,
and hoping to embroil the philosopher with the
populace, secret emissaries; mixed freely with the
crowds collected in the streets throughout the day,
suggesting that Thoas had been murdered to remove
a powerful adversary not only, but that this was the
first blow of others to follow aimed at the rich and
powerful in the city. Then it was that the name
of Hylas, the friend and disciple of Empedocles,
was mentioned in connection with the deed, more
especially as it was generally known that he had
been in love with Aglaia previous to her marriage
and that he had been seen once more at her side.
Notwithstanding all these conjectures, the enigma
of the murder remained as unintelligible as before.
Only one significant fact leaked out, which rather
increased than diminished the wonder : the wound
which had brought death to Thoas was said to be
a remarkable as well as a fatal one.
In the absence of Empedocles, the healer, who
was on one of his many journeys at the invitation
of neighbouring cities to deliver orations or advise
on matters of local interest, Akron and Pausanias,
his friends, enjoying second to him the greatest repu-
tation as doctors in Acragas, had been summoned to
her husband's side by Aglaia. Though those phy-
sicians could only confirm what was surmised at first,
that death had been instantaneous, they added that
the wound presented an uncommon appearance, being
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 103
torn and jagged as if inflicted by an unusual weapon.
They could throw no light on the deed further than
that, any more than they could render any assistance
to the stricken man. All indeed was wrapped in
mystery, and nothing but pure supposition could
suggest any clue as to the murderer, or afford any
hope of bringing him to justice.
The days following that night of Hylas' mental
suffering among the temples had been spent by him
in companionship and constant- intercourse with
Empedocles. Hylas had poured out his woes in his
Master's eai's. So great an influence did the latter
exercise on those who sought his advice and assist-
ance, that the young man, following the elder's pre-
cepts, became gradually reconciled to the blow his
self-love had received, and learned to direct his
thoughts to those higher subjects of which Empe-
docles never tired of speaking.
He found relief in the potent charm of the philo-
sopher's teaching, which irresistibly won not only the
reverence but the complete concurrence of his
listeners. He found consolation in the lofty views
of the duties of humanity as expounded by Empe-
docles, who, while admitting the full force and
bitterness of the ordinary trials of existence, would
dismiss them from consideration as transient, evan-
escent, ephemeral, to be studied rather than suffered.
I04 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
to be passed over rather than accepted seriously,
regarded as transitory disturbers of man's equanimity
rather than allowing them to affect his endeavours
towards a high ideal of conduct. And, above all,
Hylas was moved by the unceasing and active prac-
tice of what the Sage declared to be the true doctrine
of life: the sacrifice of self in the higher interest of
mankind and the continuous search for and discovery
of that eternal Beauty of created things, which was
the foundation of his belief, the mainspring of his
actions, and the talisman by which he hoped to
realise his sacred aspiration of redeeming the world
from misery and suffering. Though such teaching
was not new, as Hylas, fond of speculative study
from his youth, was well aware, it found greater
force and emphasis when put forward by one whose
whole life was devoted to its exemplification. That
magical power of fixed resolve and innate convic-
tion ; that atmosphere of compelling mastery which
surrounds some men, more felt than recognised, a
subtle domination rather than an avowed authority,
which is indifferently and vaguely termed personality,
held undivided sway in the person and presence of
Empedocles ; and Hylas, together with the crowd
of eager youths who flocked from the cities of Sicily
and Major Greece to join the older disciples sitting
at the feet of the Sage, fell completely under the
spell, and allowed his life henceforth to be ruled
according to the guidance of the Master.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 105
Hylas was called upon soon to prove by his own
conduct that this seed of philosophical teaching had
not fallen on barren ground. The woman he had
loved with all the passion of his young southern
nature, now tired of the restraint imposed upon her
by marriage and weary of the loneliness to which
her husband, busy with his own affairs, left her, soon
attempted to draw him again to her side. At first
his better nature rebelled, and he refused to obey
the bidding. Then, yielding to insistence for an
interview, he went to her. A stormy scene followed.
Entreaties, cajolings, tears, threats, flattery, all the
bewitchery of an unscrupulous woman intent on
gaining her purpose at all costs, were used in turn.
But to no purpose. If the flajne of his former love
for Aglaia was not dead — and he knew it still lay
dormant in the recesses of his nature ready to burst
out anew if not kept firmly in subjection — Hylas at
least was sufficiently strengthened by the discipline
of the last few months to keep strict watch on his
thoughts, a severe check on his feelings, and to
avoid the humiliation of surrendering to temptation
strong though it was.
Aglaia and he parted with angry words, she
vowing to be revenged for her slighted love ; he
lamenting that the ideal, which had once occupied so
large a part of his being, had thus been so miserably
shattered.
When this final rupture occurred, Hylas had not
io6 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the companionship of his friend, for Sikon, who
had remained with his benefactor for some time,
seeing that the other had partially recovered his
serenity of mind, left him to visit some lands of
Hylas' near Gela. Sikon wrote occasionally from
there. His communications were couched in the
same terms of pity and encouragement which had
marked his conduct towards the other ; for in the
depths of his savage nature he conceived that Hylas
must still retain, if secretly, the same burning
desire to possess Aglaia which he openly professed
at the time of her marriage with Thoas. In his
answers, Hylas did not think to tell him of the
change that had come upon him through the teaching
of Empedocles.
To the Sikel, a son of the ancient soil and from
the hilltops of Sicily, where the finer instincts of
civilisation had never penetrated, the ardent wish to
have became as one of the main objects of living.
An oath to love or hate, to save or protect, to harass
and destroy, if taken in the names of the mysterious
Twin Deities on the shores of that black and seeth-
ing lake of his own country, as has been said, was
the predominating rule of conduct, the one absorbing
hope and aspiration, to neglect which would entail
countless horrors in this world and inappeasable
regret in the next. There was no drawing back
from such an oath, and Sikon was now bound by a
double one, for he had once more hastened to the
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 107
sacred city by the side of the lake to record his
second vow before the avenging gods of his people,
the fulfilment of which he now awaited with fixed
intent and relentless impatience.
io8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER IV.
The evening in Acragas following the death of
Thoas was no less agitated than the earlier part of
the day. On the contrary, the excitement of the
crowds, which still filled the streets, had gained con-
siderably, for as the different rumours concerning the
murder grew in number so the people became more
greatly exercised in their minds. The inhabitants
had been on foot all day. They yet remained,
awaiting the midnight hour, when it was known the
funeral procession would issue from the dead man's
house, to wend its way through the terraced streets
unto the plain below by the Gate of Herakleia and
the Bridge of the Dead to the Necropolis beyond
the west wall of the city.
The magnificent tomb which Thoas had prepared
for himself in his lifetime, was to be occupied that
night, and all the notable people of Acragas would
be there to do honour to his memory. It was a
demonstration not only of pity, but of protest also,
from which an ulterior object was not wanting. Some
of the more guileless said it was a pity that Empe-
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. roQ
docles was absent, for he, though no great friend of
Thoas', nor any of his faction, moved by so solemn
an occasion, might have been prevailed upon to
deliver an oration, which would have added much to
the solemnity of the ceremony.
The tints of sunset had faded from a sky that
had illuminated the city, the sea, the plain and the
surrounding mountains with a crimson and unearthly
radiance. At the rapid approach of dusk single and
radiant stars appeared. The evening was one of
complete calm. In the distant cemetery, clearly to
be seen from the Acropolis, torches cast their fitful
glow on the marble tomb of Thoas, which stood out
high and squarely from among the others. Diminu-
tive figures moved around it, making the last pre-
parations for the reception of its occupant. South-
ward the gigantic temples were faintly discernible.
There was a hum of conversation in the open space
before Thoas' house as the people waited, but it
was subdued like the murmur of wind among pine-
trees, not the roar of a tempest as before, now that
the moment of the passing of the dead man was so
near. Only from afar came the greater noises of
the crowd who had less cause to compose themselves
than those gathered in the vicinity of the house of
mourning. Men felt instinctively some clue to the
mystery, which had filled their minds so completely
all day, would be forthcoming. None would risk
being absent at such a moment. Besides it was
no TALES OF OLD SICILY.
rumoured that Gorgias, the great lawyer and orator,
who had learnt his art from Empedocles, and of whom
it had been said " he had held the Athenians in
the palm of his hand by the magic of his word " —
would in the absence of the Philosopher speak of
the murder, and perhaps indicate where the sword
of justice might strike to avenge the deed. Such
a treat was worth waiting for. And if the cavalcade
of Thoas, the bridegroom, had been marvellous in
its splendour as he conducted his bride to her new
home in the city, surely the procession of Thoas, the
corpse, would be scarcely less remarkable for pomp
on leaving the house for his new abode among the
tombs. So expectancy beguiled the hours of waiting.
Shortly before midnight a large concourse, com-
posed of the Proagoras, or Chief Magistrate, all the
great men of the city, the relatives and friends of
the deceased, and the soldiery, had assembled in
the large open space or the square of the Acropolis
before Thoas' house. Lights shone from every aper-
ture. The doorways were open to the night. The
subdued sound of much doing within came from
them. The glare of torches ht up the surrounding
buildings. The head of the procession was mar-
shalled in long line down the principal way. The
Senate and others of consequence waited to follow
the body as soon as it should be brought out.
It was at the moment when the bier borne on the
shoulders of eight stalwart bearers issued from the
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. iii
door followed by Aglaia, who was veiled, and lean-
ing on the arm of Antisthenes her father, that
Hylas, elbowing his way through the crowd, hurriedly
approached to take his place in the procession. He
was a noble, and though he would willingly have
absented himself from the ceremony, his high posi-
tion in the city, and being a former friend of Aglaia,
demanded that he should pay this last tribute to
her husband.
Aglaia's glance, which had wandered eagerly
among the crowd, met his, and a gleam of satisfied
hate shone from her eyes. Advancing towards Hylas,
her veil now thrown back and pointing at him, she
screamed, rather than spoke, in a voice that carried
far:
" Stay. At this solemn moment, when my honoured
husband leaves his home and all he held most dear,
behold the man by whom he met his death. Hylas,
son of Electron, I denounce you as the murderer of
Thoas, and may my curses follow you to your
unhallowed grave."
The procession had stopped at Aglaia's bidding.
The silence which the presence of the dead com-
manded was rudely broken. The people's excite-
ment of the morning was as the rumbling of a dis-
tant storm to the thunderclap of indignation and
protest which now burst about the group. The pent-
up feelings found terrific outbursts in imprecations
and threats of vengeance :
112 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
" Hylas the murderer!" " Hylas the rejected
lover ! " " Hylas has killed the good Thoas ! " " To
death with the assassin ! "
The cries voiced in the Acropolis were carried
by hundreds of throats to the crowds below, repeated
a thousandfold along the road to the Necropolis.
In an instant all was turmoil and commotion. Blood
surged to men's brains. The lust of it filled their
souls. The populace, convulsed with rage, rushed
forward to seize the object of their fury. The
soldiery, taken by surprise, was impotent to restrain.
Hylas, overwhelmed at so grave an accusation,
and for the moment deprived of speech, stood with
his back to a column and was silent. He was en-
tirely at the mercy of the mob. Yet he flinched not.
Then unsmiimoned and unsought, certain of his
friends gathered round him. He was safe from
immediate molestation. When at last he found
speech he exclaimed proudly :
" I hurl the foul charge back in the teeth of her
who makes it : it is false — false as the lips that
framed it."
The soldiers by this time had pushed back the
crowd and formed a circle before the house. In the
centre was the bier with the body of Thoas sup-
ported on the shoulders of the bearers. Aglaia and
her father had advanced to the foot and were facing
the Proagoras. The Senators, who had collected
together, were holding hurried consultation. Hylas
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 113
and his friends also came forward and silently
awaited the result of their deliberation. The Pro-
agoras, by name Echion, then spoke :
" Of the two alternatives proposed : that of
arresting the accused and deferring judgment, and
of hearing the accusation now with the defence that
the accused may make, we propose the latter. What
sa}'s Aglaia, the widow of the dead Thoas ? And
what Hylas ? "
Hylas offered no objection. He had no fear of
the result. Aglaia exclaimed :
" Let justice be done forthwith, I say also ; the
man before you can have to-morrow no better answer
than he can frame to-day. Here in the presence
of my murdered husband I would rather speak, and
clear my name from suspicion, for men say that
even I too assisted at the crime — a foul charge.
Here then is my proof," she added, " this dagger
which bears the name of Hylas on the hilt wrought
curiously. My serving-woman found it beneath the
bed this morning soon after my husband fell, swept
there and forgotten in the hurr}- of the deed. See
the blade is thick with blood that is scarcely dry.
Step forward, woman," Aglaia said, turning to an
attendant, " and confirm what I have said."
One of the female ser\'ants, also closely veiled,
advanced and related that when the man-slave had
found his master's body in the morning and had told
her of the fact, she had gone to the room where she
8
114 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
had picked up the dagger now produced. She
swore to it, by the gods in whom she trusted.
When this was known the indignation of the crowd
broke out again and it was some time before a voice
could be heard, save that of the soldiery loudly
enjoining silence.
" What say you to so damning a proof ? " said the
Proagoras, turning to Hylas. " Speak freely, yet be
careful of your words, for surely in them will lay
your life or death."
" I deny the charge as I denied before. Though
the dagger is truly mine — I have not seen it for
many days. I lost it, I know not how. I wear not
such weapons now. Yet stay, I recollect that I "
" Ah ! listen to the lies his false tongue frames,"
Aglaia hastily interitipted. " I demand "
" Silence, Aglaia, let Hylas speak," Echion pro-
tested " He has much to answer for if your accus-
ing is well laid." But Hylas did not speak. Then
turning to two of the chief men who surrounded
him, the magistrate said :
" Great Akron and Pausanias, truthful men and
sober citizens, relate all that you know about the
crime, for you were called to give your aid and were
among the first to see the murdered man."
" We know but one thing," said Akron, " and that
is soon told : the blow was swift and sure, death was
instantaneous. It surely came by some weapon
similar to that which Aglaia has produced, said to
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 115
belong to Hylas, one that can be carried easily and
used at will. I have nothing else to add save Thoas
had been dead some hours when we were called to
see him."
" Stay, Akron," Pausanias here interrupted, " you
forget one point that is not devoid of interest : the
wound was lacerated as if the weapon had been
withdrawn with difficulty after the deed was done —
a wound curiously inflicted, the like of which I have
never seen."
Hylas started and grew paler. That moonlight
night among the temples, Sikon's- strange conduct,
the hatred shown at the mention of Thoas' name,
the dagger, which he had seen before and which
corresponded with the description now given by
Pausanias, all flashed to his mind in an instant.
The deed then was the work of Sikon. He had
had some unknown cause for hatred of Aglaia's
husband ; and more thaii that, from the words that
he had let drop inadvertently Hylas now understood
that a double motive prompted Sikon lo commit the
crime — desire not only to wreak a personal ven-
geance for some cause unknown, but the hope that
by removing Thoas he would recover for him the
hand and love of Aglaia, the loss of which had
affected his friend so deeply. The full force and
significance of the Sikel oath came home to Hylas
in this fleeting thought.
To Hylas, the disciple and chosen companion of
8*
ii6 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Empedocles, follower of the Pythagorean doctrine,
the taking of life in any form was a crime, of humaii
life except in self-defence an abomination, and at
first Hylas felt almost as great a repugnance at the
possibility that his friend should have committed a
murder as that he himself should have been accused
of it. But then he remembered the nature of Sikon,
reared amid surroundings of which self-protection
and self-assertion were the first essentials of living,
differed largely from his, and that he could not be
judged by the same moral standard of conduct.
There was that oath, too, that strange mysterious
bond, sworn in the hot haste of youthful anger and
indignation, caused by some wrong under which he
writhed in the first place no doubt ; and in the
second by the sworn desire to help his friend : an
oath terribly and inexorably binding. Such con-
siderations greatly reduced the enormity of the
offence in Hylas' mind and caused him to dwell more
on the love of one who could make so great a
sacrifice for his sake, for Sikon could not have been
unaware of the fatal consequences of his act if he
had been really guilty as he supposed. In a flash
Hylas' thoughts — notwithstanding the menaces which
had broken out around him again — turned in antici-
pation to his own country-house where his friend
was ; to the angry knocking at the door by the sol-
diers sent to take him ; to the scorn and indigna-
tion of the populace on his being brought to Acragas
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 117
to be tried ; to his speedy condemnation ; to his
horrible death by torture. The barbarities of
Phalaris still lingered among Acragantine customs,
and a barbarian such as Sikon was held to be would
be spared none of them.
On the other hand, Hylas recalled the devotion
and affection with which, as slave first, and then as
friend, Sikon had served him. He remembered his
own oath to support and sustain the other in adver-
sity. Was an oath less binding on Hylas the Greek
than on Sikon the Sikel ? It could not be. And
was Sikon to die at the word — the sole word of his
friend ?
That word Hylas knew at once he could never
speak. Death might be bitter, under such circum-
stances terribly bitter, for he would go to his grave
foresworn, loathed by his fellow men, his memory
become a by-word and a reproach. But it was
better to die than betray.
To his romantic nature, emphasised by his special
training, the idea of self-extinction on the altar of
friendship almost commended itself. The beauty of
it was alluring. In the days hereafter, when his
innocence should be established, his name would be
lauded, handed down as one who courted death
rather than be false to a friend he had sworn to
help.
It was with such thoughts that Hylas was occupied
while the Proagoras consulted with those about him.
Ii8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
The bearers, weary of their burden, had deposited
the bier on stools hastily brought from the house,
and silently waited for orders to resume their
journey.
Aglaia seeing there was delay in the proceedings,
which she had carefully planned beforehand, again
interposed, saying:
" Not only is this dagger that of Hylas, and by
it he did the deed, but also I vow I saw him wan-
dering near my house last night ; and he was
noticed by another, my faithful woman, who has
just spoken. See, she confirms what I have just
said."
" Is it true that you were near Thoas' house last
night?" Echion asked, turning to Hylas.
" It is true, Echion. I have naught to hide, I was
close to this spot last night," was the measured reply.
A yell broke from the crowd at this admission,
which seemed to be an avowal of guilt.
" Death to Hylas ! " " Revenge ! " " Let him
die ! " burst from all sides.
" Do you admit the crime then ? " the Proagoras
asked gravely.
No answer came.
" I repeat : do you admit the crime ? Does the
death of Thoas lie at your door, Hylas? "
Again no answer.
The commotion assumed such alarming propor-
tions that the soldiery had much difficulty in keep-
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 119
ing open the space before the bier, in restraining
the excited mass of human beings, their faces dis-
torted now with hate and eyes glaring with the lust
for blood.
With difficulty silence was restored and Echion
again spoke:
" Hylas, you have selected thus to be tried, you
stand almost self-condemned. Yet the inevitable
sentence shall not be given here, but by the superior
court to-morrow. Soldiers, remove your prisoner,
and guard him safely from the populace, that Justice
be not robbed of what is her right. Let the corpse
be now taken to its burial," he continued : " it is not
seemly thus to treat the dead."
A gleam of satisfaction shot from Aglaia's eyes
as she hastily dropped her veil and resumed her
place in the procession. As the bearers again
hoisted the bier to their shoulders, preparatory to
starting afresh, the sounds of another and more dis-
tant uproar came from the lower city. It grew
louder in confused cries ; then more distinctly in
shouts of welcome as if a hero returned in triumph
from a war. Soon one name was distinctly heard,
" Empedoclcs," " Empedocles the Great Physician,"
" Empedocles the Great and Good," " Empedocles
the divine Philosopher."
Those who had been foremost in inciting popular
fury against Hylas, now looked at one einother un-
easily. Their discomfort was visibly increased as
I20 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Empedocles himself, dressed in the long cloak of
purple and the gold crown on his head, stepped from
the crowd roughly pushed on one side by those who
accompanied him. Many knelt reverently and asked
a blessing as the Sage swept majestically towards
Hylas and his guards, and the groups formed by
Aglaia, Antisthenes and the bearers of the corpse.
From the faces of the multitude hatred and the
lust of blood faded, to give way to the look that
cfreets the arrival of a welcome friend.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 121
CHAPTER V.
To understand the sudden change in the con-
duct of the people, which the unexpected arrival of
Empedocles caused among that dangerously excited
crowd of human beings, it is necessary to speak
more fully of the position which he held in Acragas
at the time.
As Hylas had told his friend Sikon, Empedocles
had emerged from his life of retirement, about which
the common folk had woven strange tales of his
goodness, his wisdom and his powers, to be the
leading spirit of their down-trodden aspirations, and,
as they hoped, the saviour, as he was their consoler.
It has been seen that Empedocles had devoted his
life to the study of the more abstruse branches of
philosophy, first walking in the footsteps of the
ancient teachers ; then, having obtained from them
all there was to learn, turning his thoughts to the
broader and higher branches of knowledge — the
study of Nature as applied to the understanding of
life and its mysteries. In formulating his theory of
the world's existence (which he did in so complete
a manner that one principal contention concerning
122 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the elements, unknown until his time, has been
universally accepted as an axiom), he naturally and
principally became absorbed in the investigation of
the cause, the being, the reason of human life. From
the teaching of the Pythagorean School he had learnt
that the universal laws of creation had been beauty,
harmony, just proportion and equal correspondence.
From that he deduced that the life of man should
also be beautiful, well regulated and harmonious.
To the mind of a reformer like Empedocles, the
should-be rapidly developed into the must-be ; and
in consequence he devoted all his energies to that
end. He had attacked the tyrannical form of
government existing in Acragas, because it was in
the hands of the corrupt few to the detriment of
the many. He could not contemplate without in-
dignant protest and resistance the oppression which
that caused among his fellow-citizens, and which
shocked his love of beauty, his sense of fairness. He
aimed not at depriving the wealthy of their share in
governing, only at excluding all save those who were
capable and honest. He desired equalisation of
power, and power for those capable to wield it. To
strength of mind, great tenacity of purpose and
singleness of aim, he added the mature wisdom of
a profound thinker, combined with business habits
and a consummate knowledge of men. There was
that within him, indeed, which made him a bom
leader of mankind, a subtle power almost of mag-
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 123
netism, by which he imposed his will on others.
Such gifts could not fail to cause him to triumph
as soon as the opportunity might be given him.
Another potent cause of influence was great —
his proficiency in the art of healing. It was also a
principal factor in enabling him to gain the end he
had in view. Medicine was then a science chiefly
in the hands of priests. Curing was greatly the work
of charmers. He had learnt the art of both when
he was received as a student of old-world mysteries
by the priests, among whom he lived during his
visit to the East. So little was the art of healing
generally known in .Sicily before his time that those
who practised it successfully were looked upon as
possessing supernatural powers.
Empedocles, learned in anatomy, and insisting on
moderation in all things — more especially in a simple
diet and observance of strict rules of hygiene in
daily life — easily effected remarkable cures ; and he
was soon regarded by an ignorant people prone to
ascribe to supernatural causes any great success in
combating their arch enemy. Death, not only on
account of the remarkable treatises which he wrote,
but also from the active practice of his precepts, as
one holding the scales of life and death.
It may be said that Empedocles traded in that
superstitious tendency to enhance his power and for-
ward the end he had in view. At any rate, he did
not decline nor protest against the attributes of
124 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
superhuman aid in his work, knowing that thereby
his influence for good would be the greater, and the
reahsation of his hopes more secure. It was a
common fault among the sophists of his day who
aspired to awe as well as lead men by their superior
attainments. His power was derived from other
sources also. Deep study of the laws of cause and
effect enabled him to assist Nature in their fuller
development. There is little doubt that he saved
the inhabitants of the neighbouring Selinous from
dire pestilence by draining malaria-giving swamps
in the manner already indicated, and in modifying
the climatic and agricultural surroundings of Acragas
by planting and by irrigation on a vast scale, and in
a manner so thorough as to bring fertility to barren
lands. His reputation lost nothing by the fact that
the cost was defrayed from his own purse.
He shared the lives of the common people,
ministering to their wants, sympathising with their
troubles and taking active interest in their occupa-
tions. Possessed of great wealth, he was able to
supplement the promptings of a kind-hearted nature
by tangible proofs of his sympathy. He would give
portions to dowerless maidens, and assist personally
at the marriage feasts which he also supplied.
Again, to the more refined, his talent as a poet
greatly enhanced his reputation, at a time when
poetry was regarded as one of the most powerful and
noblest of the arts. All Greece reverenced him for
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 125
his verses, which were regarded as equal to those
of Homer or of Hesiod. To the seriously-minded,
his moral precepts in regard to the up-bringing of
youth and the training of the human mind, by which
men should strive to attain to the attributes of the
Divine, greatly recommended him. In short, in un-
biassed minds he occupied a position as great as any
of the sages of old, combining in himself the supreme
gifts of poet, philosopher and physician.
This was the man who suddenly appeared in the
public square the evening following the murder of
Thoas and the arrest of Hylas.
The late moon had risen behind the older temples
of Zeus Atabyrios and Athene on the Acropolis,
casting its light on that strange scene enacted before
the house of Thoas. The massive and lofty columns
surrounding the shrines of those tutelary deities rose
in front of the dark blue screen of night, gaunt and
giant-like, dominating one side of the square. Por-
ticoes and public buildings, interspersed among which
were columns and statues — silent witnesses of brave
deeds of the city and her sons — occupied two sides,
while dwellings of rich and noble citizens stood on
the remaining side.
The space was densely packed with human beings
except the circle, kept open with difficulty by the
soldiery with their spears, wherein was happening
the drama of life and death, of love and hate already
described. The light of the moon was increased by
126 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the quavering flare of many torches, which illuminated
with a kund uncertain glare the buildings and the
expectant faces of the crowd.
By the side of Hylas and his guard now stood
the majestic figure of Empedocles. A deep frown
was on his brow. His eyes flashing with indignation,
were fixed on the veiled figure of Aglaia and her
father. The philosopher had understood the situa-
tion at a glance. At a short distance apart, the
Proagoras once more was earnestly consulting with
the other notables in subdued tones. Otherwise
there was a tense silence.
Then Empedocles, laying his hand on Hylas'
shoulder, spoke.
" No need to seek the cause of all this riot," he
said. " I know it well. I am the cause, I, Em-
pedocles ; for at me my enemies attempt to strike
through the innocence of this lad. I demand his
liberty."
A thrill of admiration passed through the crowd
at this open defiance. Some loudly applauded ;
others murmured.
" Empedocles, your friendship for Hylas carries
you away," replied the Proagoras, to whom the words
were addressed. " The youth stands there almost
self-confessed as the murderer of the noble Thoas."
He then briefly related what had taken place, adding :
" Hylas is the prisoner of the State, and as such must
be sentenced to-morrow."
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 127
" To-morrow," was the answer. " No, to-night ;
this moment he shall be judged. The lad shall not
linger through the dark hours with the horror of that
charge upon his mind. What say you, Hylas, shall I
plead for you, proclaim your guiltlessness before the
world .? "
Hylas was greatly troubled. He was silent, and
averted his gaze from his friend and master. The
bystanders marvelled, and whispered am.Dng them-
selves.
Empedocles looked at him searchingly for some
moments. At first he seemed puzzled and greatly
perturbed. Then the hard lines of thought softened,
the frown left his brow, and a look of tenderness,
rarely seen, came to his eyes.
" You answer not," he said. " I will answer for
you, then, for of your silence I divine the cause. A
great joy fills my soul. The gods be praised, my
teaching has not been fruitless ; I have come in time
to avert a crime more hideous than the one of which
you stand accused. Yet there is another cause for
joy, greater yet than that. Fellow citizens, my
people whom I love," he said, turning to the crowd
and speaJ<:ing in measured sonorous tones, so that
his voice carried to the farthest ends of the square,
" I will defend this youth from the vile insinuation,
for he is innocent, as innocent as I. First will I prove
that by his up-bringing he is incapable of the crime.
Listen, that you may adjudge him guiltless by the
128 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
simple beauty of his mind. It is long since, as he
would say- — for boys count years as we do weeks
and days — ^yet scarcely a year ago, he came to me
anxious to learn to live the higher life, seeking to
know what all that meant. A son of Acragas, whose
father had fallen honourably in battle, he also, a mere
lad, had taken his part in that anxious strife wherein
Ducetius, the Sikel king, had thought to drive us
from the proud possession of these shores, won by
our Rhodian fathers in remoter times. Hylas fought
and fell, then fought again, though gravely wounded,
performing deeds of valour you all recall, for which
publicly he was praised. Men's memory is short, but
brave acts like his die not in so short a time. Then
his nature changed through sorrow. He turned from
strife of mind and body, yearning for the peace that
comes from noble study, and asked me to befriend
him. I granted his request. From that day I have
watched his soul expand from the bud of guileless
boyhood to the full flower of blameless adolescence.
Thenceforth he has been to me a favoured pupil,
yes, as a son has he become, for in him I recognised
that divine light by which a man sees naught but
beauty and what is fair. His purity of life, his aims,
his hopes, his deeds, I vouch for as surely as I do
for mine. He has no wish I do not share, no thought
I would be ashained to own myself. He is a
Pythagorean — has sworn to obey the law by which
no man may take a life, for, know you well, it is
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 129
our stern decree that if any spirit of man err, staining
his hands with blood, it is cast out from the abode
of the righteous, where the gods have their holy
being, and goes wandering in pain upon the earth
through three times ten thousand returns of spring."
A subdued murmur of approval welcomed these
words as Empedocles paused. He resumed :
" Could Hylas, then, have done this deed, foul and
dastardly, of which he stands accused, unless his
soul were black and his whole life a villainy ? It is
incredible. I, Empedocles, declare it so. It may
be that within your hearts you still suspect his love
for one who, first free to give what he was prone
to take — a woman's love — drove him from the heights
of noble conduct to that depth of infamy. But by
the holy elements of the universe, by the sacred
beauty of the world, aye, by all the gods that have
their being, it is false — false as the painted mists
that beguile men in thirsting deserts, false as she
who now bemoans her husband's fate, and tries to
blast the life of her fellow man."
Empedocles again paused, and pointing to Aglaia
with his finger, continued :
" Heeir all. Though a good woman's name is
sacred, her fame invulnerable, I denounce Aglaia as a
wanton, a perjurer, a would-be murderer herself, for
she well knows Hylas committed not the deed of
which she accuses him. It is true she allured him
to her house after she became a wife, thinking he
9
I30 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
among the rest would pander to her pride and, for
former love, to her desire. But his soul rebelled.
One day, seeing him cast down and sorrowful, I
surprised his secret — the shame he suffered that she
he loved should have shattered her image in his
heart. He told me of her threat to be revenged
for that injury to her pride, and though I thought it
naught but a woman's taunt of malice, I see it was
gravely meant. This then is more her work, not
his."
" The dagger with its bloody stain, what say you
of that, Empedocles ? Hylas confesses the poniard
is his own, that he also was on the spot when the
murder was committed. That is damning evidence,"
interposed Echion
" The dagger was, perchance, stolen by Aglaia
when Hylas was last with her," he replied. " Ha !
my arrow shot at a venture has struck home. See
how she trembles beneath her veil. Let Aglaia doff
that false covering of woe and show her face to
answer me. She fights with hidden weapons still."
" She answers not," Empedocles continued, as
Aglaia made no sign of complying. " Hand me the
dagger that is said to have deprived Thoas of his
life so that I may see it. Yes, it is as I supposed —
a trumped-up charge, a lie, as foul as a stinking pool
under the August sun. See," he said, handing back the
weapon to Echion, " this has killed no man, inflicted
no wound, since that double notch near the point is
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 131
as guiltless of blood as the hand of Hylas itself. It
may be the blood of Thoas, or that of an ox or a
sheep — the dead man had many flocks and herds —
that defiles the blade, I know not. But this I know,
and do declare most solemnly, that this gore was
placed there with fell intent, aye, and carelessly, for
here is the impress of the finger that smeared the
poniard purposely."
Turning again to the people, he said :
" Say, my friends, is Hylas guilty ? Your verdict
shall decide. If he be innocent, I demand he be
set free, and full amend made for the grave injustice
of the charge."
From the moment Empedocles began to speak,
not a word escaped the attentive throng, which drank
in his words eagerly. When he ended his speech
with the demand for a popular verdict, the enthusiasm
had no bounds. Deafening shouts proclaiming Hylas
blameless and lauding his defender rent the air.
These were renewed again and again when the
guards at a sign from Echion released their prisoner,
leaving him standing alone by the side of Empedocles.
But those who had thought to tarnish the fame
of the philosopher by the condemnation of his
favourite disciple would not permit the hope to fail
thus. There were murmurings and complaints among
them. They greatly protested, saying to the Pro-
agoras : " Hylas scarcely denies the charge, and you
liberate him thus. Even if he be not the murderer,
9*
132 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
he must be an accomplice at least. Is there a special
law for Empedocles and his friends ? If that man
once refused a crown, truly his hand yet wields a
sceptre. He preaches equality, but thwarts the law
by clamour. Down with such tyrants ! Let no magic
hold in Acragas — the inhabitants are bewitched."
Empedocles turned upon his traducers indignantly.
He was ready to accept their challenge, now openly
directed against himself, and he prepared himself for
the answer.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 133
CHAPTER VI.
At those words of defiance, which were meant to be
a pubHc indictment of Empedocles' conduct, an
indescribable uproar again broke forth. Men's
minds had been at so high a tension for many hours
that a less important episode would have easily
excited them. That the people's idol and champion
was openly attacked and derided by his and their
adversaries was beyond endurance, and they were
prepared to show their anger in an unmistakable
manner. A serious riot was imminent. But after
some minutes of troubled thought, Empedocles, on
whom all eyes were fixed, unconscious of the noise
around him, raised his hand to enjoin silence. At
once all was quiet. A gesture sufficed to calm the
storm. It seemed as if the mere suggestion of his
will was able to appease men's anger. His words
were awaited with a hush of expectation.
" No, it is untrue what these men say of me," he
cried, speaking to the people. " I would only that
justice be done to all. But I vow that the guiltless
shall not suffer for this crime. By all I hold most
sacred do I swear it. Though Aglaia should rightly
134 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
pay the penalty for her act of ill-considered ven-
geance, I will not suffer the foul charge of murder
of a husband to linger even about her name in the
minds of those who may yet stoop to call her friend.
And because some feign to think that Hylas may
still be guilty, I will give you further evidence that
they do wrongly judge him.
" See here," he continued, drawing from beneath
his robe a packet which he carefully unrolled, " the
proof of what I say, placed in my hands when I
passed the city gate an hour ago. It is a letter,
badly written, since the hand that traced it is
illiterate, though the words have the solemnity of
sincerity. The meaning too is clear enough. The
scroll was wrapt around these daggers tO' which it
makes a,ppeal. Before I mastered its contents, the
bearer had disappeared, and no one could tell who
it was that brought it. Hear what the letter says,
and listen well, all that are within reach of hearing.
It shall set at rest the doubt which seems to work
yet in people's minds."
Empedocles then read from the letter be held in
his hand as follows :
"To the Sage Empedocles, that men call Divine:
I, Sikon of Palica, fearing that others may be blamed
for what I alone have done, write, confiding in your
sense of justice and righteous dealing. I know not
why, but dread besets me that another may be
charged with what some may call a crime — that
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 135
Thoas fell and by other hands than mine. It was I
who killed him. I glory in the deed, and would
no other share the credit or the blame, accordingly
as men may speak of it. This is the cause that
prompted me to take that false man's life — the
fulfilment of an oath sworn by my native gods — a
double oath indeed, for a debt of gratitude com-
pelled me to the act as greatly as one of vengeance.
Thoas — I write that name with loathing — after the
bloody war in which great Ducetius fell from power
and went a suppliant to Syracuse, as sharer of the
spoil won my brother for a slave — a mere boy, who
could scarcely wield a sword. The child followed
me from home when duty called me to the battle.
I loved him with that strong affection of an elder
brother for his mother's younger son, because he
was weak and frail, and none but him I had to
remind me that once I had a home. Thoas took
him. And because the lad was ailing and too weak
for the tasks his master set him, he fell into dis-
grace. In a fit of anger, that man struck him, once,
twice, a dozen times — it was told me by a Sikel,
a fellow slave — and though he cried for mercy, more
blows followed, and my brother died, beaten to death
by the man himself. Then Thoas, later, as if his
wickedness were not enough to damn him for count-
less ages, steadfast in his path of evil-doing, came
between Hylas and his happiness, for it is known
that Hylas loved Aglaia and would have wedded
136 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
her. Hylas was my friend. All Acragas has learnt
of my deliverance from bondage at his hands — that
he and I were sworn to help each other to the death.
How could I let Thoas live ? — the man who had
doubly wronged me through those I loved more than
my own life ? Hence the reason of my solemn oaths
and why I sought Thoas in his room late one night
and killed him. Yes, I killed him, I alone, but not
unchallenged. It was done in fairness, I took no
undue advantage. I kill no man undefended. We
fought, he vv'ith his dagger bravely, I with mine, man
to man. As proofs I send the daggers to you, both
stained with blood, for I too was struck in that fierce
fight for life. If further doubt there be that my
hand brought Thoas to his end, look at his wound
and on my dagger ; touch the spring that lies con-
cealed beneath the hilt. That, when used, makes
a jagged edge which lacerates the wound. This, oh
Sage, is all I have to write to ease my mind. Yet
I would add one word more. Tell Hylas not to
mourn my absence, for even friendship comes second
to a SikeFs oath. Let no man seek me. I sail for
a distant land, since I, a barbarian, cannot look for
fairness in a trial for life."
Empedocles folded the scroll and handed it with
the two daggers to- Echion.
" If doubt there still be of Hylas' innocence," the
former continued, " I claim the dead man himself to
bear witness of the truth. Let the wound be laid
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 137
bare to see if it tallies with the knife. I demand it
for justice sake."
Here Pausanias stepped forward. " It is enough ;
I have seen the wound and vouch it was caused by
that weapon and no other. Akron can confirm
it. Hylas' innocence is now manifest beyond all
doubt."
Aglaia, during this unexpected disclosure which
fell from the lips of Empedocles, drew her veil more
closely about her face. She moved further from the
bier, clinging to Antisthenes for support.
The discomfiture of the opposite faction was
apparent, and increased as many pressed forwajrd to
take Hylas by the hand. It seemed as if nothing
more was to be said, and Echion, after again declar-
ing Hylas to be at liberty, was about to give orders
for the removal of Thoas' body.
But Empedocles was not one to allow his adver-
saries to depart without answering their charge
against himself.
" I demand a further hearing," he said, speaking
to Echion.
" Speak, Empedocles, speak," was the universal
and emphatic cry of the people, who would not be
denied the sound of their favourite's voice.
" I have this to say," he continued. " I essayed
to make men understand that a guileless soul was
incapable of a deed so hideous as murder ; that one
reared in paths of virtue could never lend a thought,
138 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
still less a hand, to perpetrate such infamy. Oft
have I tried to cause mankind to know the beauty
of these precepts whereby the sanctity of life is held
to be inviolate — life which no human being may
take nor think to take. Yet all in vain. Doubly
have you wounded me through Hylas," he went on
to say, now addressing his opponents, who were
gathered in a group. " Not only have you wished
to brand the boy as murderer, him whom I cherish
as my own — and doubly now since he was ready to
sacrifice himself for Sikon as once Chariton for
Melanippos in the days of Phalaris — hence his hesi-
tation to declare his innocence. Did you not note
it? Or are your eyes so blinded by your hate that
devotion to a friend so great goes unperceived?
But you also cast a foul blight upon my teaching,
blasting it with the vile breath of lust as well.
Again you charge me before the people of trampling
under foot the very laws which despite your enmity
I myself have made. Does a mother slay the child
she has prayed the gods to give her? You judge
me by yourselves, oh nobles! You suppose no man
strives but to impose his will upon the weak, as you
would do, and did in the older days of tyranny.
But take heed. Phalaris, the man you fain would
emulate, no longer lives ; unrepentant, unreclaimed,
he died. The Tyrant's mother dreamed her dream
of blood flowing from Hermes' hand — a stream sent
by the other gods which poured upon the earth and
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 139
rose until it filled his house, destroying all within
— a solemn intimation of his fate which he ignored.
He fell. And with him that power in which the
people had no share. Read you the signs that are
not wanting now, and beware you of his fate. No
longer is heard in Acragas that brazen bull bellow-
ing with the roar of men imprisoned within its belly
slowly roasting to their death — the work of Perillos,
for which he paid the penalty, as did Phalaris him-
self. You would fain renew those days. But I
warn you they are gone for ever! Even though I
fall, a victim to your menaces, the spirit I have
breathed into the souls of men will live. The fire
of liberty may die down, perchance, when I am no
longer here to fan it back to life. But the spark
will burn for ever, ready to burst out anew. Again,
take heed how you beguile the crowd with lies.
Their answer will be swift and sure, for I have
taught them the paths of truth and virtue, which
surely they will follow. My words will live for ever.
Mine is no idle boast, no matter how you seek to
sophisticate the Li-uth."
There was a solemn silence. No man spoke.
" What charge have you against me ? " Empe-
docles continued. " I have attempted no violent
change, no sudden revolution. Too lenient have I
been. Even in the vices of the citizens have I dis-
cerned the path of virtue and led the way. From
the great extravagance of living in this mighty city.
140 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
where men eat as if they must die to-morrow and
build as if they would live for ever, I have taught
that hospitality for which Acragas is far-famed.
To all time will be remembered how the thousands
from Selinous, harassed by the African foe, were
received within the walls and treated liberally as
friends invited to a feast. The destitute of Gela,
too, fed and clothed from the purse of Gellias^ — that
noble-hearted owner of lands and herds, who, out-
vying all the others in his love of hospitality, sits
at the city gates to swell the number of his guests.
Where else, save here, are houses set apart for enter-
taining, wherein the poor are as welcome as the rich,
and the unknown as the dearest intimate of the host ?
Truly has Acragas become the sacred and august
refuge of the stranger for its unbounded liberality.
In such is no crime.
" Yet you would upbraid me for the practice of
that virtue. I have no fault. Learn that it is wiser
to wean men from their prodigality, turning it into
wiser channels thus, than make it hard for the self-
indulgent to be virtuous. I hear men say it to my
shame that I was cast out from among the followers
of Pythagoras. So be it. That I was. And why?
Disdainful that they alone should claim to know
the mysteries of the infinite, I rebelled, and broke
from the vow of secrecy. No sect, no caste has a
right to monopolise eternal truths, which are the gift
of the great ' 1 Am ' to all mankind. I glory in
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 141
that act, since I can better benefit my fellow men.
Where is then the shame ? "
Empedocles looked round for an answer. None
came.
" Then you cast it in my teeth and scoff that I
claim to be divine, with powers that men know not
of," he continued. " Concerning such things I
refuse to speak. The mystery is toO' great, too holy,
too full of wonder to be discussed. Yet I, purified
by a life of abstinence, and for that above all men
honoured and esteemed, declare most solemnly once
more and do affirm before you all_ that I am divine
— an immortal god — since I have within me that
holy fomit of knowledge whereby I speak no longer
as a mortal being. This is far above the limit of
your understanding. Your thoughts unsanctified
carmot attain to that holy state where Truth and
Eternal Beauty reign, and which to know is to bring
a man to the likeness of his Maker. I have naught
to add. Should my traducers seek me, let them
come to find me at Peisianax, whither to the tran-
quillity of my groves I betake myself in peace to
meditate."
The multitude had listened with rapt attention
to the harangue of Empedocles. But when he
uttered the words, " I am divine — an Immortal God,"
the cries burst forth again with redoubled force, some
of derision, but mostly of approval and respect, for
the mass of the people truly thought ihim divine.
142 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
As Empedocles left the open space in the square
with Hylas, the crowd making way for him
reverently, a man eagerly pressed forward to kiss
the hem of his robe, crying after him, " Oh, Phy-
sician, Philosopher and Friend, the Worker of signs
and wonders, thou art the greatest of all great men,
the richest of the rare gifts of our beloved Sicily ! "
and the cry, " Physician, Philosopher, Friend," accom-
panied him as he walked to his house, for as such
also was he venerated by the people.
Then the body of Thoas was carried to its tomb
silently, a few only escorting the bier from the city
across the Bridge of the Dead to the Necropolis
beyond the western wall.
Aglaia, retreating to her home, was seen no more.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 143
CHAPTER VII.
The small leaves of the olives of Peisianax were
casting a dark and delicate lacework of shadow on
the ground, as the tall figure of Empedocles walked
to and fro among the trees. He had come from
Acragas with Hylas, after the events recorded, to that
favoured spot — his farm, which stretched from the
sun-licked shores of the African Sea to the higher
reaches of the mountains behind — in search of the
solitude so precious to him, and the repose for which
he yearned.
The Sage, deep in thought, was harassed and pre-
occupied. He was alone. Though his friends and
retainers were seen among the grey and gnarled
trunks anxiously awaiting the moment to approach
him, none dared to interrupt his reverie. Pausanias
had come from the city that morning expressly to
renew the request repeatedl}' made to return there.
All were interested in his going. Yet they held
aloof.
Once more were the inhabitants of Acragas in a
turmoil, and were loudly demanding Empedocles'
presence. A remarkable event had occurred. A
144 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
woman, Pantheia by name, had died. When the
body was about to be consigned to the tomb, it had
been seen to move, and a groan was heard from
below the sheet covering it. Those present hurriedly
fled and reported the circumstance in the city. A
consultation of the learned was held, and it was
decided the burial should not take place. The body
was taken back to the house whence it started. All
this had happened a month before, and the lifeless
form had lain for that period in its house. Yet no
sign of decay, no corruption had come to it.
Such a thing was unknown, unheard of. It was
a miracle, some said. The gods had decreed im-
mortality for this woman of the people. They had
chosen Pantheia as the special subject of their power,
as a sign of their continual presence — a warning,
probably, in a godless, pleasure-seeking age. It was
thought Pantheia would soon be summoned to join
the celestial beings, for surely she herself must be
divine since so great a wonder was wrought in her
person.
Priests, doctors and seers were much perplexed
at this extraordinary occurrence. Popular clamour
called for Empedocles. He, who was divine also,
could alone solve the mystery, and advise in a matter
which disturbed men's minds so deeply.
Repeated efforts had been made ineffectually to
induce him to return to the city. From what
Pausanias had told him he knew that the woman
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 145
was not dead. With his knowledge of the art of
healing, though her state might be one of grave
anxiety if help were not immediately given, he was
aware he could possibly restore her to life. Yet he
was undecided.
" Recall her from the silence of the Unknown to
life ^ " he communed with himself, as he moodily
paced beneath the olives. " To what good purpose ?
It is a sin to kill. But when Death has laid a sooth-
ing hand upon her brow and claimed her for his
own, can it be sinful to let her rest ^ Hers was a
life of weariness — her children lost ; desolate her
home ; forsaken by her spouse ; pain, sorrow, toil
her lot. Shall I waken her to a recollection of the
past ? Shall I restore life to one who wished to die ?
Bid her fight the battle once again ? What good
can come .'' No, my soul revolts. Even now her
spirit, hovering in the pure aether, whispers in my
ears — ' Let be ; she has lived enough, since all was
suffering.' It were easy for her to glide from this
semblance of death to the silence of the tomb. But
dare I such a deed .■* This pictured death is but a
trance, else would decay have long since claimed her.
When the stars glistened in the blue immensity of
the Egyptian sky, the priestly seers would speak
secretly of men who lay as dead for weeks, of
herbs that bring life to those sunk in the smiilitude
of death. . . Ah ! they spoke, too, of how they raised
themselves in man's esteem by giving back what
10
146 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
alone the gods bestow — life, the eternal gift of life.
Maybe I might regain my own waning power if I
called Pantheia back from the brink of the Eternal
Shades. Truly should I be thought divine by such
an act, even by those who doubt and scoff. I dare
not let her rest besides. To leave her would be
to kill. I shudder at the thought of such a deed.
' No man may take a life.' . . It is enough. I will
try my skill, recalling what I learnt in Egypt. Ho!
Hylas, Pausanias ! I am resolved," he cried, sum-
moning his friends. " Take me to Pantheia's side.
Before the sun sinks in the golden west she shall
be among the living. Let us to Acragas as fast as
mules may take us. I would that you accompany
me to bear witness of a deed at which all the world
shall marvel."
Again were the streets of Acragas alive with an
excited throng of people. The dead woman, Pantheia,
had risen from the bier on which she had lain for
so many days, and was now walking about the city.
Empedocles had wrought the cure ; no man knew
how. He had shut himself within the room alone
with the sleeping woman, and emerged leading her
by the hand.
The same crowds which had before shouted
" Thoas dead!" and bemoaned his fate with anger,
now cried " Pantheia lives ! " with^double vehemence.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 147
and rejoiced with wonder and amazement. The latter
event altogether eclipsed the former in importance.
If some murmured, saying it was impious of Em-
pedocles to oppose the will of the gods by restoring
to life one whom the gods had specially chosen for
their own, the people were overjoyed by what they
regarded as a wonderful miracle, wrought by their
divine counsellor and friend. Empedocles' fame,
great as it was before, was greatly increased, and
men flocked from all sides to prostrate themselves
at his feet, imploring protection and asking for
favours such a.s a god alone could grant.
His enemies, however, were more greatly disturbed
at this overwhelming wave of popularity of Em-
pedocles. They trembled that he might retaliate
upon them. Others, though less bitter, united with
them in their protest, thinking it prudent to put a
limit to his popularity. A meeting was therefore
convoked, and it was agreed to strike a decided blow
in self-defence at once.
Empedocles once more returned to his farm.
Anxious to conform to the custom of the Acragan-
tines — that public thanksgiving should follow any
successful venture or exploit — he ordained a sacrifice
to the gods, to which he invited a large number of
friends. After the religious ceremony a banquet
followed. It was given in the garden surrounding
the philosopher's house, and was worthy of the occa-
sion and the eighity or more bidden to the feast. Yet
10*
148 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the festivity fell far short of the great event which
it was meant to celebrate, for many of the guests knew
that a secret sentence had been pronounced against
their host that morning on the charge of treason
against the state for having sided with the Athenians
against Syracuse, the ally of Acragas, in the past
war.
So trivial an accusation against so distinguished
a patriot as Empedocles was as ludicrous as it was
unjust. Yet it served the purpose and prevailed.
The sentence of the Senate was to be communicated
that night.
The guests had separated in the hot evening after
the feast to seek repose in the open air among the
olive groves, when Empedocles was summoned to
meet the messengers of the Halia. He meekly re-
ceived the message, which imposed perpetual and
immediate banishment under pain of death. He
who had always preached acquiescence in the laws
was not one to fall away from his own teaching.
Perhaps he was content to bide his time without
exercising the power he undoubtedly possessed, know-
ing that justice would prevail in the future and his
name be vindicated.
When the guests at Peisianax assembled in the
morning Empedocles was not among them. He had
departed mysteriously. He was anxiously sought.
Only a slave could throw any light on his master's
disappearance. He said that shortly after midnight
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 149
he had been awakened by a strange glow in the sky
and a noise as of distant thunder, above which was
heard a voice calHng loudly the name of Empedocles.
A sound of steeds vehemently urged followed. Then
all was silence.
In that manner the philosopher left Acragas. And
in the mystery of his departure, the people, true in
their intense love for him, found ample conviction
that divine as he appeared to them to be on earth,
no less divine was the call which summoned him to
take his departure from among them and his place
among the immortals to whom he affirmed, and they
believed, he surely belonged.
ISO TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER VIII.
In the late afternoon of the second day following
the banquet at Peisianax, two travellers, mounted on
mules, were slowly ascending the lower slopes of
Mount JEtm..
Both had been silent for some hours. One — the
elder man- — seemed to be so deeply absorbed in
thought that he was unconscious of all around him.
Even the stumbling steps of the animal he rode
scarcely roused him from his reverie. The other, a
youth, who preceded him, was on the contrary keenly
alert ; and from the anxious glances he threw over
his shoulder at his companion from time to time,
also disturbed and perplexed m mind. The two
were Empedocles and Hylas, fugitives from Acragas.
The slopes of the volcano, umber-hued in their
stretches of lava now free from snow, rose in majestic
outline to the crest from the sparkling sea on one
side, and from the valley of Simaithos on the other.
High up, volumes of vapour poured from the crater —
at times grey with the fine ash ejected, or rose-
coloured when the whiter cloud caught and reflected
the glow of the sinking sun. Above the mountain
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 151
the heavy, palm-shaped cloud hung suspended like a
pall.
The riders had long left the vineyards covering
the lower ground with patches of vivid green, and
reached the chestnut forest with its monster trees,
now bright with autumnal tints. The precipitous
track was strewn with loose stones, and its dust rose
in stifling clouds to the tread of the mules' feet.
The air was hot and sultry. The sky had a ruddy
golden flush which was communicated to the land-
scape. Once the young man stopped his mule, and
turning on his pack-saddle, waited as if expecting
definite instructions from the other. He was not dis-
appointed.
" On, Hylas, on," Empedocles commanded. " There
must be no tarrying, since we need reach the summit
before dawn. The road is long ; I know it well."
The two resumed their journey silently.
The belt of chestnut trees was left behind, to be
succeeded by oaks, and in their turn by gigantic
pine trees.
It was soon dusk and the mules had difficulty in
keeping to the track in the deep shadow of the firs.
At length those last trees of the mountain-forest
gave way to stunted undergrowth, and then to small
and ever-diminishing patches of vegetation. A plant
of the cactus-pear here and there stretched out its
gaunt arms by the road-side as if in warning, or in
supplication to be delivered from a scene of so great
152 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
a ruin. Tufts of the volcanic broom grew shabbily
from the crevices of the rocks. Then the open
wastes lay before them. As the travellers mounted,
the moon and the brilliancy of countless stars brought
with them a light as of day.
Onward and upward, panting and wearied, the
mules toiled, stumbling among the loose stones or
plunging into unseen holes. They and their riders
were now among the unequalled horrors of the vol-
cano. Not even the lank grasses, the last signs of
vegetable life in those high solitudes, raised their
spikes from among the stones. All was given over
to the destruction of the hidden fires below. All
was black, desolate and horrible. Even the moon-
beams, which faintly touched the points of some high
crags of lava, tossed and twisted into fantastic shapes,
like the waters of a tempest-wrought sea caught and
bound in a stony eternity, failed to redeem that
black world of vomited rock from its abomination
of supreme desolation. It was a region that the
volcano had claimed entirely for its own, blasting
it as with an eternal curse. Masses of black rocks
stood out from beds of scoria or streams of naked
twisted lava. Extinct craters, in the shape of rounded
pyramids, mute records of past fury and fierce de-
struction, rose on every side. The higher parts of
tlie mountain — black sandy slopes and gloomy valleys,
towered above. Every sign of hfe, every vestige of
vegetation, failed. Not a lizard moved, not an insect
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 153
crawled among that dreary blackened waste. No
bird, no bat circled in the sky, no little owl nor cricket
called to disturb that awful solitude of Nature. All
was dumb with the overpowering silence of an uni-
versal death.
Hylas, unaccustomed to such a scene, trembled.
He had heard of the terrors of ^tna, the dread
entrance to the infernal regions, or, as some had it,
the prison of the vanquished Typhasus. He had
often gazed upon its placid rose-coloured slopes at
sunset, when climbing to the heights of his own sunny
lands bordered by the African sea near Acragas.
Then he was at a safe distance, and its terrors were
remote and vague.
But now, toiling wearily through those lava wastes,
he recalled the beliefs associated with the mysterious
mountain — the tales of the country folk about the
monstrous men who had their home within its bowels,
their incessant work forging thunderbolts for Zeus ;
the one-eyed giant with his flocks and herds wander-
ing in search of pasture. Despite his philosophic
training, Hylas was a prey to the superstitious fears
of youth, and he trembled.
The travellers at length reached the cone, that
lesser mountain rising on the shoulders of the greater.
At its base the mules stopped. They could go no
further. Only the foot of man, and that with diffi-
culty, could mount the remaining three or four
hundred paces to the summit. ALtna. was vomiting
154 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
volumes of vapour from the lips of the crater over-
head. These, glowing intermittently as the flames
below surged upwards or died down momentarily,
rose perpendicularly in a huge and lurid column,
v/hich rolled away in the clear sky northward as it
caught the breeze from the plain of Katane. The
sullen rumbling as of distant and continuous thunder
told that the volcano was sorely in travail.
Hylas dismounted and assisted Empedocles from
his saddle. Both were stiff from the long ride.
" Here may we rest awhile," the latter said, " before
I climb to the summit. My spirit draws me to that
home of eternal fire so akin to the hell of thought
and trouble that burns within me."
" Must we not await Pausanias here, then ? " Hylas
enquired. " His message was he would join us before
we reached the highest peak."
" Pausanias, does he also come ^ " the Sage replied,
frowning. " Even though so great a friendship binds
us that not even his enmity could change it, I would
not have told him of my path had I known such was
his intent. Well, let it be so, Hylas. You await
Pausanias here. But take heed I am not disturbed.
I crave to be alone."
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. i55
CHAPTER IX.
Leaving Hylas in charge of the mules, Empedocles
mounted the steep slope of the cone of the volcano.
The ascent was very arduous, and an hour or more
passed before he reached the summit. Before him
was an extended plateau in the centre of which sank
the enormous crater. He approached the edge of
that yawning circular abyss. A great internal dis-
turbance was in the depths of the mighty chasm. A
sea of incandescent lava heaved and writhed many
hundreds of feet below, for not yet had the rivers of
molten fire welled to the brim to burst over in down-
ward course of destruction.
A sullen roar as of a continuous tempest, accom-
panied at intervals by louder explosions, deafened
the ear. At times, massive stones and dense volumes
of vapour were shot forth. Then the fiery secrets
of the abyss were hidden from view. At other
times the seething mass glowed fiercely and clearly
illuminated its recesses, showing the vivid orange and
yellow salts of minerals which strangely encrusted
its inner walls with a brilliant efflorescence.
Empedocles gazed silently upon that wonderful
156 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
scene. The fierce enmity of this mig-hty sullen force
repelled yet fascinated him. So like was it to the
hot passions, the strife, the savage fury and the
fiery tumult of his fellow men. Saddened at the
thought, he turned and walked from the brink until
he reached the easternmost verge of the cone.
The moon had now set. The brilliancy of the
stars was growing dim in a greyness which had its
origin in the east beyond the sea. The faint light
slowly asserted itself, and a glow suffused that
quarter of the sky. Shortly the sun rose from among
clouds of gold and blood-red, casting on the sea a
pathway of living light, of dancing gleams, which
broadened as it led to the mountain's base.
Slowly the quickening light left the wavelets break-
ing on the shore and crept to the thick groves of
olive and almond standing among vineyards, to the
great belt of forest, to the wastes of lava, calling
them momentarily from their blackened death to a
semblance of joy and life ; then to the cone, en-
veloping Empedocles himself in its warm glow of
welcome, and upward yet to the summit and that
vast surging mass of vapour pouring from the bowels
of the mountain, which it changed into a column of
translucent colour by the magic of its touch.
The lowing of cattle, the sound of sheep-bells,
the music of a shepherd's reed came fitfully from
below.
Empedocles lost not the smallest detail of that
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 157
withdrawal of night, that heralding of morn. Such
a moment was to him the most sacred of the day.
He was keenly alive to the uplifting freshness, the
sense of buoyant freedom and exhilaration, the still
and impressive aloofness from the world that watchers
of the dawn experience.
The volcano had subsided into relative calm. For
the time the noisy explosions and vomiting of vapour
ceased. Only the dull thunderings from below were
heard at intervals like the roar of snow-fields falling
into echoing valleys.
Empedocles, from gazing seaward turned towards
the land. A scene of incredible grandeur met his
eyes. Sicily was below him. Not the vast expanse
of plain and forest, of limitless cornlands and roving
pastures, of mighty mountains and dark mysterious
valleys which he knew so well. But Sicily small and
undetermined in the morning haze, three-sided and
minute — a tiny jewel of light azure resting on the
surrounding seas, a beryl set within the deeper blue
of a monster sapphire.
As he gazed, the mists lifted, and one by one he
recognised familiar spots — Eryx on the western coast,
where Aphrodite in her majestic temple of the hill
reigned supreme ; Panormos, the Phoenician strong-
hold ; Henna, the home of the Great Mother of the
Earth, on its broad table-mountain ; the promontory
of Mylai ; the sickle-shaped harbour of Zancle, joined,
as it were, to the higher ranges of the mainland.
158 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
stretching northward to far distance, but for the
narrow strip of shining sea on whose shores Scylla
sheltered the dread Charybdis, and Naxos yet re-
membered its Grecian founders. Below, and seem-
ingly at his feet, Katane, the home of Stesichorus ;
and, beyond the fertile plain through which Symaithos
wandered, and where the sparkling waters of Leon-
tinoi glittered, the city of Syracuse wherein Em-
pedocles had often been an honoured guest.
Every indentation of the coast, every undulation
of the land, stood out clearly and distinctly as if
painted by an unerring brush. Mountain after
mountain raised their crests to the growing sunlight.
Valleys treasured their secrets in the shadow of the
early morning. Beyond all, and surrounding all, lay
dazzling seas, on which, northward, were dotted the
island around the home of Aiolos in Lipara, with
the smoking pyramid of Strongyle ; to the south,
Melite ; and westward, beyond Motya, the peaks of
the Aigousa group, bordered by the faint outline of
the African Continent.
But what most claimed the philosopher's atten-
tion in the first moments of the sunrise was a
mysterious shadow of enormous size, cast against the
island and the sky, defined with the utmost delicacy,
finding its three-sided counterpart perpendicularly on
the dove-tinted atmosphere and land. It was im-
posing, unearthly, almost startling in its asthereal
lovelmess. It was the shadow of ^Etna.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 159
"Oh! Mother of Mountains, Guardian of the
Eternal Fire," Empedocles cried, unable to keep
silence, " how beautiful thou art in thy majesty. How
bountiful in thy favours, for that which makes this
island the storehouse of the world is thy doing, thine
the priceless gift. But," he added sorrowfully, after
a long pause, " as is this shadow so is thy beauty —
passing, unreliable. Treacherous, too, in thy pure
white winter mantle, as in thy ruddy garb of summer,
when almond blossoms and the myriad flowers deck
thee, and vines trail about thy feet. Aye, as
Sicily herself in fickleness art thou, for she and her
people do take thee for their guide and imitate thy
moods. Men strive to be as thou — to smile to-day,
casting favours broadcast on the land, and to-morrow
ruthlessly destroy. Greater power than thine for
good exists not upon the earth. Yet art thou not
loved. Men bow before thee ; weave sweet fables
round thy name ; exalt thee to a god. Albeit in
their hearts they curse thee. Oh, thou false one,
deceitful as a woman, who sells her smiles for gold
and turns to rend her lover, infamous art thou in
the evil thou hast wrought.
" Yet," he continued, relapsing into the sad medi-
tative mood from which the beauty of the sunrise
had momentarily aroused him, " is this mountain but
a slave — a slave of higher things following an in-
scrutable law and obedient to a will superior to itself.
Like the world it has no will nor real beginning, no
i6o TALES OF OLD SICILY.
end, no birth, no death. What is the world itself
but the mingling of that which is apart, by which
alone it has its origin, but the child of Fire and Earth,
of rEther and the moisture of the sky, which in
their turn are the children of the Great All, the
Eternal, the Indestructible ? Why do I then rage
at ^tna, at what is beyond its own control, at what
none hath power to remedy ? Long past is the god-
like time when all was Harmony. Long since the
Golden Age when Love and Friendship reigned
supreme, when animals were friends of man, and trees
bore leaves all the months and never failed of fruit.
Beauty no longer rules the universe. Hate, the
origin of evil, was born, took its place, and is
triumphant. Yet in the end Love shall overcome Hate,
for in all is there steady progress towards the good.
Love shall prevail. Even the monsters which have
their being in the air and assail men with evil shall
be perfected at last by that utmost Love. Such is
the Law of all things, the Supreme Love over all, that
God who vaunts no likeness to man, a Spirit only,
the sacred Spirit of the Most High One, of which
no tongue can adequately speak, of which all Nature
breathes. Therefore, surely, must Beauty reign."*
Empedocles was silent for a time. His eyes were
fixed on the landscape below. The sullen roar of
the mountain continued.
* This is an oulline of Empedocles' theory of the Universe.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. i6i
Then his thoughts turned to his native city.
" O Acragas, worthy sanctuary of the wanderer ! "
he murmured, " my beloved home, if thou wert as
of old, ignorant of evil-doing, I would not have
suffered at thy hands thus. But thou and thine have
turned from the path of virtue, and fallen a prey to
Hate, at whose coming Beauty flies. But, again,
why judge I my fellow men, who, seeing nothing
clearly, know not what to believe? They, as I, are
but puppets in the hands of the Power unseen, passers-
by on the narrow road, and going hence leaving no
trace behind. Yet are they instinct with life, having
that sacred gift within them which never dies, and
for that are they to be revered. Therefore have I
strived to aid them in their search for happiness, to
soothe their troubles, to make existence easier. Alas,
that for all my zeal I am become an outcast, a
pensioner of chance. Oh that the world had never
known my birth, that my spirit had never taken
earthly form! From what honour have I fallen
miserably! From what happy state, from life to
death, straying far from heaven, here and there in
endless exile, torn by inward conflict, and alone!
To this dark cave of earthly being, to this unsafe
sojourn, have I come. And whither do I go.^ Ah!
Where ? There is no extinction in the tomb, no
quiet, no rest. Souls wander unceasingly through
the ages. I, Empedocles, was a maiden, a bird, a
tree, a fish was I, too, in the silents depths of ocean,
II
i62 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
for souls traverse the world in varied form unrecog-
nised by men, until, beautified at last, they find eternal
peace within the arms of the Divine Love whence
they came. So the great Pythagoras, and Par-
menides, my master, taught, and so I believe."
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 163
CHAPTER X.
The sun was now high in the sky and beating
fiercely on the black sand and lava. With its heat
the noxious gases rose more overpoweringly from the
fissures in the ground.
A voice calling from a distance was heaxd faintly.
Empedocles heeded it not. He was too deeply
absorbed in thought. His heart ached on account
of the injustice done him ; his soul was bowed with
sorrow. He arraigned himself before an imaginary
tribunal of his own creation, as if he were pleading
his cause before the Acragantines. He spoke softly
to himself, not angrily. He had infinite pity for
the ignorance, the lack of knowledge of what was
right and comely, which his countrymen had shown
in their base ingratitude towards him.
" They accuse me of having thought more of the
good of Sicily than of the smaller affairs of our
single State," he said. " It may be true. I was
but fired with the splendour, the beauty, the integrity
of virtue, and the desire to sow it broadcast, see it
take root and grow among my fellow-men. They
cast it in my teeth that I thwarted them in their
II*
i64 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
ways of life. I but tried to turn their vices into
better channels, their riches to- charity, their vanity
to hospitality. I sought to divert their thoughts
from the sensuality of the past, to the conception of
the Divine as a Spirit. I attacked the venality of
those in power ; and loaded them with shame, so
that they ceased from their evil ways. The end
should direct the means. By example only I became
the master. I sought no power. My ambition was
to make my life divine by beauty and thus approach
the Deity. The magic for which I stand condemned
is but a knowledge of the deeper secrets hidden
from the world. If that be sin, then am I guilty.
Sweet weds with sweet, bitter finds its mate.
Warmth flies to warmth, and so the soul of Man
perfected must go forth to meet the Beautiful. With
such weapons did I strive. Men deride what they
will not imitate. I would not stoop to Hate, to the
littleness of life. Of strife I would have none.
Therein lay my fault. I looked to higher things,
for we are not born to ourselves. Men are but
stewards, holders of a trust for the Owner, who is
Another. I am faint and weary. I crave to be
freed from these bonds which bind my spirit to
earth. My task is too great, my burden too heavy to
support. What profits it that I live only to be scorned
and mocked, to fly at the sight of men who have
sworn to persecute me to an earthly death ? My force
is spent, my work done, I am weary of the striving.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 165
" Oh ! Divine Being," he continued, " give me
then the rest my soul yearns for, the peace I have
not known. I am in sore travail with the pains of
thought. My brain reels with doubt. I am become
as him forsworn, one stained by the sin of heart,
who by an utterance of Fate, an ancient decree of
the Everlasting Gods, sealed with solemn oaths,
wanders far from the Blessed for thrice ten thousand
years, growing, as the ages glide, through all the
shapes of mortal things, passing from one to another
of the weary ways of life. The might of the ^ther
hurls him to the Sea, the Sea vomits him back to
the floor of Earth, and Earth flings him to the fire
of Helios, the unwearied, and he to the whirlwinds
of .^ther. He is received by one after another,
and abhorred of all.* As such am I become."
Empedocles sate long with bowed head as these
thoughts found slow and painful utterance.
Sapped and destroyed by the fire of inward suffer-
ing, life and vigour seemed to have left him. The
dauntless spirit of the Champion of Equity and the
dignity of mankind was broken by the cruelty of
those for whom he had spent himself.
Then rousing from his dejection he rose and
retraced his steps to the spot where he had stood
on the edge of the crater, drawn by an irresistible
force. It had a strange fascination for him, which
* This rendering is taken from Mr. Gilbert Murray's "Ancient
Greek Literature."
i66 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
he could not gauge nor resist. He gazed long into
the chasm as the seething mass of incandescent lava
rose and fell in cruel and restless writhings. That
molten fire was ever accompanied by a menacing
rumbling as of continued thunder.
" Yet if there still be work, oh Almighty Wis-
dom," he said, continuing his interrupted train of
thought, and withdrawing his gaze reluctantly from
the living flame below to look upward, " let me live
awhile on earth, to perfect my soul for the Eternal
Rest. Dispel my ignorance. Increase my knowledge,
which scarcely tells me what in the infinity of know-
ing there is to know. Accomplish my love of love-
liness. Give me clear light to discern that Beauty
which is the spirit of God on earth, the token of His
love. His breath, His being, the very Essence of His
presence, which to know fully is to be with Him for
ever in the infinite hereafter of the ages. I ask no
more."
******
Hylas, in charge of the mules at the foot of the
cone, was a prey to uneasy thoughts. Beside the
oppressive loneliness, the roaring of the volcano, and
the gloom, which the brilliant starlight served only
to intensify, there was more within him to cause
uneasiness. A misgiving, persistent, intense, yet
undefinable, possessed him. His uneasiness pro-
voked him to follow the footsteps of his Master. Yet
he feared to disobey his commands. Empedocles'
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 167
orders were as binding on his disciples as the word
of Pythagoras before him. So he remained. He tried
to rest, but the wish to sleep failed. Though weary
with incessant travelling in the heat of the last two
days, Hylas was unable to close his eyes. He paced
restlessly to and fro on the black sand, so great was
his anxiety.
At length relief came. A distant cry was heard.
At fii'st Hylas thought it was the voice of Empe-
docles summoning him. He looked to the rope-
fastenings of the mules to prevent their straying,
and prepared to start.
The cry was repeated, and -two names reached
him on the breeze from the lower slopes, his own,
and that of Empedocles. Then he knew that
Pausanias had fulfilled his intention of joining them.
The latter shortly appeared, guided by the young
man's shouts.
Hylas welcomed Pausanias warmly. He told him
how Empedocles had left him some hours before,
and of his uneasiness. After a short conversation,
and receiving no answer to their repeated cries, the
two resolved to seek Empedocles. Pausanias began
to share his companion's disquietude, for no feeling
is so contagious as fear. Together they climbed the
side of the cone and reached the summit.
After a short time they discerned Empedocles at
a distance standing on a rock overhanging the brink
of the crater — his tall fi""ure outlined ag-ainst the
i68 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
blue of the sky. Was it a portent that he in his
purple robe and Delphic crown should stand a
solitary figure environed by that intense blue, the
unpropitious colour of the Acragan tines ?
Hylas pressed forward joyfully. He felt his mis-
givings had been ill-placed. His master was safe.
Besides, he had great news to impart. Pausanias
had brought word that the petition which he had
presented on behalf of Sikon, his friend, had been
considered. He had claimed the life and liberty of
the young Sikel from the State, alleging that the
death of Thoas came by honest combat after dire
provocation. The Senate of Acragas had given a
favourable answer and a full pardon had been
granted. Sikon, therefore, could return to Acragas
as soon as he could be communicated with. Hylas'
mood was in consequence as happy as shortly
before it had been gloomy and foreboding of evil.
He had not only recovered his friend, but also saved
him from a perpetual exile of shame.
The Mountain had been silent. The column of
vapour had ceased to pour from the crater. A
period of relative calm had supervened. The vol-
cano was apparently at rest.
But at the moment when Hylas and Pausanias
caught sight of Empedocles, eind were prepaxing to
join him, a deafening and terrible roar filled the air.
The earth swayed and rocked, throwing the two to
the ground. The surface opened around them.
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 169
From the crater, which was a hundred paces or more
from them, a terrific outburst broke. A fiery grey
mass of flame and vapour was vomited into the air,
accompanied by loud and incessant detonations as
of falKng thunderbolts. In an instant the sun was
blotted out and daylight lost. It was as if night
had suddenly descended save for the terrible lurid
glare which turned all things to the colour of a
ruddy copper. Flashes of lightning played in and
about the vast canopy of cloud which hung over
the chasm of fire. Ashes and red-hot stones, hurled
to the sky, fell about them in thick showers.
Hylas and Pausanias, terror-striclcen and dumb,
crept with difficulty under a projecting rock to find
protection from a pitiless rain of molten scoria.
From their insecure refuge, they could watch those
awful pangs of Nature, that travail of the Mountain,
bringing forth the dual birth of Destruction and
Death. Though the principal force of the eruption
was on the further side of the crater's plateau, every
moment might prove to be their last. They were
in imminent peril of their lives, yet to move meant
instant death.
The earth continued to heave and tremble. Fis-
sures were constantly opening on all sides to emit
foul, suffocating gases and eddies of vapour. The
air reeked of sulphurous fumes. Breathing was
almost impossible.
Huge rocks of enormous weight, red-hot, were
I/O TALES OF OLD SICILY.
hurled with awful force into the air to fall to earth
on the side of the Mountain, to rush with ever
increasing speed into the valleys below.
Then the molten lava of Earth's cauldron surged
to the brink, and breaking over the side in cataracts
of hissing fire, poured down the slopes in torrents
of flaming stone, melting the rocks which they
engulphed in their progress, and carrying instant
destruction to forest and vineyards, which they met
in their course.
Rain in torrents now fell. Incessant claps of
thunder lent deafening noise to the roar of the
volcano. The wind rose with the force of a hurri-
cane and shrieked above. Earth and sky, the one
shaken to its fou'adations, the other reverberating in
sullen rage and fury to the far distance, vied with
one another in awful rivalry in that terrible orgie
of Nature, that horrible outburst of her forces, that
hideous strife of the elements wherein Heaven itself,
with all hope of Peace, all thought of Beauty, all
idea of Love, seemed to be eternally lost before the
combined powers of Hell and Hate.
Then a sound louder still than all the prevailing
din rose above the clamour. It lasted for an instant
or two, awe-inspiring and terrible, and suddenly
ceased. The discharge of vapour stopped. The
dull grey pall of cloud rolled away on the wings of
the departing wind. The rivers of lava were stayed
at their source. The air above cleared. Daylight
THE DIVINE PHILOSOPHER. 171
re-asserted itself. There was a great calm. Only
a vast cloud of dust shot up into the sky.
The high cliffs or walls of the crater, molten by
fire, weakened by the rain, shaken to their founda-
tions by the explosions and earthquakes, had fallen
inward with an awful crash, filling the abyss to the
brim, choking its fire and ending its violence. What
had been before a yawning chasm was now a tossed
and smoking table-land of scoria and ash.
The rock on which Empedocles had stood, together
with all the surrounding ground, had been hurled
below, engulphed by that fearful cataclysm of Nature,
and he had been buried with them.
Hylas and Pausanias at length crept from their
refuge, stunned and dazed. The two men silently
and solemnly descended the cone with great grief
in their hearts. They sought not for Empedocles.
They knew he had certainly perished, a victim to
those four elements, " the Roots of the Great All,"
of which he had been the wise expounder.
As they went, the sun shone again. Sicily, tran-
quil and serene, lay below them, nursed in the lap
of her seas. Universal Beauty once more resumed
its dominion. But its most noble apostle, a man
perfected by Love, the Upholder of the fallen, the
Divine Philosopher of Acragas, meanwhile, had
been called to the surpassing fellowship of the
Immortals.
CYANE.
C Y ANE
PROLOGUE.
One evening of late spring 415 years before the
Christian Era, the dark ripples of the Cretan sea
were recalled to life from the deep shadows of dusk
by the light of a full moon rising behind the island
of Melos.
The night was one of serene tranquillity, of per-
vading calm. The caressing softness of the air,
the hushed murmurs of far-reaching waters, the per-
fume of flowers, faintly borne by an imperceptible
breeze from distant shores, told of Nature at rest in
a quietude and repose that were alike solemn and
awe-inspiring.
The smooth expanse of hushed waters stretched
southward to the dark horizon until it was lost in
that distance where sky and sea mingle, and where
life itself seems to pause before the dim regions of
doubt and mystery that lie beyond. It was a soli-
tude of sky and waters except for the frowning
heights of Melos, which uplifted sternly and
menacingly. And on land, all was dark and lone-
some with the black shades of dying hours — no
176 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
valleys visible, no hillsides scored by torrents, no
signs of living men. All had been lulled to sleep
by the alluring spell of the summer night.
Suddenly, as the tide of light fell upon the sea,
the blue-black waters danced to the flicker of moon-
beams, which darted quivering flashes on all sides,
eclipsing the wayward gleam of phosphorus and the
silver glint of fish rising lazily to the surface.
Then when the moon outlined with silvered
brilliancy some topmost ridge or rocky point of
Melos, and the early stars paled at the coming of
the stronger light, the silence was broken by a sound
faintly wafted over the water from the north — a
sound like that of breezes moving about the strings
of a lute, lightly touching them, so subdued the
tones, so vague the harmony. Imperceptibly the
music swelled, became more defined, rising and
falling on the puffs of air, until it ripened to a fuller
melody of subdued beauty. Then suddenly the
sound ceased.
At that moment the indistinct form of two galleys
emerged from the shadow ; one from the north
beyond the distant headland of the island ; the
other from the purple distance of the south.
As the ships drew near, the masts showed bare ;
the windless night had caused the flapping sails to
be furled. The galleys approached rapidly, for many
oars were deftly dipped.
From the bows of one leapt troubled waters.
CYANE. 177
Behind the other a long translucent way widened
in the moonlight from the stern. Their build told
what country had sent them forth. From Athens
came the one shot from the shadow of Melos ; from
Syracuse the other.
As the chaunt came again low and soft over the
sea, terror reigned among the Syracusan sailors.
They remembered the Syrens' song, the advice of
Odysseus, and stopped their ears. They could not
account for the music and feared the evil that might
befall. But soon the mast and hull of the Athenian
ship became more distinct, the chaunt of its mariners
better understood. Then they knew and listened.
Suddenly, at a word clearly given, the Athenian
thole pins ceased their groaning and the oars were
still. The Syracusans went upon their course. The
two countries then were friendly, bound by ties of
blood, so they had nought to fear. The clouds of
fratricidal strife to come were as yet barely above
the horizon.
Then the chaunt of voices broke once more loudly
from the Athenian ship, whose deck was crowded
with fair-haired men. At first little but the notes
of those who sang reached the other ship. But as
they came together the significance of words was
added to the music.
The Syracusans, dark, lissom men, left their oars
and clustered to the side. They stayed their course
for politeness' sake to hear the greeting of comrades
12
178 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
hailing from the parent shore. Yet their tarrying
had some deeper meaning, a latent hope.
The two galleys met. The oars were backed, and
the ships lay motionless alongside, with only a path
of gleaming sea between. The hulls, the rigging,
the banks of oars run out, the faces and figures of
the sailors, were seen clearly in the full moon as
by the light of day.
The song continued for a time. Then came words
chaunted by one alone, or m chorus from the mouths
of several as the case might be.
" H'st, listen," said the Syracusans to one another
in great expectancy.
The words of poets by rich and poor alike in old
Greece and in the younger beyond her seas, were
accounted as treasures beyond price, divine ex-
pression of the immortals to soothe, to cheer, to abase,
to exhort to brave deeds, to restrain the wilful
passions of mankind, and as such they were not to
be lost.
It was known in Syracuse that the great Euripides
of Salamis, the bard of Athens, had but recently
given to the world a tragedy concerning the Trojan
Women and the Sack of Troy with which Greece
was ringing from end to end — a tragedy which moved
men to the depths of their souls, not only because
it was a consummate work of art, but because it was
regarded also as a solemn warning, a prophecy fore-
telling untold disasters to mighty Athens for her
CYANE. 179
inappeasable greed of gain, her lust of power, her
defiance of the common rights of men. Was not
Melos, whose rocky heights were now frowning down
upon the two galleys as they moved to the surge
of the sea, a dire example of the unexpiated crime
deplored — of ruthless war, of murder, of bloody con-
quest, of oppression on the part of Athens? And
to those who thought the more and deeper there was
much beyond. Was not pity for mankind, for the
fallen, for the down-trodden, pity even for those
women, who, heretofore ignored by men, were raised
by the magic of words from the sordid condition
of slaves to be reputed worthy of that pity, in the
cry that now went up from the soul of Euripides
to an unheeding and degenerate age? Would the
words of that great tragedy, of which only the
rumour of its fame had reached the shores of Sicily,
fall upon the ears of the expectant islanders to be
treasured as pearls be}'ond price, to be borne home
by them and repeated proudly to rapturous audiences
at Syracuse so soon as their voyage might be ended ?
Such was the hope of those who listened anxiously
on board the Syracusan galley.
A voice declaiming the following lines was heard :
" Up from ^gean caverns, pool by pool of blue
salt sea, where feet most beautiful of Nereid maidens
weave beneath the foam their long sea-dances, I,
their lord, am come, Poseidon of the sea. 'Twas I
whose power, with great Apollo, builded tower by
12*
i8o TALES OF OLD SICILY.
tower these walls of Troy ; and still my care doth
stand true to the ancient people of my hand ; which
now as smoke is perished in the shock of Argive
spears."
The words came clearly in the still night air,
" None but Euripides could have penned such
lines," excitedly said one from Ortygia to his com-
panions. " They speak of our lord and master of
the waves, Poseidon, who thus laments the fall of
Troy — his own beloved city."
A pause ensued. Not a sound came from the
Sicilian ship. All was expectancy.
Another voice from the Athenian galley chaunted
in response :
" O ships, O crowding faces of ships, O hurrying
beat of oars as of crawling feet, how found ye our
holy places ? . . . What sought ye then that ye
came ? "
" It must be Hecuba, the Queen, who addresses
the invading Greek fleet," whispered the Syracusans
to each other ; " she who mourned her lot sitting by
the Greek king's door, and speaks of Helen and the
Sack of Troy."
" Hush," said another, as the Athenian reciter
continued, " the wife of Priam continues her lamen-
tation ; lose not a word."
" O Mothers of the Brazen Spear, and maidens,
brides of shame, Troy is a smoke, a dying flame ;
together we will weep for her : I call ye as
CYANE. i8i
a wide-winged bird callcth the children of her fold,
to cry, ah ! not the cry men heard in Ilion, not the
songs of old, that echoed when my hand was true
on Priam's sceptre, and my feet touched on the stone
one signal beat, and out the Dardan music rolled ;
and Troy's great Gods gave ear thereto."
Another and longer pause. Nothing was heard
but the lap of the sea, the noise of ripples licking
the blades of the oars at rest, and the sides of the
galleys outlined by eager faces. Then a third voice,
more musical and pitched in a higher key, the voice
of a youth, sang clearly the following words, specially
chosen apparently for a greeting " to the Greeks of
Greater Greece by the men of Athens, as extolling
the island whence they came :
" They told us of a land high-born, red with corn
and burdened fruits. Of ^Etna's breast, the deeps
of lire that front the Tyrian's Citadel, first Mother,
she, of Sicily and mighty mountains: fame hath told
their crowns of goodness manifold. And, close
beyond the narrowing sea, a sister land, where float
enchanted Ionian summits, w'ave on wave, and
Crathis of the burning tresses makes red the happy
vale, and blesses with gold of fountains spirit-
haunted homes of true men and brave."
The last words came softly and indistinctly, for
the galleys had now drifted apart. The older among
the Syracusans murmured — they could not fully
catch the significance of the verse.
i82 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Then a loud voice from the Athenian craft was
heard once more :
" Hail, brother mariners, go now your way upon
calm seas, resting with the melody of the great Euri-
pides in your ears. It is our salute to you of Sicily,
' true men and brave.' "
" May Poseidon be your guide and guard, and
may the Sun Lord, the God of Music, look kindly on
yoM for your noble greeting," was the rejoinder from
the Syracusan ship.
The oars of both galleys moved evenly again.
The sea was beaten into silvered fo'am as the men
bent to their toil. The ships soon lost sight of one
another and disappeared into the gloom, one head-
ing for the frowning cliffs of Melos, the other for
sun-licked southern shores. Now and again the
chaunt of sonorous words lingered in the air until
that too was lost, and once more universal solitude
held the summer night.
cyane:. 183
CHAPTER I.
A LONG procession of men and women of all ages
and conditions was wendmg its way noisily along the
way that led towards Heloron, from the different
quarters of the ancient city of Syracuse in Sicily.
Gaiety and freedom from care marked the demeanour
of those who walked the flat road, notwithstanding
the hot sun of a day in early autumn beating fiercely
on their heads, and the white dust rising in choking
clouds to the tread of many feet.
All in that concourse of Syracusans were directly
interested in the proceedings. Each man, woman
and child carried a gift for the Great Mother of the
Earth and her Fair Daughter, because the day was
one of the yearly festivals in honour of the goddess
of corn and harvests, and of her no less beloved
child, the fruit-bearing Persephone. Much of the
ritual of these festivals had been brought from the
older Greece to her offshoot in Sicily, and though
shorn of some of the solemnity of those mysteries
which made Eleusis celebrated, Sicily could not be
unmindful, as she never was unmmdful in more
1 84 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
ancient days, of what she owed the Divine Pair
who had had their chief habitation in the island.
So here at Syracuse, the principal city of that
larger Greece beyond the sea, sacrifice and prayer
were to be offered this day, and due honour done to
the goddesses. Here was the holy casket, carried
in a consecrated car drawn by oxen, followed by
women, who, garlanded with flowers, bore baskets
in which pomegranates and poppies, cakes, carded
wool and other products of the land — things most
acceptable and specially dedicated to the elder deity —
were heaped in profusion. Bulls were led out to
be sacrificed. Many men carried huge torches to
be lighted at night to commemorate the travellings
and sore quest of the Mother for her Daughter on
the slopes of the burning mountain. Children held
bunches of fruit and flowers, branches of oak trees
and dishes of fish, to lay at the feet of their great
Protectress. Notwithstanding the burdens the crowd
danced along merrily to the sound of singing and
the beating of brass vessels — exuberance of spirits
finding vent in a bewildering discord of sound.
Such a medley of revelry and devotion was de-
manded by custom to show proper respect to the
occasion.
But beyond the rejoicing there was on that day
a feeling of thankfulness and relief for freedom from
sore anxiety, which made the men and boys shout
the loader and the maidens trip with lighter feet.
CYANE. 185
Syracuse, for some time past, had been a victim
to vague apprehensions, which had gradually de-
veloped into well-defined misgivings. It was known
that the mightiest city of the parent land, Athens,
in her lust for power and conquest, had long cast
envious eyes at the prosperity of her kinsmen in
Sicily ; and now on futile pretext had shown hostile
intent. Her vast fleet, indeed, had recently anchored
at the adjacent Katane, and on a trumped-up charge
seemed ready to take revenge for what she declared
to be an outrage to her pride.
Among the pleasure-loving Syracusans scorn and
derision had first met the disquietude of the more
far-seeing citizens. They had refused to recognise
any danger from such a source, even though in-
vasion was spoken of. But when the arrival of the
Athenian fleet, first at Rhegion and then at Katane,
became an ascertained fact, fear and discouragement
possessed them. One day these misgivings gave
way to despondency. That was when sixty Athenian
ships in single column appeared off Syracuse, and,
more terrifying still, when with great temerity ten
entered the Great Harbour and passed close to the
walls and docks of the city. Then the gravest
apprehension possessed people's minds, for disregard-
ing sage advice offered by wiser men, the Syracusans
had built no galleys, made no attempt at armament
wherewith to oppose the enemy, and were therefore
unprepared to defend themselves.
i86 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Yet strange to say the ten ships had soon passed
out of the harbour, and with them sailed away also
the fleet which had seemed so menacing and so
strong. Thereupon great joy reigned once more in
Syracuse. At this unlocked for removal of danger
many averred no harm from the Athenians need be
feared, that no notice need be taken of a haughty
message delivered by a herald from the deck of
the Athenian leader's trireme. If war had been the
intention, many averred, it would have fallen on
Syracuse then, when unprepared and entirely at the
mercy of her enemy. The danger, therefore, was
now past.
It is true that an act of hostility had been
committed and a handful of Athenians taken
prisoners when a party, landing in the proximity of
the Olympieion on the further side of the harbour,
liad been repulsed. But evidently the Athenians had
changed their minds, over-awed by the magnificence
of the city which stretched so far from the sea to
the heights above.
So the laughter and rejoicing of the crowded pro-
cession of the Syracusans in honour of the two
goddesses that day was doubly gay, gratitude for
deliverance from a grave peril increasing the en-
thusiasm which the religious festival evoked. It was
in this spirit that the throng approached the end
and aim of their pilgrimage — the Temple of the Dual
Deities, a monster fabric shining like marble in the
CYANE. 187
sunshine, and raising the peristyle of its lofty Doric
columns and heavy entablature in the clear autumn
air against a sky of deep blue. The temple was
the last of the many sacred buildings for which
Syracuse was so famed before reaching the surpassing
magnificence of the Olympieion beyond ; it stood at
the base of the sloping cliff of grey rock in the plain
which stretched from the high ground of Epipolai
to the waters of the Great Harbour.
In the midst of the procession, and decked with
garlands, was a group of girls, the fairest of all the
maidens in that city of beautiful women, girls who
had been chosen for their comeliness as well as for
their rank and virtue, to do greater honour to Perse-
phone. Chief among these was Cyane, the daughter
of Mara, a Syracusan Greek, who held high office
among the nobles of the land.
Cyane, now in her eighteenth year, even among
her companions, attracted the observation of the
bystanders, and created almost as great an interest
as the trophies and paraphernalia of the festival itself.
Tall and slim in form, with large blue eyes laughing
below curling lashes, the points of which were lost
in the dark eyebrows above, with a winsome mouth
that scarcely Concealed a faultless row of teeth, so
mobile with merriment was it, she well merited the
admiration of the crowd ever moved by things
beautiful. Her hair was of a rich brown colour, and
her complexion as clear as the water of that fountain
i88 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
from which she took her name. She eclipsed her
fellows in loveliness as a diamond the crystal in
brilliancy, or burnished gold the quartz from which
it comes.
The young man Lydias, standing by the roadside,
gazed at her with the rest, but with feelings more
intense, more defined. Lydias and Cyane had been
brought up together from childhood. But it was
only lately that Lydias had awakened to the know-
ledge that he loved Cyane. It was a mystery to
him that a yearning, now so strong, had but made
itself known to him within the last month or so.
That it had not was because no particle of coquetry,
not a trace of vanity was to be found in Cyane's
nature ; and because she had been so much a part
of his life from his earliest days that he had hitherto
regarded her in the light of a sister only. But that
he scarcely paused to consider. Both their mothers,
friends from girlhood, being dead, the two had been
thrown together, and depended on one another for
companionship ; and when Lydias' father was killed
in one of the many small frays between the Syra-
cusans and the Leontines, it was natural that the
boy should find a second home in the house of
Mara.
Cyane on the contrary was not in any way in
love with Lydias, nor was she until lately aware
that his feelings for her had undergone so great a
change. Dark, with a thick-set sturdy figure de-
CYANE. 189
noting" physical strength, with black hair curling over
a low forehead, an aquiline nose and bushy eye-
brows meeting over small brown eyes, Lydias was
not one to attract a young woman's fancy. Added
to that he had not paid her any marked attention,
being inclined towards an easy indolent life, taking
his share in the frivolities and luxurious existence
in which the upper classes and the young nobles of
Syracuse indulged freely.
When the procession had halted a little short of
the temple to allow its leaders to enter the edifice,
the din of revelry somewhat abated. Curiosity had
overcome all other feelings for the moment.
By the side of the road, and withdrawn from the
approaching procession for greater safety, a small
detachment of Syracusan soldiers rested. They were
in charge of a half-dozen or more of Athenian
prisoners, who had been captured when their galleys
had entered the Great Harbour, and who, imprisoned
for a time within the precincts of the Olympieion,
or Temple of Olympian Zeus, were now being
escorted to Syracuse to be handed over to the proper
authorities and dealt with as their fate might be
determined.
The crowd of merry-makers, like children in their
search for amusement, could not allow so novel and
appropriate an occasion to be lost for sallies of wit
and boisterous as well as caustic remarks. Many
went further and loaded the captives with taunts
190 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
and menaces. The Athenians, dejected and wounded,
heeded not the insults heaped on them. They were
listening intently to words of encouragement, which
one of them, a youth, and seemingly accepted as
their leader, was addressing to them. When the
latter ceased speaking the prisoners turned to the
holiday-making Syracusans, and silently gazed upon
them and the doings of the day.
It so happened that when the procession had
halted, Cyane was within a short distance of where
the Athenians stood. She heard the words of ex-
hortation spoken by their leader. With that
gentleness of nature which was one of her chief
characteristics, she rebuked her companions for
mocking the captives ; she was sorry for them, as a
gentle nature would be sorry for the few tormented
by the many. Thus she drew the attention of the
Athenian youth, who, attracted by her beauty, gazed
long and kindly upon her. Their eyes met.
Cyane in her youthful enthusiasm saw before her
a face which, sleeping or waking, was never to fade
from her memory. To her it was as if she looked
upon the divine face of the son of Latona, the Sun-
god, so regular its features, so great its beauty.
Clustering light hair hung thickly about a high fore-
head ; the eyes were large and blue as the sea itself,
with steady and penetrating gaze ; the mouth finely
chiselled, the profile of the pure Greek type. Yet
the greater charm of the face seemed to Cyane to
CYANE. 191
lie in something deeper and more lasting than per-
sonal comeliness of face and of form — for the young
Athenian was also tall and shapely — there was that
in the expression of eyes and mouth alike denoting
power of will and firm resolve, and withal a refined
nature and noble character which irresistibly
attracted.
Unconsciously Cyane made mental comparison be-
tween the stranger as she now saw him and Lydias,
with his dark sallow complexion and self-indulgent
and indolent character. Girl as she was, her womanly
instinct told her intuitively wherein the two differed,
and why the one had moved her at once while the
other never had. That was but a momentary thought,
a passing reflection which came quickly as it was
rapidly banished from her mind. Yet she could not
withdraw her eyes from those which now gazed fear-
lessly into hers. She saw in them something new,
something remote from her life heretofore, a menace
and a danger perhaps, but at the same time a light
which seemed to kindle in her heart suddenly an
unknown warmth, begetting a yearning for a happi-
ness undefined.
As the crowd pressing from behind forced her
and her companions to move slowly towards the
temple, she recalled herself with an effort to the
reality of her surroundings from that short dream
in which she seemed to have lost herself momentarily
in a new world suddenly opened. Even then her
192 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
eyes remained fixed on the young man's face, and
they sought the ground in confusion only when a
deep blush rose to her cheeks, coming with the
fuller knowledge that something strange had now
mysteriously and suddenly entered into her life. As
she walked she knew instinctively that the eyes of
the young Athenian followed her.
Thenceforth the events of the day were as nothing
to her — the shouting, the laughter, the joking, the
merry-making of the Syracusans, even the solemn
ceremonial in the temple made no impression. She
had but one wish, one desire- — to break away from
her companions and the noisy crowd, to be alone
with her thoughts and the image of that fair face
with pleading eyes, which her imagination conjured
up incessantly and persistently held before her.
CYANE. 193
CHAPTER II.
Cyane'S early years had been uneventful. Life for
a young girl in Syracuse was far removed from
stirring events. The thirst for domination and in-
crease of territory, which, alike at Athens as at
Syracuse, was a disturbing element, failed to alter
the even tenour of her existence. "Even the recent
attack on Leontinoi, to be followed by such dread
consequence in the immediate future, failed to dis-
turb the pleasant monotony of her days. Political
jealousy, always rife inside the walls of the city, left
a maiden such as she untouched. Storms of party
striving might rage, the people might endeavour to
wrest power and wealth from the rich, the rich oppress
the poor, but Cyane remained unconscious except
for the signs of disquietude or concern that her
father, Mara, returning from the discussion of public
affairs, might show. Even the warnings of the great
Hermokrates, whose renown as statesman and patriot
was acknowledged by all, meant nothing to her.
What mattered it if Hermokrates preached danger
from Athens, or Athenagoras, his opponent, scoffed
at his preaching?
13
194 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Cyane was queen in her own little realm within
the walls of her father's house in the noble quarter
of Achradina. There she reigned supreme, and she
had as little leisure as of inclination to occupy her-
self with affairs that lay beyond. Her father, whose
only child she was, was deeply attached to her and
seldom thwarted her desires. Lydias, the adopted
son of the house, humoured her whims and fancies.
Both were her willing subjects, and naturally the
rest of the household, men and women slaves,
followed the example of their superiors.
Among the many servitors in Mara's house two
were attached to Cyane — Baubo, who had been her
nurse and attendant since her birth, and Dion, a
man-slave belonging to Lydias, who more by his
sourness of temper than by other special virtue had
risen to something hke a position of trust in the
household of Mara.
Baubo was Sikelian by origin. She had been born
among the mountains in the centre of Sicily, and by
accident only had been brought to Syracuse from
her mountain home, a prisoner in one of the many
fights between the old inhabitants of the soil and the
Syracusans. Middle-aged, short and round of figure,
she had a kind face with large dark eyes. Promi-
nent cheek-bones marked her Sikel origin, and
malaria and sun combined had tinged her com-
plexion to a brownish yellow.
Dion, a .Syracusan Greek, was tall and very thin ;
CYANE. 195
he had a long nose ending in an upward curve, and
ears which protruded at right angles from the head.
Small eyes, that never rested on any object long,
denoted a character differing from that of the homely
nature of his fellow slave. Dion, indeed, was cun-
ning and reticent, his thin lips denoting the bad
temper for which he was known and feared. He
was not an agreeable person either in looks or dis-
position, and his appearance was further marred by
complete baldness, which he sought to hide by wear-
ing a Phrygian cap, without which he was never seen.
The two slaves were at work together a week or
so following the festival of Demeter- already recorded.
" What ails the girl ? What ails Cyane ? " asked
Dion of Baubo, pausing in his occupation. " Some-
thing lies heavily on her mind, for naught else could
take the laughter from her eyes, and the smile she
has for all who serve her."
Dion had to repeat the words, for he received no
reply. Had he noticed a gesture of annoyance which
his companion made, as if she resented the question,
he might more wisely have kept silence, or chosen
another topic of conversation.
" Some flowers close at night," Baubo replied
vaguely, seeing an answer was expected. But as
Dion was not content with so general an answer,
and was about to put the question again, she added :
" Your looks, ugly as they are, are your own to dis-
cuss if you wish ; leave those of others alone."
13*
196 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
The woman was vexed he should have noticed
what she hoped she alone had discerned. Jealousy
made her resent that others should have a share in
her mistress' life.
Dion smiled in his own peculiar way ; that is, his
lips curled into a feline expression which was his
best attempt at showing satisfaction. He saw he
had touched upon a tender spot and was pleased.
He and Baubo systematically disagreed and con-
tradicted each other. They had drifted uncon-
sciously into those relations. There was scarcely
an hour of the day in which the two were not
quarrelling, yet he was far from disliking his fellow
slave.
" As for looks, I would rather be myself than like
a goldfinch," he retorted.
" A goldfinch ? " the other queried. She also
scented danger, but could not restrain her curiosity.
" The bird has a pretty note anyhow," she returned
offhand.
" I said a goldfinch ; it is all brown and yellow."
Dion shot his bolt to some effect, for Baubo, who
knew he referred to the colour of her skin, which was
a sore point with her, bridled perceptibly.
" A brown skin is better than a pumpkin for a
head, and reeds taken from the Anapos for legs,"
Baubo rejoined hotly.
Dion, like many ill-tempered people, could keep
his temper when others lost theirs, though the allu-
CYANE. 197
sion to his baldness, which the mention of the
pumpkin suggested, was almost more than he could
bear. He did not mind about his legs being held
up to ridicule, for if long and thin they were at least
useful in getting over the ground, as he often said
complacently. But the want of hair on his head
was a sore subject, and his pale face reddened with
suppressed rage.
" May the Furies tear out your malignant tongue,
and the gods hurl thunderbolts at you," was the
angry retort.
Baubo's vexation cooled as Dion's increased.
" As for the gods, they will heed you as little as
you heed them, since you say you have no belief in
them. For the Furies — I'll take my chance, although
you know more about them than I do, since certainly
they suckled you when young. Maybe the bitterest
tongue will be the first to be taken," she rejoined.
Baubo had the best of the discussion. Dion was
silent, but not beaten. He had yet a Parthian shot
that never failed in effect ; he used it seldom that
its full force should be maintained.
" Then may the Evil Eye rest upon you and blast
all your hopes," he cried, " may the "
" Silence, speak not of that Thing here," shrieked
the woman, now beginning to be seriously alarmed,
and relinquishing all thought of continuing the duel
of words. She was deeply steeped in supersti-
tion, and, like all Sikels, had unlimited belief in the
198 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
malevolence of the Evil Eye. The mention of it was
to her fraught with menace of unknown peril.
But Dion saw his advantage and craftily pursued it,
being well aware of Baubo's weak point of defence.
He knew that in the small room which was retained
for her private use in Mara's house, there was a
strange collection of charms and such objects as
were held to counteract the far-reaching influence
of fascination, or baskania, the common name by
which it was known. He had seen them himself ;
and he, sceptic as he was of what others held sacred,
and, indeed, of all things not intimately connected
with his own primitive and selfish mode of living,
wondered greatly and with much contempt at the
woman's credulity. Here was a proper and never-
ending opportunity of paying off old scores — the
sum total of much rancour resulting from differences
of opinion, petty jealousies, and constant conflict of
interest and favour.
" So it was to charm nway the Evil Eye that I
saw you in hot pursuit of a locust in Epipolai the
other day," he said. " Your short legs had a long
chase after the nimble insect. Did you catch him ? "
Dion's query was only meant to annoy, as he knew
that his companion had brought the locust home and
had nailed it to the wall of her room above the
mattress on which she slept.
Baubo's only answer was to spit upon the ground,
and to instinctively point the first and little fingers
CYANE. 199
of a closed hand at him. She frowned heavily and
would have fled, but she could not bring herself to
acknowledge defeat, nor allow Dion to boast of so
signal a victory. Yet she neither wished to nor
could deny the truth of his scoffing, for she was
aware that he knew on the walls of her room were
hung many charms, acquired in one way or another
on account of that curious superstition which pos-
sessed her. Her collection was a varied one, indeed.
Among other things were shells of a peculiar shape
joined together in chains, and which she often wore
round her neck. A large drawing of a human eye,
roughly drawn by an inexpert hand in charcoal, faced
the stranger on entering ; the dried body of a ser-
pent dangled in a corner. Rough images in clay
resembling a raven, crow, crane, a lion and a scor-
pion were lying about, and with them quaint
nondescript figures where the head of a man would
surmount the body of a horse carried on legs of a
bird. There were also two-headed beasts, crescent
moons, a small branch of coral or two, figures of
hands in terra-cotta, a dried lizard — a veritable
museum of weird things, in fact, strangely filling the
small apartment.
Yet it must be owned Baubo had not thought of
herself only when getting together so curious a
collection of charms and amulets. Her main object
was to avert evil from the person and home of her
beloved mistress, Cyane. Of that Dion was aware,
200 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
and, satisfied that he had turned the tide of war in
his favour, resumed his work complacently. Baubo,
on the verge of tears, sought her room.
What Dion had said to Baubo was true: Cyane
was ailing ; something lay heavily on her mind.
The glad lightsome nature of the girl had changed
suddenly ; her gay moods, which had made the
house of Mara one of frolic and laughter, had given
place to moodiness and reserve. A shadow had
crept within the walls.
Mara, the father, was too much occupied with
public affairs to notice his daughter's altered condi-
tion. He was one of the followers of Hermokrates,
and shared his leader's anxiety as to the result of the
war with the Athenians which now was certainly
inevitable. Such a danger was enough to engage
any thoughtful mind seriously.
But both Dion and Baubo not only took notice
of, but each pondered over it in a way peculiar to
each other. Baubo was convinced that Cyane had
been fascinated, or " overlooked " by one possessing
the Evil Eye. There was a dark cloud overhanging
her, eclipsing the sunshine of her nature and chilling
the genial warmth of her spirits: nothing more.
What could it mean but that Cyane had been
bewitched? She had often told her young charge
she was unwise in constantly speaking of the happi-
ness that surrounded her. Those who boasted of
happiness were chiefly the victims of the hidden
CYANE. 201
influence. As for Baubo herself, she would rather
have vowed defiance to all the gods of her native
land and Greece combined than have admitted at
any time that the state of her own health was any-
thing more than tolerable, that existence was little
less than irksome and suffering. She had had a
horrible fear of exciting the anger of those many
unknown but ever present beings, who jealously lie
in wait to destroy the happiness of mortals ; and
she would not put herself in their power.
Dion, on his side, though puzzled, had a particular
theory concerning Cyane's state. His intellect was
as sharp as that of his fellows, sharper indeed ;
besides, he was obser\^ant and inquisitive. His
curiously shaped nose, one of the danger signals that
Nature provides for the safety of others, could but
belong to a meddlesome disposition. He made a
shrewd guess at the nature of Cyane's ailment, and,
unable to divine the cause, set himself to the task of
discovering it.
202 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER III.
Cyane was in love. Among the crowd which hurried
to do honour to the Great Mother and her Daughter
that day some weeks ago was one, a mischievous
curly-headed boy, invisible and unacknowledged, yet
active as ever, with bow strung and quiver full, who
planted a dart unerringly in the heart of the young
girl. It was, of course, at the moment when the
eyes of the wounded Athenian youth held those of
Cyane in steadfast gaze. Since then, though life
had some exquisite moments for her, the days were
mostly passed in sore doubt and perplexity. At first
she could not understand. She rebelled at the subtle
power that impelled her thoughts always towards a
man, a total stranger, whose name she knew not, nor
anything concerning him save that he was an
enemy. In that last thought lay a sting sharp and
remorseful. What right had she, a Syracusan, priding
herself on her origin, loving the land of her birth ;
daughter, too, of a man whose patriotism was pro-
verbial, to think with affection of an avowed enemy
of Syracuse ?
She had heard the protests and execrations at
CYANE. 203
the action of the Athenians, their gratuitous aggres-
sion and cruel cupidity. The scorn shown by her
countrymen at the reputed cowardice of their foes
when the fleet had sailed away after entering the
Great Harbour, had now given place to a deeper
feeling among them. And now it was known the
enemy, instead of abandoning the enterprise, had
but withdrawn to the neighbouring Katane, and was
preparing to carry out the threat of invasion, the
intention of reducing Syracuse to a dependency of
Athens which Hermokrates had long discerned
Cyane, with the rest, shared the bitter indignation
and hatred of her fellow citizens. How could she
then be attracted by one who had struck the first
blow at the liberty of her home ? she asked herself.
She could hardly admit the truth of such a possibility,
and still less to her father, whose rage against Athens
was iiiappeasable, and daily growing in intensity.
And what of Lydias .? She had divined within
the last week or so that his feelings towards her had
greatly changed. Instinctively she knew that he re-
garded her with different eyes than heretofore ; that
his thoughts were centred on her; that her actions
were more closely scrutinised by him. She perceived
he sought her companionship more frequently, offered
little services which before had been ignored — in short,
she was aware, with that knowledge which came from
her own state of feeling, that Lydias yearned to be
accepted as her lover.
204 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
This was an additional pang. Warm-hearted and
affectionate to those about her, the thought of inflict-
ing pain was abhorrent, and she knew she could not
rightly accept the offer of her adopted brother's hand
if it were made. To refuse would be a source of
infinite pain. That, too, would displease her father,
who would, she also was aware, have gladly wel-
comed a marriage between her and Lydias.
So with the dnys the doubts and difficulties to which
Cyane was a victim increased within Mara's house,
as greatly as they also did beyond in Syracuse
itself.
Finally the dreaded moment came when Lydias
declared his love for Cyane and asked her to be-
come his wife. She did not give an answer at once.
She pleaded for time to consider.
Then began the real battle within her ; the
tussle between her inclination and v^-'hat she thought
her duty to those she loved. Her cheeks grew pale,
her misery great. Her health was visibly more
suffering.
Baubo, her old nurse, was much disturbed. As
Cyane's condition got worse she was more assured
than before that magic was at the root of Cyane's un-
happiness. She consxilted the oracles of all the gods
in turn ; she prayed at all the temples. She fre-
quented groves to see whether the trees would give
answer to her queries ; she would sit on the bank
of the pool of Cyane, the nymph, to watch if the
CYANE. 205
motions of the sacred fish would give any indication
of the truth. She would prostrate herself in the
temple of Persephone, looking- for a sign from the
goddess herself. Her few precious treasures were
willingly sacrificed. She would have given her life
to detect the cause and to find the remedy for her
beloved mistress' malady. All in vain.
Then one day when she least suspected it she
was rewarded. Mara had taken his daughter to wit-
ness the performance of the play " Hippolytus " by
Euripides, in the hope of rallying her from her despon-
dency, and Baubo accompanied them. Cyane, sad,
dejected, and immersed deeply in thought, had been
indifferent to the play and to things around her.
At first she paid no heed to the words of Hippolytus,
of Aphrodite and Artemis, the goddesses. It was
only when in answer to the question, " Canst thou
not force her, then ^ Or think of ways to trap the
secret of the sick heart's pain," and when the old
nurse of the lovesick Phaedra plies her with ques-
tions, finally surprising the secret of her mistress' ill-
placed love for Hippolytus, that Cyane roused herself
suddenly, showing infinite distress.
Baubo, watching her closely, then guessed that
forlorn love in Cyane's own heart was the cause
of the ill, and the rest was easy.
That night, as she was preparing Cyane for bed,
the girl, clinging to her old attendant, in answer to
a few adroit questions told all there was to tell —
206 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
her love so carefully concealed and for that the more
fondly nurtured.
Baubo was at first overwhelmed with the know-
ledge. She was well aware of Mara's stern conception
of duty, of Lydias' devotion, of the many other
difficulties which made it hopeless her mistress*
wishes could be realised. She saw it was manifestly
her duty to all concerned to show the uselessness of
the girl's passion, to make a bold attempt to redeem
her thoughts from so unhappy a love ; but she made
the mistake of depreciating the object of it
" I have heard of the young man you speak of,"
she cried. " A sorry youth indeed. Ariston by
name, who said he came from Athens, but he was
surely a Thracian, or one of those barbarians who
live beyond the land of Greece. His wound was
cared for by Dion's step-brother as he lay a prisoner
in Syracuse. He is gone. Think no more of him."
Cyane started violently. She now heard for the
first time the name of the man she loved. She had
been too much overcome by what she had thought
to be her folly to make any enquiries on her own
account concerning him. She had feared any con-
fidences, and kept silence.
" Is he then dead .? Were his wounds so bad that
he died ? " she asked tremulously.
" Dead ! " echoed Baubo. " Not he. After he had
been kindly treated and was cured of his wound —
a sword thrust in the thigh of no great moment —
CYANE. 207
he gave his keeper the sHp, and maybe now is floating
in the sea with his face nodding to the stars, for
it was to the sea he took when pursued, and not a
sign of him was seen again. Surely Father Poseidon
has him for company, and the Nereids now tend
him."
" Did he leave nothing behind ^ Did he say
nothing to those who nursed him ? " asked Cyane
through her tears, which began to flow afresh. Her
heart ached for some definite information of one who
never left her thoughts.
" Nothing I know of. Not likely he should since
he brought nothing with him, the rascally fellow.
Thieves who come after other folk's goods don't
bring much in their train to leave behind," was her
answer.
Baubo left her mistress after vain endeavours to
soothe her. She had answered her questioning thus
roughly in accordance with the dictates of prudence,
as she thought that the sooner Cyane could dismiss
the young Athenian from her mind the better it would
be for all. But at the same time her heart bled for
her, moved, perhaps, as much by sympathy as by
romance and love of intrigue inherent in her nature.
She intended therefore to make further enquiries
about Ariston privately, for the latter part of the
tale concerning him was untrue, an invention of her
own. Ariston, cured of his wound, had escaped.
That was certain. It was thought he had success-
208 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
fully joined his fellow countrymen at Katane. She
would help Cyane if she could. She swore it to
herself. But at present she would say nothing.
The only source Baubo could tap for information
was Dion, for his step-brother, to whom the cure
of the sick Ariston had been entrusted, was now
employed beyond the city watching the movements
of the Athenians.
She was very loth to take Dion into her confidence,
however. It would be showing too much deference
to consult him ; and then she doubted whether, as
the slave of Lydias, he could be trusted. In all things
connected with Cyane Baubo was jealous. She
would not allow anyone had a right to share her
intimacy with her mistress. Certainly not Dion.
But to Dion she felt herself forced to go. She
must know Ariston's fate at any cost for her mistress'
sake. It was a delicate matter requiring diplomacy,
of that she was well av^are, for Dion disliked direct
questions. He never answered them. His cautious
nature told him that if a question was put a reason
prompted the putting, and that that should be ascer-
tained before replying ; on such occasions he was
either silent, or he answered by another question —
which was annoying and sometimes embarrassing.
The woman was perplexed.
" If only he were ill," sighed she, " I could manage
him better. He is more amenable when he has aches
and pains and comes to me for relief."
CYANE. 209
But Dion was in florid health, and wanted no help,
no decoction such as Baubo was famed for making.
Summoning- up her courage she made up her mind
to sound him. She chose an unlucky moment. A
gust of wind had blown off his Phrygian cap in the
street as he climbed the hill from Ortygia to Mara's
house, and little boys had followed him laughing at
his bald head. Despite his long legs they had eluded
his pursuit and vengeance. He was out of breath
and very angry.
Baubo was unaware of that. She saw he was in
an irritable mood, but as he always was she did not
hesitate to speak.
" What news from Ortygia to-day .' " she hazarded.
" What news should there be } " was the surly
answer.
" What of the war do they say down in Ortygia .'' "
Baubo repeated, unabashed. She thus hoped to bring
the conversation round diplomatically to the Athenian
prisoners.
" Women who ask questions can best supply their
own answers," was the querulous reply.
Baubo was not to be beaten thus. If she had
only her own interest at heart she might have de-
sisted, leaving Dion alone to recover of his bad
temper. But this was Cyane's business, and she must
make a further effort. She repeated the question,
not without misgiving.
Dion's fixed look of discontent with the world in
210 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
general relaxed. Here was something new : Baubo
interesting herself in politics and affairs of state when
it was her rule to occupy herself only with her
domestic business, her superstitions, and the tittle-
tattle of the house ; it meant more than met the eye.
What was it ? He meant to find out, so he led her
on.
" Well, they do say the Athenian ships are at
Katane," Dion replied slowly.
As this was a fact that had been known by both
for some time past, it was not encouraging to Baubo ;
but she persevered, asking this time boldly :
" What of those prisoners captured on the day of
the feast of the Great Mother .? "
" Why ! what of them ? They were shut up,
weren't they ? "
" What happened to them ? Some of them escaped,
did they not .'' " pursued Baubo persistently.
Things were drawing to a point. Dion remem-
bered that Baubo had been present when his step-
brother had brought news of Ariston's escape, when
he had bewailed his fate in her presence, saying that
he would be punished for failing in his duty. Dion
recalled how she essayed to comfort him, saying that
the loss of one prisoner only could not be so grave
a matter. What was the cause of Baubo's present
interest apparently centring in the one escaped
prisoner therefore .' She had a special reason for
wishing to know. He was bound to discover it.
CYANE. 211
According to what his step-brother told him,
Ariston, the prisoner, was unHke others he had had
in his care. He was very silent ; had made none of
the complaints which prisoners invariably made. He
had lost all the gaiety which first seemed to possess
him. When he got better of his wound he scrawled
verses on the soft stones of his prison walls with a
pointed piece of iron ; that was his only amusement.
After he had escaped, the cell in which he had
been confined had been examined, and all the words
inscribed were found to be on the subject of a great
and overpowering love. A small piece of papyrus,
swept to a corner, was also picked, up, on which had
been written an adieu in passionate words to one
unknown. Ariston then loved somebody devotedly,
and he wished to have the poor satisfaction of
leaving behind an adieu to the beloved one. That
piece of papyrus was in possession of his step-brother
yet. Dion remembered all that, and thought he
would like to know more. Continuing his train of
thought he argued the object of the Athenian's
devotion could only be in Syracuse — Ariston would
not have written and left a fond farewell to one to
whom he might fairly hope to be reunited by escaping.
Dion, though illiterate, determined to possess him-
self of that piece of papyrus ; it might give him a
clue as to whom it was addressed.
But why was Baubo so interested in the matter ?
He was puzzled. Was she in love with Ariston ? He
14*
212 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
looked at her round squat figure, her yellow face,
and his lips took the upward curve already noted,
without any corresponding gleam from the eyes.
That facial distortion recalled the grin of a skull.
No, certainly Ariston could not have addressed words
of love to her.
" You have been dreaming some of your dreams,
Baubo ? " he queried casually.
This was an attack on the flank, which somewhat
disconcerted the woman. She was an unfailing be-
liever in dreams, and in her weak moments had
sometimes referred to them and the difficulties into
which they led her.
" Maybe I have," was her retort. Then seeing a
possible opportunity of arriving in that manner at
the information, she continued : " And if I have, what
matter } I may wish to know if my dream is true
or not."
" Say on," said Dion. He did not believe her, but
thought she might betray herself by talking. " The
last dream you had made you look for a sunken
treasure on the Little Harbour, and a crab caught
you by the toe as you groped about in the water," he
ventured.
Baubo sniffed, but restrained her indignation ; as
the tale was true it was not worth while to deny it.
Then she was wise in her own conceit, and recounted
a dream which was the opposite to what she desired
to have confirmed. She knew Dion well enough to
CYANE. 213
anticipate he would deny the truth of any dream of
hers, and in the heat of argument, perhaps, betray
the reason for denying.
" I dreamed that all the Athenians were killed in
their attempt to escape. Is that true ? " she said.
But Dion was too wary to commit himself.
" May be yes, may be no — anyway they deserved
the fate if it be so," he remarked.
Baubo's southern passionate nature was too ex-
asperated by the man's feigned indifference for further
diplomacy, and she blurted out, " Tell me, man, I
must know what became of Ariston for the sake of
my mistress. You must speak."
Dion's lips again curled upward. He had learnt
why Baubo wished to know of Ariston's fate, and
obtained his knowledge without giving the required
information. He was pleased in his unpleasant way.
He got up, pulled the cap firmly over his bald head
and went out, leaving Baubo in tears, greatly worried
that she should have betrayed her mistress' confidence
thus.
214 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER IV.
Though Cyane's confiding in her nurse brought
her some degree of comfort, the inteUigence of
Ariston's death redoubled her grief. Vainly she
struggled to summon resolution to her aid, arguing
with herself on the folly of a love, which, absolute
as it was, must now go unrequited. How strange that
love of hers ! How great the power which first had
borne her to a new world, a vast field of sweet-scented
flowers, wherein her fancy danced with rapture to
the music that was in her soul ; and then to a dense
thicket of tangled wounding thorns from which there
was no escape except to an arid wilderness beyond.
Cyane, in her innocence, knew nothing of the
power of love to kindle the spark which ignites
both the flame that consumes as well as the light
that gives glory to life. But afterwards she knew,
for brooding suffering brings knowledge. That
steadfast gaze into answering eyes, that magic and
creative glance, with all that followed in its train,
was no longer a mystery ; for her love had sprung
into life and being thus. Of that she was sure.
Equally sure was she that in Ariston's heart love
CYANE. 215
for her dwelt also. She knew instinctively that his
love had gone out to her as surely as hers to him,
spontaneously and irrevocably. Such had been her
consolation in the bitterest hours of suffering, when
she feared she would never look into his eyes again.
Since Cyane had listened to the words of Phaedra
in the tragedy her doubt and perplexity had in-
creased. With what vividness she pictured to her-
self the scene of which she had been an eye-witness :
the front of the royal castle of Troezen with the
statues of the rival goddesses — ^Artemis and Aphro-
dite — on either side. But beyond and above all was
the pale and haughty form of Phaedra, the wife of
Theseus, on whom her attention had become rivetted
with the intensity born of a like suffering.
Irresistibly Cyane had seen herself as Phaedra,
with the queen's dejection, her failing health, the
segregation from her companions, the awful weight
of suffering caused by conscious deviation from
rectitude of conduct which was the secret of
Phaedra's undoing. In the innocence of youth, Cyane
found no mitigation of what she thought to be her
crime because she could not distinguish between
herself and the other.
Phaedra's first utterance of her guiltiness, " My
hand is clean; but is my heart, oh God?" found a
solemn echo in her own breast with no reassuring
answer. To herself she applied the words, " When
the first stab came, and I knew I loved, I cast about
2i6 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
how best to face mine ill. And the first thought
was to be still and hide my sickness." In vain
Cyane sought to find help in the queen's resigna-
tion, wherein she declares, " I would my madness
bravely bear, and try to conquer by mine own
heart's purity ; " rather was she haunted day and
night by her heart-broken lamentation, " I know not,
save of one thing, to die right soon. For such as I
God keeps no other boon."
Had Mara known more he would not have taken
his ailing daughter to a spectacle which, instead of
alleviating, aggravated her suffering to so great a
degree. Cyane now saw Phaedra in all her thoughts :
her own guiltiness in loving an enemy of her country,
as she called her disloyalty to Mara, to Lydias, and
to Syracuse, being equal in her mind to Phaedra's
crime.
To such a depth of misery did she reach that she
came to look upon herself as an outcast deserving
the fate of Ph^dra herself. Brooding over the
tragedy, and continuing in that frame of mind, she
asked herself repeatedly: what mattered her future
lot? She could no longer fight against fate, espe-
cially now she was face to face with the love of
Lydias.
Lydias was pressing for an answer to his demand
for her hand. He was shortly to join the army which
Syracuse was preparing with feverish energy to
oppose the Athenian invasion. The period for con-
CYANE. 217
sideration she had pleaded for was near its end.
He must have her reply.
Cyane's strength failed her. She knew she could
battle no longer. Life was dead to her, or that
better part of it which reflected her inner nature and
real self. If Lydias wished to take her as she was,
a cold, loveless woman, he might. She would not
refuse him. She could not face the further sorrow
of incurring her father's anger and causing Lydias
pain by her denial.
Cyane knew that Lydias loved her deeply. Every
day brought renewed tokens of it. But she would
be honest with him. She would not wed him allow-
ing him to suppose he had won her love. She would
tell him all : that her heart had been given to another
irrevocably. Then, if he still willed it, she would
marry him. What mattered it to her? He should
decide.
So a few days later, when Lydias renewed his
offer of marriage, she told him what she had to tell.
The sun was setting as they strolled together
through the walls of the Temenites to the high
plateau of the Temple of Apollo. Standing in front
of the edifice, they faced the land-locked harbour
below them, a peaceful scene with little to denote
either the present trouble of the man and woman
who looked upon it, or to suggest the coming strife
of men now so imminent.
Cyane spoke calmly and distinctly. She did not
2i8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
spare herself. Far from it. She pleaded her own
weakness, the magic of an overpowering passion.
She had not been able to hold out against one nor
the other. With downcast eyes she acknowledged
her sin of loving so helplessly an avowed enemy of
her country. She laid her heart bare. She kept
nothing back.
As she spoke she did not look at Lydias, but
gazed afar into the sunset sky as if v/hat she related
had been the tale of some other woman who had
done with life and all things connected with it.
Had she glanced at her companion she would have
seen his face grow darker and darker, big veins
start to his forehead, his eyes become bloodshot, his
jaw closely set.
As she finished what she had to say she added
mechanically :
" Take me if you will have such as I am. I give
you all I have, nought but my wretched body, for
all else within me is dead — stone dead."
A stern battle between right and wrong, between
the weak and the strong, between selfishness and
sacrifice, between great love and great pity, between
joy and grief, between the hope of the light and
darkness of his future raged within the man as she
spoke. The savage instinct of an untrained nature,
the promptings of his senses at the near fulfilment
of desire, demanded of him to secure what he had
come to look upon as his own, and there and then
CYANE. 219
to take the girl to his heart in spite of all she had
said.
There was a long silence. In her indifference she
looked not for the answer.
Then Lydias spoke tremblingly, but slowly and
distinctly. His face had lost the tense look of
jealousy, of desire, of savage impulse of a few
moments before.
" No, Cyane," he said kindly. " I cannot take
you thus. You must come of your own accord.
Some day perhaps you will come. We will leave
it so."
Cyane turned, looking into his eyes for the hrst
time for many days. The answer had at first filled
her with infinite wonder. Then the love and noble-
ness of the real man were understood. Unconscious
of the torture she caused, she laid her head on his
shoulder and wept: no longer tears of unutterable
despair, but of gratitude for the sympathy and help
she had found so unexpectedly.
220 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER V.
Events now followed which left no time for
thoughts of love on Lydias' part. Cyane, too, was
roused from her brooding grief.
The cloud which had hung over them with ever
increasing menace since the first appearance of the
Athenian fleet in the Great Harbour, burst with the
din and stress of war about Syracuse.
The Athenians had retired to Katane, as has been
seen, and there secured the alliance of its inhabi-
tants. The Syracusans, drawn to attack them there
with promises of help from within, arrived off the
walls by land only to find that the enemy had set
out at night for Syracuse by sea. When they reached
home again they found the formidable Athenian
armament, composed of nearly a hundred and a half
of ships and eight thousand men, had once more
entered the Great Harbour to encamp themselves in
a strong position beyond the river Anapos, in close
proximity to the fortified precincts of the Olympieion
— the temple of Zeus and the treasure-house of the
city.
The consternation of the inhabitants was at its
CYANE. 221
height. They had feared that immediate attack
would be made, men slain, and women captured
before the army marched to Katane could return.
All the fighting men had gone on that lamentable
expedition, and some days must elapse before they
could come to their relief.
When the day after the appearance of the
Athenians passed without attack ; when it was
seen that they were more intent on securing their
position, on drawing up their ships, and making
palisades, the spirits of the Syracusans rose. They
could not understand the tactics of the enemy, but
at least they had breathing time. Then they were
further relieved by the news that their own army
had been seen from the heights of Epipolai hasten-
ing to their help — that it would shortly arrive to
attack the enemy.
The assault was begun, and the battle raged
in the low-lying ground beyond the Temple of the
Great Mother, but fierce though the fight was on
both sides neither could claim a victory. Many
were the examples of great prowess, of personal
daring. During the combat the figure of a young
commander was seen among the Athenian ranks
wherever the fighting was thickest. Now it was
among the hoplites who occupied the centre of the
line of battle, then among the Argives on the right.
When the left — where were the slingers and archers
cr^showed signs of wavering, there the young man
222 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
was to the front. He was loudly acclaimed as he
passed from one to another part of the battle-field.
Even his foes regarded him with admiration, many
with awe ; he was fair to gaze upon, and in his
bravery and freedom from danger seemed to have
special protection of the gods. The Syracusans
knew not his name, but they called him Kallistos,
for he was comely. He became a by-word to them
for manly courage.
Later the Athenians, seeing that the winter was
near, and that in some respects they were inferior
in force, embarked and sailed for the friendly Naxos,
where they remained for the winter months.
Thus Syracuse, in her unprepared state, had not
only another escape from destruction, but was given
the opportunity of arming herself for the deferred
struggle, of negotiating the help which was to be
of such incalculable value in her need later on.
And thus was the undoing of Athens furthered
by procrastination once more. When the excite-
ment and more pressing sense of danger caused by
the presence of the enemy were removed, Cyane
sank again into the unhappy state which her
love-sick condition had caused. Nothing that Baubo
could do sufficed to bring back the smiles to her
face, the colour to her cheeks. She mourned for
her love as truly as a love-sick maiden had ever
mourned before. Her nurse suggested charms and
incantations as a remedy. She surreptitiously
CYANE. 223
brought philtres against ill-placed love, alleging that
they were but her own nostrums for the cure of a
passing indisposition. Seeing that they were of no
use she frequented the oracles more continuously,
and vowed vows to all the gods in succession if they
would deign to cure her beloved mistress. Soon
Baubo, for her fruitless anxiety, came to look as
sick and sorr}' as Cyane herself.
Dion, in the meantime, had not been inactive.
Possessed of the secret of Cyane's love for Ariston,
he was pondering how to turn it to his own advan-
tage. And here it must be said that he had no wish
to harm Cyane, to whom he owed no grudge ; but
neither did he desire to lose so go'od an opportiinity
of ingratiating himself with his master which he
thought the possession of the secret gave him. His
malicious nature, moreover, was not averse from
dwelling on the difficulties into which Baubo would
certainly fall for having betrayed her mistress'
confidence.
Dion had been perplexed how to utilise his know-
ledge. If he imparted his information to his master
incautiously, could he be sure not to get a beating
for his trouble? How would Lydias take the news?
More likely was it he would be angry than show
gratitude. Dion was like a man who has a valuable
jewel and is unable to dispose of it. He was of
course unaware of Cyane's confession to L)dias and
the latter's reply.
224 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Then suddenly the thought came to him: if he
could gain no material advantage by his secret, he
would at least use it in a way almost as satisfactory :
in a scheme of revenge against Baubo for the many
slights received at her hands. He thought out his
plan carefully. He would announce his determina-
tion to make Baubo his wife. He did not desire to
marry her ; and he knew that she was as far from
wishing it as he. That it was so, so much the better
he told himself. The greater repugnance on her
part the greater his diversion. He would certainly
make Baubo accept him as her future husband, and
he had the power in his hands.
Dion was well aware that Baubo would do or
promise anything to save Cyane from pain or trouble.
He counted on that ; and he rubbed his hands with
glee at the thought of the fine revenge he would
take when, having forced Baubo at last to consent
to his wishes, he would repudiate his proposal and
mockingly declare he had changed his mind. He
would hold over her the terror of the secret which
they shared until he had brought her humbly to his
feet. He chuckled at the thought.
After the departure of the Athenians, the doings
of those who had fought bravely on both sides were
freely discussed in Syracuse. The age of heroes
had not died out — or at least the pleasure iji heroic
CYANE. 225
deeds still existed, and their merits were appraised
with fairness. The ancient pride of race, the glory-
ing in noble deeds of old, the intense interest taken
in the heroes of the Mother-land of the Greek nation,
fostered, emphasised and immortalised by the poets,
were yet alive in Syracuse.
Thus it was that the acts of the young man known
as Kallistos came to be extolled above the others.
The name was in everybody's mouth, and it soon
reached the ears of Dion and Baubo.
Both those tried to ignore the fact that the
Kallistos spoken of was none other than he who
had been a prisoner and escaped — Baubo because
the knowledge that Cyane's beloved was yet alive
should be kept from her at all costs ; and Dion
because with greater perspicacity he saw in Ariston's
fame and near presence that the chance of Lydias'
suit with Cyane would suffer.
It was that dread on Baubo's part that made her
approach Dion. For some time, indeed ever since
she had had that last encounter with him in which
she had fared so badly, she had avoided his
company. It had not been difficult, because most of
her time was occupied with Cyane ; and Dion had
been serving his master, first in the field before
Katane, then in the fight by the Anapos, and subse-
quently in Syracuse itself, where Lydias was in
command of one of the quarters of the city.
But now events had happened, might be said to
15
226 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
be approaching a climax, when seeming indifference
could be of little avail, and it was necessary to hear
what Dion's intentions were. He had had sufficient
time in which to mature his plans, Baubo said to
herself, and no doubt his cunning mind and crooked
nature had resolved on some course of action.
Seeing Dion cleaning his master's weapons one
day she approached him, but not without misgiving.
This time she preferred to give him an opportunity
of opening the conversation, and she was not dis-
appointed, for Dion at once remarked:
" Fine doings here in Syracuse, Baubo, when the
enemies of our country are looked upon as heroes,
and people shout themselves hoarse about their
deeds. For my part, I would hang the lot to the
nearest olive-tree rather than suffer them."
Baubo understood he referred to Ariston. The
conversation was taking the right direction ; but she
did not like the soured way in which he spoke.
" Times are changed sadly," he continued. " It
makes me long to get away among the mountains
and settle down far from such doings." He lool-^ed
hard at her as he spoke.
" Among the mountains, indeed," she answered.
" What would you do there alone, with none to look
after you, you who have lived in a town all your life,
knowing nothing of tilling the ground or such
things."
" Scratching up a little earth, putting in a little
I
CYANE. 227
seed, scratching the earth a little more until the
corn is ripe to cut, require no great knowledge," he
resumed. " As for being alone, that I don't intend
to be. I shall marry."
" Marry ? " said Baubo, with a scream of laughter.
" Bald heads don't marry, nonc'll have them."
" Don't make too' sure," he rejoined. " I know
one who will have me."
" You don't," said she, surprised. There was more
interrogation than denial in her reply, for Dion's
look of certainty seemed to indicate a fixed pur-
pose. Besides, his impudent stare and leer about
the mouth warned her there was something more
than she could understand.
" I say I know of one who will ; or if she says
she won't she will be more foolish than women
m.ostly are," was the answer. " Look here," he said,
putting aside the sword he was cleaning, and rising
from the stool he sate on, " that woman is not far
off, and she wouldn't dare to say. No! "
" What ! You mean me ? " screamed Baubo in
amazement, raising her two hands together and
pointing to herself.
Dion nodded his head decisively.
" Never," was the rejoinder.
But Baubo changed colour.
Dion saw his advantage and continued : " That is a
far-reaching word, but it don't mean much after all.
You and I have a secret to keep ; it is better we
15*
228 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
keep it together, to make sure of one another, you
understand."
Baubo looked hard at Dion, her breath coming
in gasps. She thought he was in earnest.
" If Athene were to strike me dead with her spear
this instant I should still say ' Never,' and stick to
it," she screamed incoherently and in great trouble.
The more moved Baubo became, the more imper-
turbable Dion was.
" It has to be, on that I am resolved," he said,
standing his ground unflinchingly.
" What ! end by marrying a man with a head as
bare as a drop of water and legs like straws, after
the many chances given me," she continued, now
really frightened. Alas ! she tried her favourite
taunt without arousing his evil temper. It was a
bad sign. She was more of a match for him when
he was in a rage. When he was calm she was at
her worst, for her tongue was the unequal of his.
But she would not give in.
" If I say I'll die first, and mean it, what then ? "
she asked.
" You'll have to marry me," he replied, " and if
you will not promise that on all you hold most
sacred, your mistress Cyane's secret "
" Hush, hush, for the sake of the mother who
bore you," she sobbed hysterically. " Not that : her
secret must never be mentioned. I — I will give you
my answer to-morrow."
CYANE. 229
" You promise to do that without fail ? " Dion
asked, taking her roughly by the hand and
scrutinising her severely.
Baubo could only nod her head. " Let me go,"
she said. " I promise."
Dion went back to his work with a satisfied air.
He had begun well. He would have Baubo's answer
to-morrow. Of course it would be favourable to his
scheme. She was too terrified, she and Cyane were
too much in his power to refuse him. After that he
would begin that course of persecution of Baubo,
which would cause her so much trouble, him so much
delight. And finally he would cast her off, leaving
her the laughing-stock of her friends.
The following day Baubo with set purpose made
as if to avoid Dion. But he sought her and
demanded her answer. As he surmised it would be :
it was in the affirmative, given with reluctance, but
with a coyness which upset him. He was somewhat
ill at ease with women at all times, and whenever
they made advances he left them speedily. The
more timid Dion became the more tender Baubo
grew. She even tried to caress him. This was
more than he bargained for. He rose angrily and
left her.
It was Baubo's turn to smile. Pondering over
Dion's conduct of the day before, and the wish he
suddenly expressed with menace that she must marry
him — upsetting and alarming to her as the proposal
230 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
was — she had sense enough in her scared brain to
suspect that things were not as she understood them.
She knew something of Dion's character. Suddenly
the thought came to her that Dion could not really
wish to find a wife, still less to retire to the moun-
tains of Sicily to live in bucolic simplicity and con-
nubial bliss, because a country life and the society
of women were both distasteful to him. Of that
she was certain. What was then the reason of his
sudden proposal? What else but some scheme of
annoyance in which she was to be the principal
sufferer. The more she thought the more sure she
was of the true state of affairs, and she made up
her mind to meet him on his own ground of deceit,
and to fight him with his own weapons. That was
why she told Dion that she consented to become
his wife. For the sake of Cyane, her beloved mis-
tress, and her secret, which she considered should
be kept from the knowledge of all the world, she
would embark on the course of action she had
planned without regarding the repugnance which it
brought her.
CYANE. 231
CHAPTER VI.
In the spring of the following year the Athenian
army and their allies, for they had secured many from
Sicily, moved from Katane, where the Greek com-
manders, Nikias and Lamachos, had massed their
forces, and embarked on their ships heading towards
Syracuse.
Stopping in the Bay of Trogilos, which is short
of the promontory whereon the Acropolis of the city
is built, the troops were landed and hurriedly moved
to the rocky ground above and to the westward of
Syracuse, called Epipolai, occupying a point of
'vantage which was to be afterwards known to fame
as the castle of Euryalos.
It was there that the real siege of Syracuse began,
where the first blow in this second stage of the war
was struck.
The Syracusan forces had been called out by
their leaders, of whom Hermokrates was still the
chief, to be reviewed on the low-lying ground by the
harbour, not far from the spot where the engagement
had taken place in the preceding autumn. Un-
accountable negligence, bordering on folly almost
232 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
criminal, had caused the Syracusans to think more of
their review than of the movements of the Athenians
and their fleet. Thus their enemies fell upon them
before they were aware of their presence. The
peaceful review was turned unexpectedly into a hard-
fought battle.
Useless was the attempt of six hundred chosen
men ; and useless the attack of other troops who
followed them to dislodge the Athenians from the
strong position they occupied. The Syracusans were
repulsed and had to take refuge within the walls of
the city, leaving several hundred dead on the ground.
The following day the besiegers went as far as
the gates of the city, but as no sally was made they
marched back to their first position, and built a fort
on the top of the cliffs which border Epipolai on
the north side.
The intention of the Athenians, who were disin-
clined to risk an assault on the now considerably
increased defences of Syracuse, was to starve the city
to subjection. To do that they must stop all com-
munication with the land by means of a wall. Their
fleet was relied on to seize the supplies by sea. They
therefore began a wall which was to extend from
the waters of the Great Harbour on the south, and
mounting the hill of Epipolai reach to the sea on
the north. Thus they hoped to cut off the promon-
tory entirely. In order to complete the work they
built another large fort, circular in shape.
CYANE. 233
The men of Syracuse viewed with great conster-
nation an imprisonment which also meant starvation.
Popular clamour insisted on a sally. Again the army
proved inferior to the Greek, and they had to retreat
within the city. The only course for Hermokrates,
then, was to avoid further actions until reinforcements
should come ; and in the meantmie impede the con-
struction of the enemy's walls, which threatened to
turn Syracuse into a living tomb. This could be
done by making a counter wall at right angles to
the other.
The Athenians were occupied in their building to
the north of the circular fort. They were more in-
terested with malting sure of their communication
with the fleet for their own supplies, than in cutting
off those of the enemy at present. The Syracusans,
therefore, were allowed to run their wall from east
to west and across the line that the southern part
of the Athenian wall was intended to take later.
The Syracusans toiled and built, erected palisades
and built towers, even sacrificing in their haste and
anxiety the sacred olive-groves of Apollo.
Then another blow fell on Syracuse ; the under-
ground water channels were discovered, cut off, and
thirst was added to the terror of hunger. More was
to follow swiftly. The Athenians, watching for the
opportunity to undo what the Syracusans had done,
seized the wall, when the latter, too jubilant at having
accomplished their work, and thinking, perhaps, that
234 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the Athenian plan was frustrated, were off their guard.
The enemy not only possessed themselves of the
wall, but even penetrated within the gate of the
city itself. From the latter they were driven with
slaughter ; but they destroyed the Syracusan counter
wall, making use of its materials for the more speedy
prosecution of their own defences. So quickly did
that work advance that the Syracusans, hoping to
obstruct it, desperately resolved to attempt a second
entrenchment on the lower ground, starting from the
older fortification of the city. The ground was
marshy. A deep trench, filled with water, strengthened
by a palisade, was the result. But the Athenians
would not brook interruption. They descended from
the heights and drove the defenders off. Bodies of
Syracusans had issued both from the city and from
the Olympieion to give assistance, and the men
joined their comrades drawn up between the trench
and the Anapos. The Athenians thereupon attacked
them, and once again the Syracusans fled, some to-
wards the city, others towards the Olympieion. But
here the Syracusan cavalry well nigh changed the
chance of the day, for they charged the men sent
in pursuit, whom they overwhelmed, and followed
up their success by attacking the Athenian main
body, throwing it into confusion.
It was at this moment that the Athenian general,
the noble Lamachos, whose counsels had been
formerly neglected to the future undoing of the ex-
CYANE. 235
pedition, cut off from his men, except for a few of
his comrades, stepped forward and challenged Kalli-
kratcs, the leader of the opposing cavalry, to single
combat The challenge was accepted, and the two
fought. Both fell mortally wounded ; but by the
death of Lamachos, the ardent fighter and energetic
general, the Syracusans gained more than the
Athenians had won by the victory of the day.
Further consternation filled the minds of the
Syracusans. As they sought the security of the city
after their defeat they saw the Athenian fleet pass
the point of Plemmyrion and sail unmolested into
the Great Harbour. By land and sea alike w^ere they
now invested by a powerful and -implacable foe.
If increasing timidity and misgivings had been
before the lot of those who passed up and down
the streets of Syracuse restlessly by night and day,
asking for news, yet fearful of what they might learn,
dismay and mortal terror seized them now. The
blame which attached to themselves for their indo-
lence and lack of appreciating the manifest dangers
which threatened when they first heard of the
Athenian attack, they readily cast on their generals.
The noble Hermokrates, and the two who shared
the command with him, were deposed, and others
named in their place. But besides discontent, treason
also held in Syracuse — treason which favoiured the
Athenian schemes, had given them information of
plans, and now openly advocated peace at any price
236 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
with the invaders. Starvation, bloodshed, possible
slavery, stared the Syracusans in the face, were, in fact,
at their very doors. They found they had been over-
matched in skill, resources and generalship, and were
now brought to the lowest depths of despair.
Messages were forwarded to Nikias, now the sole
commander of the Athenian army, and in reply he
had demanded terms which wanted but a definite
answer of acceptance for the city to fall into his
power. A day would have sufficed to have raised
Nikias to a pinnacle of fame, his army to the proud
position of conquerors in an arduous expedition. But
that day never came. Nikias, sick in body, elated,
too, at the thought of victory, which seemed to be in
the hollow of his hand for the mere grasping, had
omitted to take all contingencies into consideration.
He failed to make the investment of Syracuse com-
plete ; to prevent assistance reaching the besieged
from outside, which, as he knew, was not unlikely to
arrive.
The morning of the day broke which should have
made Syracuse a vassal of Athens. The inhabitants
were assembling in consternation to hand over the
lil)erty of the city to her enemy. Grief at this levelling
of their pride, anxiety as to what their fate might
be, were written on the faces of the whole population,
except those who had plotted and planned for Athens
within the walls. An hour or two would have decided
their lot and sealed their future. But at the supreme
CYANE. 237
moment unexpected relief came. A ship arrived at
dawn causing a change in the outlook, as glorious a
change, indeed, as ever the sunrise brings to the
world wrapt in the gloom of night, carrying a message
of coming deliverance from the darkness of despair.
Men flocked to the Little Harbour where the ship
had anchored — the Greater Harbour was in the hands
of the Athenians. Nothing more was thought of the
message of Nikias demanding surrender as men
gathered about the galley. All tongues spoke only
of the speedy arrival of Gylippos, the Spartan, with
men and ships, who was now, at last, known to be on
his way to give the assistance for which the Syra-
cusans so long had yearned and were now so des-
perately in need of.
238 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER VII.
In the round fort on Epipolai built by the Athenians,
hard by the walls of the city, a group of Athenians
were sitting-, outside the tent of their sick commander
Nikias. Among the men whose dress and weapons
proclaimed them leaders was Ariston, the young
captive first seen outside the Temple of the Great
Mother, then heard of as having escaped from his
captivity in Syracuse, and subsequently known as
Kallistos.
An animated discussion was in course about the
recent battles, and especially the lamented death of
Lamachos, whose body, carried off by the Syracusans,
had now been restored to receive funeral honours.
But the thought that filled most men's minds was
that of their near return to Athens, for on all sides
it was thought the war was at an end, and nothing
was likely to occur to prevent the bulk of the army
from sailing for home.
Then the conversation turned to the unhappy result
of the embassies which Syracuse had sent to Sparta
and Corinth ; and the apparent inefficacy of the
pleading of Alcibiades, once one of the leaders of
the Athenian expedition to Sicily, now an outcast
CYANE. 239
from Athens on an invidious charge, and a declared
traitor to his country, in league with Syracuse.
" Even his eloquence was of no avail," remarked
one ; " though we have heard rumours of help from
Sparta at the instigation of Alcibiades, none has
come. Now it is too late, for Syracuse is ours."
" Ours, you say," rejoined Ariston ; " it seems likely,
and we shall certainly know now. There are our
messengers returning from the Syracusan Agora.
See, they have just issued from the gate," he added,
pointing to the adjacent wall of Tycha, the nearest
as it was then the highest quarter of the city.
" How came it about that our fleet did not intercept
that one vessel which put into the harbour the north
side of Ortygia," remarked an old warrior from the
island of Paros, " I saw her in the distance as soon as
the sky shot grey this morning. We seem to be too
lax in our guard, too sure of our prey."
" What," said another, " is one ship going to save
Syracuse ? " The others laughed.
The old Parian paid no heed to the mirth. Turn-
ing to Ariston, he said : " Since Lamachos died all
life seems to have left us. Even the walls both north
and south of where we stand are uncompleted. What
think you of that ? "
" It would be bad if there were chance of attack
from our rear, of help coming from Sicily," Ariston
answered. " It was only yesterday I spoke to Nikias
of it, asking why the stones are left unbuilt above
240 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the sea near Trogilos. It wants but little to com-
plete the work."
" What did Nikias say ? " pursued the Parian.
" That the Fates were with him, and further work
would be thrown away."
" I yet fear that image-breaker, Alcibiades," the
old man continued ; " the magic of his words has
wrought more havoc than the eyes of Helen."
" You speak truly," said another ; " and he is the
more to be feared since, having been commander
here along with Lamachos and Nikias before he was
summoned back to Athens to take his trial, his
knowledge of our plans would greatly harm us."
By this time the messengers from Athens had
reached the fort and entered Nikias' tent. The
others were summoned in council to hear the answer.
They crowded to the entrance.
" Syracuse rejects all terms, and will fight unto
death," was the unexpected reply.
Ridicule greeted this haughty defiance. The
Syracusans had scarcely justified by their deeds the
arrogant position they now took up.
Then it became known, also, that the ship which
had arrived that morning had brought tidings that
Gylippos, the son of Kleandridad, the Spartan, was
at hand ; that far from the war being ended, and
homeward the next move of the Athenian army, a
struggle more bitter far than what had been was
likely to follow. And so it happened.
CYANE. 241
Gylippos soon appeared storming- up the same path
by which Nikias and Lamachos had formerly led
their men, finding no one to oppose him. He marched
along the edge of the cliff, past the spot where the
north wall of the Athenians should have effectually
barred his progress, and there met the rejoicing
Syracusans, who issued forth in great numbers to
welcome him. Gylippos and his men encamped
within the walls of Syracuse the first night of his
appearance, and without any opposition on the part
of the Athenians. He assumed command of the
Syracusan forces.
What was Nikias doing ? The question may well
be asked.
The younger and warlike men like Ariston fretted
at the supineness of their leader, protesting that even
with the Spartan reinforcement they could well cope
with the undisciplined Syracusan levies. But Nikias,
suffering in health, remained within the walls of his
round fort, making no effort to attack Gylippos.
The latter immediately began his aggressive tactics,
captured by night the fort of Labdalon on the brink
of the cliff, putting the garrison to death. Gylippos
then resumed building the counter-wall which the
Syracusans had abandoned, running a new line due
west from the city on the high ground of Epipolai,
and thus prevented the Athenians finishing theirs
towards Trogilos.
The taking of Labdalon, the fort, was succeeded
16
242 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
by the capture of an Athenian trireme in the Great
Harbour — two successes which did something to
restore the low spirits of the Syracusans. The loss
of the trireme stirred Nikias into action and to per-
ception of the danger to which the fleet, anchored by
the southern wall, now tardily completed down to
the Great Harbour, was likely to be subjected. So
he detached men under the command of Ariston to
seize Plemmyrion, the headland at the mouth of the
Great Harbour, facing the island city of Ortygia.
This Ariston did without difficulty, for strategically
important as the site was, the Syracusans, as in the
case of Euryalos before, had neglected to think of
securing it for their own purposes.
Ariston built forts and entrenched himself, con-
tinuing in command of that position. The place
became not only a haven for the ships but a place
where the stores for the fighters on sea and land alike
were deposited.
He and his men were unmolested by the enemy,
who contented themselves by watching his movements
from the Olympieion below. The compai'ative quiet
from the unceasing watchfulness against attack, the
fighting and the hard work of building walls which
his former quarters on Epipolai entailed but a short
time previously, came as a welcome respite to^ Ariston.
He had leisure to turn his thoughts more often
to the beautiful girl he had seen surrounded by her
companions, who had unceasingly occupied his
CYANE. 243
thoughts during the time. Her face had haunted him
during his imprisonment, had ever accompanied him
in his perilous escape and flight towards Katane.
Now that he was back at Syracuse and was breathing
the same air as she, her features seemed to take a
yet more definite form in his mind, and the pcrsonahty
with which he had endowed her a more vivid reality.
Her image and the hope of meeting again were of
those few things which had helped him to endure the
grievous days of bondage in Syracuse. His dreams,
day and night, then, as they were now, were of the
soft pleading eyes, the tender look, and the re-
proaches with which she had rebuked those who
had scoffed at the prisoners of whom he had been
one.
During his imprisonment he had been able to learn
from his guards some information concerning Cyane.
One of his guards had been among those who escorted
him and his companions to Syracuse that day, and
he had told him her name and that of her father.
But he had gleaned little else save that she lived in
the upper quarter of the city called Achradina. It
was something he had learnt her name. That she
was his equal in station, noble by nature as well as
by birth, he knew; her face and bearing told him
that.
When the heavier work of the day was done
he would stroll alone to the point of Plemmyrion
to sit and gaze towards Achradina, where he
16*
244 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
longed to be. Around him were the cHffs, rugged
and twisted, with the sea sounding in the caverns
which it had hollowed out. Below were rocks and
small islands, detached from the headland by storm
and stress of weather, scattered at his feet. Before
him was the whole panorama of the three cities of
Syracuse. The sides east and west of Ortygia,
the triangular island with its elongated point
towards him, where three hundred years before
Archias, the Corinthian, had laid the foundation of
the present mighty Syracuse. Above the oldest city,
now crowded with houses and surmounted by
Athene's temple, rose the splendid houses of Achra-
dina — its eastern side bordering the sea. At its
north-western corner the buildings of Tycha stood
out against the sky, and below them Temenites, the
sacred enclosure of the Temple of Apollo, and further
to the left that of Herakles.
From his post of observation the Great Harbour
stretched at his feet, with the Athenian ships either
beached or at anchor immediately below him, and
the docks within the precincts of the city, where the
Syracusans nursed their growing fleet. The walls
his countrymen had made, the forts of Kyklos —
the circle — and of Labdalon he clearly discerned. To
his left the rivers Anapos and Cyane threaded the
plain, and behind towered the columns of the Olym-
pieion. All could be seen clearly.
But his innermost man was not in those places.
CYANE. 245
It was concentrated on one spot only — a large house
which stood out distinctly in Achradina, for that, he
had learnt, was Mara's house, and therein lived the
girl he loved.
One night late, when the young moon had set and
clouds were low, drifting before a land wind, and
when he had seen that the guards were set and that
nothing stirred in the plain, he waJked down the
precipitous path on the side of the cliff to the sea.
A small boat, manned by two trusted companions,
awaited him. Into that he got and pushed out from
the shadow of the land. Ariston had divested him-
self of his weapons except a short sword, and w^as in
the garb of a slave. The boat,, silently rowed, was
headed at first towards the centre of the harbour,
and when near the mouth of the river Anapos
turned at right angles and made for Ortygia.
Ariston gave his orders in a low voice : " Keep
the boat in a straight line with Athene's temple," he
said. " You can see the surmounting figure of the
goddess faintly in the night, and when near the shore,
if we are unperceived, beach her at the spot where
Alphasus and Arethusa send their waters to the sea.
I will land. You will then pull out towards the
centre of the harbour, and wait out of sight until
you hear the cry of an owl repeated three times ;
then come for me. If the first streak of dawn in
the sky finds you still waiting, tarry no longer, row
back to Plemmyrion."
246 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
His companions endeavoured to prevent Ariston
from hazarding his hfe by attempting to land in the
enemy's city. The Syracusans were sure to be on
their guard since GyKppos commanded them, they
said ; and even if Ariston landed the adventure was
full of danger.
Their remonstrance had no effect The boat
silently approached the city, which seemed to be
wrapt in the deepest slumber. Nobody was about
the far-famed waters of the fountain, and Ariston
landed unperceived. The boat was rowed from the
shore leaving him alone.
Perhaps not until that moment was the full danger
of the risk he ran perceived. He had been buoyed
up by the spirit of adventure ; he was young — im-
pelled by an ardent wish. Those had moved him.
But he was now face to face with the reality of the
situation, and might have to meet the consequence
of his daring at any minute. If discovered and taken
he would be executed as a spy. The Syracusans
would give him no quarter — of that he had no doubt.
Much must depend on his coolness ; much more on
his good fortune.
He had one thing in his favour: Syracuse was full
of Greek strangers, followers in the train of Gylippos,
and of several nationalities, for many had joined him
in the hope of personal advantage or profit. In the
streets of Syracuse, then, he might pass as a Spartan
or any one of the various races who had been accepted
CYANE. 247
as allies and received as guests in their struggle for
freedom.
Ariston hoped, too, that the encampment of
Gylippos, which was in the upper city of Tycha, would
attract the guard, or as many of them as could be
spared from their posts to hear the doings of the day,
the brushes with their opponents, the progress which
the building of the counter-wall was making.
In that hope he was not disappointed. He walked
unmolested along the wall bordering the Great Har-
bour, past the docks, and reached that which divided
the city of Ortygia from Achradina, near the Little
Harbour. Here he feared he might encounter
difiiculty in his progress ; but the gate was open,
and, though the guards were lounging about, he
passed through without hindrance.
Hurrying across the flat space whereon stood the
Agora, and where groups of people, even at that late
hour, were talking of the siege, he left the Little
Harbour on the right to mount the main street of
Achradina. At last he was within that quarter of
the city on which his thoughts had centred in many
weary days of waiting. He had to find the house
of Mara, the object of his adventurous visit.
It was not difficult. The habitation of the in-
fluential and wealthy Syracusan stood within its own
garden, and was readily discovered. He had but to
ask a passer-by once, and he found himself beneath
the walls.
24-8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Up to now Ariston scarcely knew what was the
real aim and scope of his hazardous adventure. He
was only conscious of an all-powerful desire to be
near Cyane, an irresistible impulse to bridge the
gulf that had separated them. Did he think
to see her.'' Had he put the question to himself,
his common sense would have told him he was a fool
for asking it. It was more than improbable that Cyane
or any in the house would be awake or abroad at so
late an hour. Yet as he reasoned thus with himself
fortune seemed to favour him. When he approached
the house he saw lamps were burning within, and he
heard the sound of voices. He crept nearer stealthily,
and listened. Circumstances forced him to be an
eavesdropper whether he wished or did not wish, and
he lay in the shadow of the wall listening to words
that reached him clearly.
CYANE. 249
CHAPTER VIII.
Then Ariston approached the house through a
deserted gateway. Notwithstanding the lateness of
the hour, its occupants were evidently far from sharing
the repose in which that quarter of the city was wrapt.
He heard voices in altercation.
" Then it is settled we ask our good masters for
permission to marry," said a woman's voice in-
sinuatingly.
" Ugh ! there is time enough for that," replied her
companion surlily.
" Not so much time for that matter, Dion, my sweet
one," was the answer in winning tones. " Where
Eros commands poor folk must obey."
" Eros, pooh, little has he to do with it."
" What ? do you pretend not to love me longer ? "
said Baubo, for it was she. " Already, maybe, the
mistress has spoken to the lord Mara, and to Lydias,
saying the matter is an old affair, love waiting for
many a long year. W^hy delay further ? "
"Umph!" was the sole rejoinder.
" Why wait until our hair be grey ? " pursued the
other, maliciously fixing her gaze on the baldness of
Dion's head showing below the Phrygian cap.
250 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Dion rose from his seat angrily, pushing aside the
stool on which he sate and pulling the cap lower on
his head.
" Wedding or no wedding, you will have tO' wait,"
he said angrily, as he left the room abruptly.
Baubo's intention was to carry affairs as far as
she dared short of actual marriage, and so com-
promise Dion that he would be glad to make terms
at any cost. It had come to her knowledge that
he had possessed himself of the papyrus on which
Ariston had traced in prison those lines tO' Cyane,
and she was determined to have it, partly because
it mig"ht deprive him of making a bad use of it, and
partly because it would give Cyane later great joy
to have a certain proof of Ariston's love. Baubo
was aware she could not hope to obtain the scroll
save under exceptional circumstances : to have asked
for it direct would have been tantamount to losing
it for ever. The faithful slave had now secretly
abandoned all her antagonism to Cyane's infatuation.
She could hold out no longer against her mistress'
sufferings. But her sympathy was of the silent
kind, waiting for an opportunity to assist, yet
prudently checking the access of grief to which
Cyane at times yielded.
Meanwhile Ariston, moving to a group of bushes
at a Httle distance, waited in doubt. Half an hour
or more passed, and he feared his adventure was
doomed to end in disappointment. Though burning
CYANE. 251
with desire to see Cyane, to hear her voice, he was
unaware how his wish could be accompHshed. In
Greek houses were few windows, and he dared not
penetrate within the walls, as no doubt the doors
were guarded.
All around was now still except for the chirp of the
cicala, and the hoot of the little owl. Occasionally
the far off challenge of sentinels on duty at the
city walls denoted that strife underlay the apparent
calm of the night, and that, with an implacable
foe at the gates of the beleaguered city, it
might be followed by a morrow of conflict and
bloodshed.
When it was forced upon his conviction that to
find his companions in the harbour as arranged he
should return without delay, the sound of approach-
ing footsteps was heard. He drew further within
the shade of the bay laurel under which he had taken
refuge. His heart beat violently, first with hope,
then with certainty, for now he listened once more
to the voice he had heard chiding others for their
gibes at himself and his companions by the Tempie
of the Great Mother — the voice which had haunted
him ever since. It was Cyane who approached.
She and Baubo were talking. The latter was
expostulating somewhat crossly with the other for
thus disturbing her rest.
" The roses will never again bloom on the fairest
cheeks in Syracuse, if you cheat yourself of sleep
252 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
thus," she said. " May misfortune ever befall the
luckless stranger who is the cause of it."
" I could not sleep, Baubo," was the answer.
" Something in the night calls me to the garden,
the house holds no repose for me."
" Tush ! it is the same old tale, no rest, no sleep ;
the moon and the stars for your companions. For
my part it is a dreary time to go wandering abroad
among the bats and owls."
" I would wander on for ever, as the Great
Mother in search of her beloved," Cyane rejoined :
" there is no peace for a heart which is sore as
mine."
" I have no patience with such thoughts," Baubo
answered vehemently. She was tired, and in no
mood for romance.
But Cyane took no heed of her companion's
remark.
" Yes, wander on until what is sought be found,
to rest by the side of the one beloved," she said.
" Do you remember what the Athenian poet has
sung of the longing of a weary soul ; we heard it
together not long since :
" Could I take me to some cavern for mine hiding,
In the hill-tops where the Sun scarce hath trod,
Or a cloud make the home of my abiding,
As a bird among the bird-droves of God !
Yea, beyond that Pillar of the End
That Atlas guardeth, would I wend ;
CYANE. 253
Where a voice of living waters never ceaseth
In God's quiet garden by the sea.
And Earth, the ancient life-giver, increaseth
Joy among the shadows, like a tree."
As if the Great Mother of Nature herself wished
to emphasise that comfort and hope in the future,
spoken of by the poet, softly and melodiously were
borne back on the still night air the words :
" Earth, the ancient life-giver, increaseth
Joy among the shadows, like a tree."
" What do I hear ? " said Cyane, clinging to Baubo.
" The night holds mysteries ; even the leaves echo
my words. There is some strange presence that fills
me with joy, yet alarms me. Surely it is his voice —
Ariston's, that I hear."
Baubo, who had listened disdainfully to her mis-
tress' declamation, had heard the repeated lines
too, and her superstitious fears mastered her. It was
the voice of the imprisoned Daphne, speaking from
the trunk of the tree, she told herself. In a flash
the garden seemed to her terrified imagination to
be peopled with evil spirits, beings — fauns, satyrs,
monads and the like, gathered together to bring
misfortune to them both. She screamed loudly.
At that moment loud distant shouts of warning
were heard afar. The cries were taken up near at
hand. The house itself was soon alive with move-
ment and alarm.
254 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Baubo caught Cyane by the arm and hurried her
towards the building as steps approached.
" It is an assault on the walls by the Athenians,"
she panted, forgetting her fright. " We must seek
the house at once to send our men to the hght with
food."
Ariston was again alone. To have followed Cyane
now would have been madness. He had satisfied
his longing to gaze upon her he loved, had even
listened to the sound of her voice. In that he had
been more fortunate than he had dared to hope.
But with the desire gratified, another and stronger
one came : to take Cyane in his arms, to press her
to his heart, his lips to her lips. He had been about
to spring to her side ; the cries of alarm and near
presence of men had alone deterred him. Sick at
heart, with a sense of bitter disappointment at a
joy snatched from him so suddenly, he remained a
time in his place of concealment until the continued
clamour of the call to arms brought to him a full
understanding of his peril. Moving from the shelter
of the bay-tree he hastily made his way to the
gate.
As Ariston gained the entrance, Dion, aroused by
the general commotion, was coming down the central
pathway of the garden and espied his retreating
figure. Morose, and more churlish at being aroused
from sleep, thinking, too, that the pursuit of a
possible thief was more likely to preserve a sound
CYANE. 255
skin than following his master against the enemy,
he raised his own shout of warning and started in
pursuit.
Ariston, grasping the sword hidden below his
shirt, saw his only safety lay in swift flight. He had
little fear of being overtaken. He was fleet of foot,
had won many contests in the games at Athens.
Ho therefore smiled at the thought how he could
easily distance his pursuers. But he was unaware
of Dion's powers as a runner, increased as they were
by his desire to ofl"er a valid excuse for absenting
himself from those who should follow Mara and
Lydias to the walls. In fact, Dion's long legs
covered as much ground as Ariston's swift feet, and
the latter soon perceived he was well matched.
Dion's cries had attracted others, and Ariston,
glancing over his shoulder hurriedly, saw he was no
longer followed by one man but by a small crowd.
" Spy, Thief, Traitor," were cries now hurled at
him, swelling the numbers of those behind him. The
situation was becoming serious. Ariston feared a
second crowd, warned by the cries, would oppose
him in front. His fears were realised. He saw a
band of armed men a short distance ahead, threaten-
ing to cut off his retreat. It seemed likely he would
be surrounded and captured, or killed in the resistance
he meant to offer. When he was bracing himself to
meet the worst that fate might have in store for
him, to his relief he perceived a side-street on his
256 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
left, leading in the direction of the Little Harbour.
Into that he plunged recklessly.
The shouts of the Syracusans were loud and
menacing in his rear, though his enemies had not
yet reached the turning which held out the only hope
of safety. Darting again to the right, along a nar-
row passage, and once more to the left, he gained
the sands of the harbour, and after running for half
a mile or more with all speed, he succeeded in reach-
ing the bridge over the canal that joins the Little
with the Greater Harbour. That was deserted and
he passed over safely, but it was very doubtful, he
knew, if he would be so favoured by fortune as to
find the gate of Ortygia, the walls of which now
loomed up in front of him, open or unguarded.
At first it seemed probable, and he put forth every
effort to reach it before the shouts behind him, which
momentarily were getting louder, would attract the
attention of the guards. On those two chances his
safety hung.
As he drew near, with a gasp of relief he saw his
hope was not in vain. The gate was open, and no
one in charge of it. Passing through, he dashed down
a dark passage to the right, and thence once more
he heard the clamouring of many voices on his
track, to wliich was now added the clash of arms as
the unwatchful guards of the gate tardily joined in
the chase.
Ariston hurried through streets which now began
CYANE. 257
to be alive with people. The cries of " Spy,
Traitor," were renewed and grew louder about him,
until the city seemed to be alive Vk'ith voices. To
avoid attention he slackened his speed, and joined
in the general outcry against himself. He drew
away from the tumult as best he could by keeping
to the streets which led from the docks towards the
point of the promontory of Ortygia, along the cliff
above the Great Harbour, the sight of whose waters
he hailed with delight as the only sure road to safety.
He was nearing the spot where the stream of the
Fountain of Arethusa comes from the earth and
runs to the sea — where he had landed some hours
previously. A few minutes more would have freed
him from further observation and pursuit, when, look-
ing to the left, up a street communicating with the
higher part of the city, he descried once again the
multitude in hot pursuit, still headed by the lank
figure of Dion. With a shout of triumph the latter
recognised him, and redoubled his efforts to overtake
him.
17
258 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER IX.
Less than a hundred yards separated the pursuers
from the pursued. Ariston, exhausted as he was by
rapid flight, strained his utmost to maintain that dis-
tance, and, though he felt instinctively his enemies
were gaining on him, he succeeded in reaching the
shore of the Great Harbour and plunged into the
dark waters.
The crowd, baffled of their prey and hope of blood,
halted angrily at the edge lining the wedge-like
opening of the harbour. Stones and missiles of all
kinds fell about Ariston so closely that they blinded
him with their splash. But, nothing daunted, by
skilful diving and strong strokes he put more emd
more water between him and the land.
He struck out resolutely towards Plemmyrion's
point, with no breath in his body to shout for the
boat which he hoped might still be lingering to receive
him. To his dismay he could see no sign of it, nor
dared he raise himself in the water to look if it might
be near.
Once he paused to listen if he were further pursued
by boat or swimmer from the shore. But from the
CYANE. 259
angry vehemence of the Syracusans behind him he
concluded from that source of danger he had nothing
now to fear. His enemies had evidently decided it
was useless to continue the chase in the dark waters.
An unexpected and even a greater peril now con-
fronted Ariston, however. He had not foreseen that
his strength, which had never yet failed in emergency,
strained as it was in the long and rapid flight from
the heights of Achradina, now threatened to succumb.
The coldness of the sea, at first so welcome and re-
freshing, now numbed him and made him ache in
every limb. With a sick shock he understood that
unless help were near he could never reach Plemmy-
rion. To return to land whence he came meant a
death as sure and certain as that which awaited him
in the harbour. Faintness attacked him ; and though
he was able to move arms and legs sufficiently to
keep himself afloat, the action was mechanical, and
did not serve to help him on his course. In vain he
summoned all his determination to his aid ; in vain
told himself that the resolution of an Athenian,
famous in feats of strength, was not to be vanquished
thus. He felt himself sinking.
Then rapidly, like the constant ghmmering of
summer lightning, events of his life flashed rapidly
before him, as is the way with drowning men.
Athens, his beloved home ; his father's house below
the shining temples of the Akropolis ; his mother's
anxious care for all that might make his life noble
26o TALES OF OLD SICILY.
and fair ; the Olympian games, in which he had
played his part, and won his prize among the thunder-
ing plaudits of the multitude ; the great festivals of
the deities ; the triumphs of heroes returned from
war. And later, when the more serious things of
life had claimed him, he saw himself sitting at the
feet of Socrates to learn his wisdom, or listening to
the words of Euripides, which had carried him to
heights of thought and imagination far from the
sordid things of daily life — words which he had
eagerly learnt and committed to memory to repeat
at will, as was right for one so highly born and care-
fully reared as he. Then more vividly he saw the vast
assembly of the people gathered to urge war upon
Syracuse ; the solemn protest of Nikias against what
the great leader thought to be a step of dire impru-
dence and incalculable danger ; the mocking rejoinder
of his rival, Alcibiades, who for his own nefarious ends
had driven his countrymen more surely on the path
of ruin by the magic of his oratory ; the roar of
satisfaction when war was finally decreed ; then the
preparations for the expedition ; the great procession
of citizens as it issued solemnly from the gate
of Athens to accompany the army on its way to
embarkation ; the fleet which for numbers and
magnificence had never floated on the harbour of
Piraeus ; and afterwards the leave-takings, some bitter
and full of mournful forebodings, others joyful, fore-
seeing easy conquest and speedy triumph. Such
CYANE. 261
scenes found instant and vivid repetition in his mind
as Ariston battled feebly for his life.
But those recollections seemed to belong to a past
which had lost its greater significance, to a time of
semi-obscurity, in comparison to the sunshine of the
days which had first come when standing by the
Temple of the Great Mother, captive though he was.
Since then there had been periods of darkness,
in which he had groped painfully for the new light
burst upon him of which the radiance had been partly
lost. But now he had found it. The full sunshine
had come with all the glow and warmth of summer
noon as he lay concealed in Mara's garden.
Assuredly that was the supreme moment of his life.
The clouds that hung about his love, partially
obscuring the summit of happiness reached when love
is returned, had dissolved. He had seen Cyane,
almost touched her garment and felt the breath of
her lips, and above all he now knew she loved hmi.
The remembrance of her words glowed as living fire
within him, and supported him in this supreme hour
of danger.
What if he were drowning, as he certainly knew
he was ! The prize for which he yearned — the prize
of Cyane's love, was won. If it were to be his fate
to die, what more fitting place than here in the waters
of Arethusa ? A passion such as his could not be
ended in this world. In the next, he was certain
that his soul and the soul of Cyane must be united
262 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
for ever, as the waters of Alphaeus were united in-
dissolubly with those of Arethusa by the benign love
of the goddess Artemis.
Certain now the love of Cyane was his, and all
else was as nothing to him, even when death was
imminent.
The sound of choking waters blotted out all further
recollection. Unconsciousness came upon him and
he sank. He neither saw the dark form of a boat
approach, nor felt the tight clutch of a friendly hand
sustaining him as he rose to the surface. He knew
not until later that his companions had heard his
despairing struggles, his final shout for help, and had
come in time to save him from certain death.
CYANE. 263
CHAPTER X.
Gylippos, the Spartan, had taken supreme com-
mand of the Syracusan forces. He brought new
courage and greater discipHne to their ranks. The
tables were turned. No longer were the besieged
trembling within their walls. They had changed
places with the besiegers, who now refused to be
enticed from their entrenchments to give battle.
Gylippos was eager for the fight. He set himself
to frustrate the enemy's plan of encompassing the
city, by effectually constructing counter walls, which
prevented the latter from carrying out his purpose.
The Athenians became so disheartened that
Nikias, their leader, wrote home urgently pleading
for large reinforcements, without which, he said, he
would return to Athens with his men. He also
asked to be relieved of the command owing to ill-
health. Athens replied by voting a force, equal to
the first, to be despatched immediately under the
command of Demosthenes.
Exhorted by Gylippos and the intrepid Hermo-
krates, who impressed upon them that the Athenians
were no better sailors than they, the Syracusans
264 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
attacked the enemy's fleet in the harbour and de-
feated it. They also retook Plemmyrion at the
entrance, from which place Ariston had been recalled
shortly before. By that success they forced the
Athenian ships to retire to the inner part of the
harbour.
As the enemy was worsted on his native element,
so did the spirits of the Syracusans revive. But they
rose only to fall again when they saw Demosthenes,
with a force of five thousand men and seventy-five
ships, sail unimpeded into the Great Harbour.
What Gylippos had done for Syracuse, so did
Demosthenes for his countrymen. He infused
greater ardour and insisted on further action. But
his efforts were attended with poor results. In a
night attack on the north side of the city, wisely
planned, but ineffectually carried out, he suffered
defeat. At first success seemed to attend him. He
advanced by the pass of Euryalos at night, undis-
covered by the enemy upon whom he fell, surprising
the fort and putting some to the sword and some
to flight. Advancing, he routed other bodies of
men. But Gylippos, with the main body of his army,
marched out of his entrenchments, and a fierce
encounter ensued.
Confusion reigned supreme. In the obscurity of
a waning moon it was impossible to distinguish friend
from foe. The Athenians fell upon one another,
regarding every man as an enemy. The paeans of
CYANE. 265
the allies, resembling those of their opponents, only
increased the terror and confusion. A general rout
followed. Many of Demosthenes' army were killed,
many were driven over the precipice of Epipolai and
dashed to pieces.
Thereupon Demosthenes, seeing his plans of deal-
ing a swift and sure blow had failed, was eager to
return to Athens. In that at first he was opposed
by the indecision of Nikias, who maintained that,
bad as their plight was, that of the Syracusans was
worse. But when further aid came to the latter,
and sickness and discontent daily increased in his
camp, Nikias consented, and retreat was determined
upon.
Once again did delay and irresolution thwart the
Athenians. At the moment of striking the camp, the
face of the moon became suddenly dark in an eclipse.
The men in terror cried out to their leaders to halt,
so moved were they by this unlooked-for sign. It
was a warning from the gods to desist from the
march, " a prognostic of great calamities," they said.
Then the fatal superstition of Nikias, by advice of
his soothsayers, imposed : " that it should no longer
be debated whether the army should leave or not
until three times nine days " — the period of propitia-
tion to the gods, had passed. That fateful delay of
a month was the cause of defeat later, and of the
ultimate undoing of Athens.
The Syracusans, elated by their successes, and by
266 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
the enemy's plan to retreat, of which they were
fully aware, urged by Gylippos, resolved to deal
such a blow that the future should bring no menace
of further aggression from Athens. Their chief
aim was no longer that of self-preservation, but
the destruction of the besieging army, and of its
fleet in the Great Harbour ; thus preventing escape
and retaliation. A land attack was unsuccessful.
But another by sea proved to be the turning-point
of the war — the moment when the hour of vic-
tory struck, heralding the salvation and freedom of
Sicily.
With a fleet of seventy-six ships, the Syracusans
stood out to engage the Athenians in the Great
Harbour. They were met by eighty-six of the
enemy.
The shores were lined by thousands, the land
armies of both combatants being drawn up at the
water's edge as spectators to cheer their own galleys
in moments of success, or to encourage when the
tide of battle went against them. The inhabitants
of the various quarters of the city flocked in multi-
tudes to the heights and roofs of houses, crowding
every 'vantage -ground whence a view of the Great
Harbour could be obtained. There was a white
sea of haggard faces watching the tragedy of strife
and racial hatred enacted on the blue waters
below.
To the Syracusans the moment was one of intense
CYANE. 267
anxiety, of awful suspense. On the result of the
combat depended not alone their independence as a
nation, but their lives and liberty also. There was
not one among them who did not nurture that
thought in his heart, and know its terrible signi-
ficance. The din of battle on the sea scarcely sur-
passed the cries of conflicting emotion on land — the
shouts of triumph when a native galley vanquished
an enemy's ship, or the wails of lamentation when
Athenian valour overcame Syracusan attack. Women
wept and laughed deliriously in turn. Old men
shouted in ecstasy or bent the head in sorrow. The
young took their lead from the old, and loudly
swelled the chorus of rejoicing or woe.
Cyane, drawn irresistibly from her home on the
heights of Achradina, accompanied by Baubo,
watched the fight with the rest. She, in marked
contrast to those about her, was silent, notwithstand-
ing the utmost anxiety which possessed her. For
the latter she had good cause. Those she held most
dear were opposed in stern conflict, for Mara, her
father, and Lydias, her adopted brother, commanded
a detachment of the attacking ships, and Ariston, the
beloved of her heart, it was known, had under his
orders a wing of the Athenian fleet. Thus her
anxiety was a double one.
The scene that Cyane looked on, despite the
horror of it, was wonderful to behold. The broad
semi-circular expanse of the Great Harbour, stretched
268 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
at her feet below the mass of human heads and
waving arms which swayed about her, was of that
intense blue which a cloudless southern sky alone
gives to the sea. Beyond, to left and right, were the
heights of Plemmyrion, and of Euryalos, with the
tragic ridge of Epipolai ; in the centre the plain
through which Anapos threaded its way — all ground
newly-stained with the best blood of Sicily and
further Greece. But beautiful as the surroundings
were, no thought was given them that day. The
eyes of the multitudes never left the ships on the
calm water. So obstinate a sea-fight had never been
fought before ; nor so high a courage, nor so great a
determination shown on both sides. The men of one
were fired by the terror of captivity — of loss of
home, riches, ease, and freedom as a nation. The
others by a resolution to reacquire the lost lustre
of the Athenian name, to vindicate their bravery in
the eyes of their countrymen at home, and above
all, to extricate themselves from a position fraught
with danger and disaster.
Every man of both fleets was instinct with the
spirit of resistance, and his ardour knew no limit.
Each abided at his post, braced to some deed of
valour. So many ships had never fought in so
restricted a place. It was a hand-to-hand combat:
ships, two, three, or more lay locked together ; and
while on one side men boarded, on the other side
they were boarded in turn, until the decks flowed
CYANE. 269
with blood. The noise of galleys crashing into one
another with beaks specially wrought with iron, was
only equalled by the cries of officers stimulating their
men, the shouts of those who fought, the lamenta-
tions of those who fell. The combatants were called
upon by name to exert themselves to the uttermost,
and when a ship floated out of the fight by chance
or stress of circumstance it was recalled to the battle
by personal appeal to him in command.
At times, when the din of the fight momentarily
subsided, the roar of voices from the land — the en-
couragement of the soldiers on the shore — was borne
over the water ; those were mingled with the yells
of the populace invoking the gods in desperate
earnestness, shouting their messages of defiance or
rejoicing, according as fortune frowned or smiled
upon their men.
Nor were cases of individual courage failing on that
memorable day. Far from it. Youths, too young
to bear arms for the State, put to sea in small boats
to harass the enemy as best they could. One, but
a lad in years, by name Herakleides, of noble
family, having no better weapons than a sharp
tongue and ready wit, assailed the foe, and was only
saved from death by a detachment of ships speeding
to the rescue of the boy.
At length, after many hours, the cause of freedom
prevailed, and the Athenians were put to flight.
Many of their ships were sunk or taken. Their
270 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
defeat culminated in the death of their leader
Eurymedon.
It was thus in the waters of Syracuse that the
naval supremacy of Athens was irrevocably lost.
The invaders were now plunged into the deepest
dejection. An attempt to retreat by sea, in spite of
the heavy loss of ships, was decided upon. But this
the Syracusans determined to thwart. They barred
the entrance of the Great Harbour with a line of
triremes and boats, firmly secured in a line from
Plemmyrion to Ortygia.
Once more the Athenian ships issued to give
battle ; but this time in sheer despair to make a dash
for life, no longer as proud invaders intent on attack,
accomplishing the mandate of a mighty nation.
x\nd once again was the whole population of Syra-
cuse assembled on the heights and houses surround-
ing to witness the combat, not now with dejection
depicted on their faces, but jubilant and triumphant
to witness the last effort of a successful resistance,
the final blow at a fleeing enemy.
The Athenian ships came on, attempting to break
the barrier which lay between them and safety. But
though the crash of brazen beaks against the wooden
floating wall was terrific, and the people in the city
held their breath in fear that by giving way they
might be deprived of vengeance, the wall withstood
the rspeated shocks.
Then the victorious Syracusans swept down upon
CYANE. 271
their prey, annihilating what remained of the
Athenian fleet, putting the finishing stroke to their
former great victory. Some ships were sunk, some
captured, some driven ashore in shallow water, where
those who manned them hastily made for their camp,
hoping to find a more sure retreat by land.
272 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER XL
That evening- Mara, accompanied by Lydias, re-
turned to his house, both untouched by the chances
of war. The meeting of father and daughter was
most affecting ; as the death-roll of the Syracusans
was long and the sacrifice of life great in the en-
deavours to frustrate the escape of the Athenians.
Mara had much to relate of the doings of that
memorable day, of the risks run, of the courage on
both sides.
Lydias, too, was less silent and reserved. He told
his own experiences of the battle and of the escape
he had had from certain death. He was eloquent
when speaking of a noble Athenian who had inter-
vened to save him, when, brought to his knees on
the deck while boarding a ship, he lay expecting the
final blow of his assailant. To rapid words of thanks
for his preservation his rescuer had replied that the
other's bravery in the fight had alone secured his
protection ; and then the two were separated in the
combat and lost to sight of one another.
Mara could spare little time to tarry at home. His
duties called him elsewhere, for the final act of the
CYANE. 273
drama which had threatened the existence of Syra-
cuse was now to commence, and his presence was
urgently demanded.
It was known, he said, that the Athenians were
hastily preparing for retreat by land, which, if begun
at once, would frustrate the scheme of the Syracusan
leaders for their total destruction.
The Syracusan troops, elated by their victory,
were celebrating the anniversary festival of sacrifice
to lierakles that day, and nothing would turn them
from their enjoyment, nor the carouse, of which the
latter was the principal part An order to attack
would have been met either by refusal or by half-
hearted acquiescence alike fatal to success against
the desperation of the Athenians. Delay was
essential, and to secure this Mara and his fellow
leaders were now chiefly employed. Hermokrates,
the resourceful, had proposed to send a message
purporting to come from the friends of Athens known
to be within the walls, which advised Nikias to post-
pone departure until the following day, saying that
the night march threatened danger to him and his
retreating army, because the passes were now occu-
pied by the Syracusan forces, and in the dark the
former would fall an easy prey. That plan was to
be discussed, and Mara left to be present at the
meeting.
Since the night in the garden, when her quiet
walk with Baubo had been so suddenly interrupted,
18
274 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
Cyane's love for Ariston had undergone a change.
From Baubo she had heard the story of Dion's pur-
suit of an unknown individual and his escape ; and
she could not but associate the latter with him who
had echoed the words of the poet wrung from her
in her despair. Nor were those words she heard
uttered without some deep meaning. There was in
the voice a subtle charm, a subdued passion, a latent
hope, which conveyed more than the words them-
selves. She surely discerned in them an avowal —
a faith in the future very precious to her.
With that half knowledge which the first love of
a girl brings, and which is but a sighing for what
the heart yearns vaguely, being as yet unaware of
the fulness of joy awaiting it, Cyane had found at
last an assurance which was sufficient answer to any
misgivings she may have had. Instead of the vague
longing and the despair which went hand in hand,
by a subtle instinct she was certain that her passion,
hopeless as it might be, was abundantly shared. If
that was indeed Ariston who had spoken, what in-
effable happiness! Yet that gave way to trembling
for the peril he had run for her sake. And what if
he should attempt to see her a second time ? The
passing thought gave her immense joy. But again
the difficulties and danger of their mutual love rose
before her, and once more she was overwhelmed by
despair.
In her utter dejection then Cyane asked herself:
CYANE. 275
What would the end be ? Detestation of the
Athenians was at its height. Those who had brought
supreme danger to Syracuse were looked upon as
infamous foes, whose names were not only scorned
but whose lives it was accounted a sacred duty to
take. Under the most favourable circumstances could
she hope that Ariston would ever be accepted by
her father as a possible suitor for her hand ? She
knew she could not. Again, had he escaped from
the hands of Dion and his pursuers, from the waters
of the Great Harbour, only to fall in the fierce
combats w^hich had raged on sea and land ? How
could she tell .?
To Cyane it seemed as if she were moving in a
world of Cimmerian darkness, in" which was but a
faint glimmer of light, such as might come from a
single star in a black heaven of deepest night.
The Athenian leader, deceived by the false message
from supposed friends to delay the retreat for pru-
dence sake, struck his camp two days later. If
despair held the followers of Nikias before, their
dejection was immeasurably increased by the scenes
at their departure. When they had arrived in Sicily
they had been elated with the thought of sure and
immediate conquest. The armies of Athens had
come to look upon victory as their right in the past ;
and with an armament and equipment the equal of
18*
276 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
which had been unknown, confidence in their success
had been absolute. Now all was changed. A war-
like nation, whose greater pride lay in their prowess
at sea, now found itself totally deprived of ships.
The Syracusans had burnt what remained of the fleet,
and safe retreat by water was exchanged for insecure
flight by land.
To abandon their wounded and sick companions
added intensity to the sorrow, for the prayers and
lamentations of the latter not to be left went home
to hearts in days when the real meaning of friendship
was better understood. To leave the unburied dead
also sorely offended their sense of duty towards brave
comrades. Their despair was absolute.
And what had they to face in the future ? Forced
marches on hostile ground, since nearly the whole
of Sicily was in arms against them, hunger and
thirst, attacks on their rear by an implacable foe,
a doubtful hope of return to their native land, even
if they could fight their way to a friendly port. Such
were the forebodings which filled their minds as the
once proud and brilliant force of Athenians turned
in ignominious flight from the city they had all but
conquered.
Those misgivings were realised to the full during
the several days of that terrible march.
Harassed incessantly by the Syracusans, who had
been enabled to occupy every post of 'vantage and
narrow road by which the retreat was carried out,
CYANE. 277
suffering from privation, ravaged by disease, stricken
by the heat, the rearguard under Demosthenes
surrendered to Gylippos after desperate resist-
ance. But Nikias, the veteran leader, and the van,
survivors of the retiring army, were the prey for which
the pursuers chiefly sought. Pushing hurriedly on-
ward they came up with them on the banks of the
river Assinaros at a moment when the troops, un-
mindful of all except the agony of thirst, had plunged
into the stream, each man passing his fellow in his
haste to find relief from suffering. They fell and
trampled on one another in their craving for the
precious liquid ; the madness of thirst possessed them,
and they disregarded the graver danger in the over-
whelming desire to drink.
Then began the last fight — for very life on one side,
of retaliation and revenge on the other. The Syra-
cusans occupied the high banks on both sides of the
stream, and poured a thick rain of javelins and other
missiles upon the Athenians below. Men went down
in confused heaps, struggling under the weight of
their weapons and armour, unable to rise. Some were
killed with mouths to the stream drinking ; others
were carried away by the current and drowned.
Then the Syracusans leapt from the banks and
descended to the stream, slaughtering all they found,
so that the river ran red with blood and the surface
was stiff with human bodies. Those who fled were
massacred by the cavalry. Eighteen thousand of the
278 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
flower of the older Greece met their deaths that day
b)^ the fatal river.
Athenian Nikias surrendered to LacedEemonian
Gylippos on condition that the slaughter of his men
should cease. Whereat the latter issued his orders,
and the Athenians were taken back to Syracuse as
prisoners of war.
CYANE. 279
CHAPTER XII.
Dion was in disgrace. He had fallen from the posi-
tion which his bad temper and self-assertion had
secured in Mara's household. His absence from the
ranks of Lydias' followers the night of his pursuit of
Ariston had been unduly prolonged: he had taken
advantage of the chase to shirk duty at the walls.
Imagining himself to be the hero of the evening for
having discovered and followed Ariston, he thought
that would be regarded as a valid excuse for absent-
ing himself from the more real dangers to be met
when opposing the Athenian attack. In that he was
mistaken. He was now suffering punishment for
his lack of military ardour.
Baubo was therefore mistress of the situation, and
had resolved to make the most of her opportunity.
When she had learnt that Lydias was fully aware of
Cyane's secret, her great anxiety on behalf of her
mistress was considerably lessened. At least, the
danger of Dion trafficking with that secret by in-
forming his master, as he had threatened, existed no
longer. She was free to deal with Dion and his
28o TALES OF OLD SICILY.
crooked ways as she pleased, without need of much
further diplomacy. She had him now in her power,
and, Sikehan-like, meant to be avenged for the great
uneasiness he had caused her.
Fortune seemed to favour Baubo. In Mara's
house was a cell in which unruly slaves underwent
chastisement ; and Dion was its solitary occupant.
Owing to his position he had been spared the indig-
nity of corporal punishment ; but if his skin had
escaped, the rest of his body had not been so for-
tunate. Thin and haggard at all times, now, from
the scanty allowance of food, he was pitiful to behold.
He was reduced to a lank frame on which skin hung
flabbily. Like many lean people, Dion's craving for
food was always great — it was Nature's tacit protest
against his gaunt appearance, perhaps. His greedi-
ness was prodigious.
Baubo was a daily visitor at the door of the cell.
Sometimes she obtained leave to enter. Dion
resented those visits, for Baubo was apt to be too
affectionate in her manner on such occasions.
Besides, her conversation invariably turned upon
food, and the good fare of the day being prepared
for the tables of their masters or the household.
The first made him nervous, because he dreaded
that, since he had fallen into disgrace, the woman's
influence might cause their marriage to be brought
about without his being consulted. The other
because the mere mention of the dishes, in the
CYANE. 281
making which Baubo was famous, stirred within him
unconquerable desire for food and greater discontent
with his lot. At such moments he would be brought
to the verge of tears.
When in one of those desponding moods, Baubo,
keenly desiring to obtain for Cyane that proof of her
lover's devotion, and selecting a favourable moment,
asked Dion for the scroll on which Ariston had
inscribed the verses when in prison.
She was met by blank refusal. Baubo said noth-
ing, but casually observed she must leave him to
attend to that day's dinner — a dish of meat, onions,
and beans which, the day being a holiday, was to
be served to the household. Dion's eyes glistened
in the obscurity of the cell. Many days had passed
since anything but bread and water, and that in small
quantities, had passed his lips. He felt as empty as
a bladder.
" Onions," he murmured softly, almost uncon-
sciously to himself.
Baubo opened the door. The savoury fumes
entered freely from a plateful of the stew, which she
had craftily brought and left outside.
" Surely that is a good stew for hungry folk,
to-day," she said, as she stood in the doorway, " I
smell it even here."
Dion drew a long breath.
" You once thought that stew the best of all my
dishes, Dion," she continued, insinuatingly.
282 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
There was no reply.
" Onions have a very fine flavour this year, it is
said," she ventured anew.
The man could resist no longer. His stomach
yearned for the toothsome food. Tears of self-pity
were in his eyes.
" Baubo," he said, pleadingly, " bring nie some of
that dish, and you shall have the scroll."
But the woman made difficulties. She would not
trust him.
" Tell me where the scroll is," she said eventually.
Dion eyed her suspiciously. Could he trust a
woman sufficiently to put into her power, so to speak,
what she sought without having the price of it in his
beforehand ? was his thought. He sighed. He was
no longer the master.
" Below the large square tile of the floor in the
left-hand further corner of the room I sleep in, it lies
hidden," he said reluctantly. His eyes were fixed on
her, trying to read whether his confidence was well-
placed or not.
Baubo smiled faintly. Here was another victory.
She left the ceU, shutting and securing the door.
The plate of stew remained where it was until she
should have verified Dion's statement and secured
the scroll. She went straight to the hiding-place
indicated. For once Dion had not misled her. She
found the papyrus, and forthwith carried it to her
own room, where she was careful to secrete it
CYANE. 283
within the covering of the one mattress she slept
upon.
Baubo then returned to the cell. Faithful to her
part of the compact, she carried in the plate of food.
Dion's greedy eyes fastened upon it as she entered.
He was sullen. He had discerned the stratagem
during her absence.
Baubo, affecting an innocent air, pretended not to
notice his mood. She was now too content to
resent it ; besides, she had another shaft in her bow.
"Dion," she said, "the mistress tells me she has
obtained your pardon from Lydias at my inter-
cession, and that you will be set free at once, so that
our marriage may take place to-morrow."
Baubo's miatter-of-fact manner was calculated to
deceive.
Dion paused suddenly as he was about to convey
the first mouthful of the longed-for food to his lips.
His arm was arrested half-way between the platter
and his mouth. His jaw fell.
" What," he shouted, letting the plate slip from
his lap to the floor as he rose indignantly, " marry
you to-morrow. I would rather rot in this "
But the smell of the onions rose from the floor to
his nostrils ; it was too potent to be resisted.
Besides, refusal to obey the commands of his master
under present circumstances would probably be
followed by more severe castigation, possibly death,
certainly by corporal punishment ; such eventualities
284 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
his cowardice forbade him to face. The craftiness
of the woman had no doubt secured the fulfilment
of her wishes. He had been overreached, beaten
on his own ground. His resistance failed. He was
no longer the man he was. Privation and confine-
ment had reduced his almost unlimited power of
antagonism. He bowed his head in submission, and
murmured sourly :
" Your wishes and those of the master's shall be
respected." But as he stooped to recover the food
from the floor, his thoughts wandered in search of
consolation, and found it in the reflection that when
Baubo was his wife her greater troubles would surely
commence.
" Baubo his wife to-morrow." The misogynist
shuddered at the imminence of the peril ; but his
hunger and greed were too great, and he sate down
to eat the food she had brought.
Baubo saw that the moment had come to deal the
final blow at her malicious persecutor, to glory in her
triumph, to chant her paean of victory. wShe loudly
called the slaves whose duty it was to watch the
cell — not an irksome duty now, since the four walls
shut in so unpopular a comrade as Dion.
" Pammon, Ladas, Damastor, all of you listen,"
she said. " Dion says he will marry me to-morrow.
Is it not so, Dion ? " she asked, turning to her victim.
" I have said it," Dion replied dejectedly, with a
look of utmost hate in his eyes.
CYANE. 285
" Then," continued Baubo exultingly, " my answer
to him is that I will not have him even if he crowned
me with gold, served me for forty years, and brought
all the treasures of Olympian Zeus to lay at my
feet. I marry a bald-pate with a head like a pump-
kin, a man with legs like my broomsticks. I would
rather wed a monkey in a tree, a camel from the
desert. There," she added, approaching him, and
snapping her fingers in his face, " that is the answer
I give to your wish to marry me, and now I have
done with you."
Baubo left the cell with her companions, laughing
heartily, leaving Dion to his reflections, blankly
gazing at the shut door.
286 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER XIII.
No longer did heavy liearts outpour with sorrow ;
no longer fear prompt the sobbing of women in
Syracuse. The helplessness of the beleaguered gave
way before the strength of the victorious. Weak
limbs no longer trembled ; those stricken by despair
rose at the call of hope returned. Even such as
mourned the dead joined in the great rejoicing. The
long night of dread had at last broken to the dawn
of freedom.
The conquering army came back in triumph from
the Assinaros amid the frenzied enthusiasm of the
populace. The vanquished generals marched in their
midst, with seven thousand or more prisoners to the
state.
The sun shone brightly that November day, send-
ing flashes of answering radiance from the waters of
the Great Harbour and the gleaming temples of
the gods. But brightly as the sun shone without it
was rivalled by the radiant smiles on every face of
the applauding multitudes. The city was mad with
a delirium of rejoicing that day.
What was to be the fate of the prisoners .? Would
CYANE. 287
their lives be spared with those of the leaders whose
surrender had demanded that act of mercy. Behind
that pleasantness of rejoicing, which might well have
also embraced the greater virtue of mercy, vengeance
lurked. The great Nikias and Demosthenes were
sacrificed to the baser passion ; they were murdered
and their bodies suffered the further indignity of
exposure to the vulgar, pitiless scrutiny of the crowd.
With them fell many others, done to death cruelly and
treacherously. But the vast majority were con-
demned to lingering torture in the open air prison
of the Latomie — vast stone quarries, from which the
walls of Syracuse had taken form and strength.
Both Mara and Lydias returned from the fight.
The latter had been wounded, and was brought home
in a litter to be tended.
During the days of the pursuit of the Athenians,
Cyane had been incessantly torn with the same
emotions of hope and fear. Worn out by suffering,
she relapsed into the despondent moods of early days.
Nothmg Baubo could do or think of availed to arouse
her mistress. The return of Mara and Lydias had
lifted the cloud momentarily only. It was one of the
gravest accusations Cyane brought against herself
that the safety of those she held so dear should not
have sufficed to bring perpetual joy to her once more.
Her thoughts were daily more centred on Ariston
and his fate. Nothing could be heard, all was
obscure concerning hmi, though Baubo diligently
288 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
sought for information secretly. Several weeks
passed thus, and the fear that her lover had been
irrevocably lost grew greater in Cyane's breast.
Utter listlessness succeeded the first days of bitter
grief when that certainty came to her. All interest
in outward things had gone from her ; even her own
will-power left her, and she seemed as a little child
who is unable to stand or think for itself.
It was then that Mara, anxious about her state,
sought to rouse her from her apathy. Tender-hearted
towards his daughter as he was, he was a man who
exacted obedience from those about him, and he
could be stern, even cruel, when his wishes were
thwarted. He had long wished that Cyane should
become the wife of Lydias ; and now considered
delay should no longer be countenanced. He con-
ceived that marriage might be a cure for Cyane's
ill-health, the true cause of which he had not
guessed — he was a busy man, occupied with weighty
matters, in busy times, having little leisure for
thought concerning the cause of a young girl's ail-
ments, though she a daughter and much beloved.
He therefore spoke both to Cyane and Lydias, inti-
mating his wish that if the latter renewed his offer
of marriage she should not refuse his hand.
Lydias had been faithful to his promise, and had
not pressed his suit on Cyane since she had spoken
so openly on the subject of her love for Ariston.
But the intensity of his own love had undergone no
CYANE. 289
diminution ; on the contrary, it had increased during
the hours she had tended him for his wound, and
his whole being- yearned for her more strongly than
before. His nature was not to be kept in sub-
jection easily. Headstrong, impulsive, the southern
blood of youth coursing in his veins, restraint was
difficult at any time ; he was a man prone to satisfy
his desires without pausing to consider the rectitude
of his conduct, as was customary with those of his
time. Hitherto the great wave of love for Cyane
had not swamped the compassion which her mute
appeal had aroused. But now, urged by her father,
by the promptings of his own desire, and conscious
of the futility of Cyane's love for one who had
evidently passed out of her life, he determined to
approach her once more.
Lydias had no sooner made up his mind than he
sought Cyane at once. He spoke kindly and con-
siderately, pleading his cause urgently with im-
passioned words, meeting objections with promises
of devotion and self-repression which touched her to
the quick. He would wait patiently for the love she
could not give him then. That love would come
later. A new flame would be lighted in her heart
from the ardent fire which burnt in his. At least
she would find sympathy and protection where now
all seemed lonely cind desolate.
Perhaps it was this last thought that finally moved
Cyane to yield. Her utter misery had seemed to
19
290 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
come from the dried-up fountain of love within her,
outpoured with the exuberance of youth before one
to whom she had given all without reserve. She was
famishing for love. She had need of love or else
she would die. She did not pause to consider the
price she was paying. Weary, vanquished by cir-
cumstance, fearing to incur her father's wrath and
to wound still more the passionate devotion of
Lydias, yet scarcely knowing what she did, she
yielded. She consented to become the wife of
Lydias. Then she fled to her room to weep bitter
tears at the thought of her outraged love for the
dead Ariston.
The following day Cyane roused herself partially
from her deep dejection. There was that within her
which forced her to an endeavour to be true to her
promise to Lydias. It was the strength of that effort
which induced her to accompany some girl com-
panions in a walk which had for its object a visit
to the Latomie, wherein the Athenian prisoners were
confined.
The city had soon resumed its old routine of joyous
daily life. It is true that many moved about the
streets in garbs of grief, and houses were closed in
sign of mourning for relatives killed in the war.
But the majority rejoiced. Was not the Great Har-
bour dotted with conquered ships, purses filled by
the spoils of war, by treasure taken and by slaves
fallen into private hands? Festivals took place once
CYANE. 291
more. The lordly Theatre below the Temple of
Apollo was packed with the usual crowds eager to
listen to the plays of the Athenian poets. In their
hatred of Athens love for the spuitual work of her
sons survived.
Another amusement, too, had been added to the
daily programme of the pleasure-loving Syracusans,
and typical of their character since pride and cruelty
had their share in it. In that Cyane had been invited
by her companions to share. Hitherto she had per-
sistently refused to go to the brink of the prisons in
the stone-quarries to gaze upon and make merry at
the expense of the captives, who dragged out weary
days of imprisonment below. Though that had be-
come the fashionable pastime, her sense of pity had
revolted against the cruelty. She could not bring
herself to mock fellow beings in adversity, still less
the companions of him she loved and mourned so
deeply.
Yet to-day, Cyane, hardening her heart and resist-
ing the dictates of her better instinct, consented to
go. She told herself that she must forcibly put from
her all feeling for the enemies of Syracuse. The
effort cost her much. It was part of tlie self-
discipline she had imposed since she plighted her
troth to Lydias.
The group of girls soon reached the high ground
of Achradina. As they neared the low wall at the
edge of the precipice conversation gave way to silence,
19*
292 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
curiosity overcame laughter and jests. Each one in
her own way felt she was in the presence of human
tragedy, real and heartrending, not the counterfeit
seen at the Theatre hard by. Below was an abyss,
irregular in shape, with branches here wide, there
narrowing into long gloomy passages, shut in by per-
pendicular walls of white stone of immense height.
The sides of those giant-like cliffs were straight-cut
and smooth, except where the softer rock had worn
away leaving harder strata in horizontal lines, and
rocks protruding in rounded excrescence. They were
bare except for a sickly plant of spurge or caper
bending its crown upward to the light. In the centre
of the wider gallery a mass of rock, fashioned at the
caprice of quarry-men into semblance of a trireme's
prow, rose to the full height above.
The ground below was covered with coarse weeds,
browned and beaten with the tread of feet. Nothing
was there save of grim melancholy in that deep
prison-house, rough hewn from Nature though it was.
Among Cyane's companions all interest centred on
the crowded masses of Athenian prisoners at their
feet. Some were in groups, sitting on stones fallen
from above, dejected, scarcely uttering, their eyes
fixed to the ground ; others were lying helpless, with
backs supported by the cliffs, arms inert, and heads
sunk forward on their breasts. Emaciated, pale faces
told of intense suffering from hunger and thirst. The
fever-stricken look of some indicated disease and
CYANE. 293
fast-approaching death. Many heads were roughly
bandaged, Hmbs slung in ragged strips of clothing.
Agony of mind as well as physical suffering were
stamped indelibly on the faces of that crowd of help-
less men, whose scanty coverings were in tatters,
whose long and unkempt hair suggested the animal
rather than the human being.
Such a spectacle was calculated to rouse the utmost
pity in any man's heart. But no such feeling was
evident among the Syracusans. The latter had come
there, as daily they had come for many weeks, to
gratify their lust of vengeance, their love of cruelty.
They, from the heights above, secure from retaliation,
were free to gibe, to mock, to insult, to add one
more drop to the cup of bitter suffering to enemies
now completely at their mercy. They indulged in
that sorry sport to the full extent of their revengeful
natures, day by day and hour by hour, talking plea-
sure therein.
So constant were those visits to the stone-quarries,
that what befell the prisoners was intimately known.
Many of the latter vv'ere recognised, and watched to
note how the arms of death more surely closed about
them. Wagers were freely made as to whether one
or the other would live for a day, a week, a month.
No tragedy of the poets could surpass that enacted
in real life below the blue sky in the Latomie of
Syracuse.
294 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER XIV.
Not far from the spot immediately below Cyane
and her companions a g-roup of captives had collected
round one who was addressing them. The girls
moved the better to hear what was being said.
Others soon added to their number.
It was known in the city that some prisoners were
famed among their fellows as reciters of verse, culti-
vated men who had been followers of the philo-
sophers and poets of Athens, apt pupils, evidently,
who could speak of the teaching and writings of
their masters with the authority of disciples. Those
seemed to influence the minds of their comrades in
misfortune so greatly that when they spoke the pre-
vailing listlessness would be laid aside, and courage
revive for a time.
In Syracuse, as at Athens, great importance
attached to the writings of such men as Socrates and
Plato, of ^schylus, Aristophanes and Euripides.
Any new work by these, or other well-known men,
attracted the notice of rich and poor alike. Their
continued search for and appreciation of the
spiritually beautiful was one of the main features
CYANE. 295
of Greek life in those days, notwithstanding the
examples of cruelty, of license, of coarseness by
which that higher life was marred.
Thus tlie words of him who now spoke to the
Athenians, which, striking on the smooth surface of
the cliffs, found clear hearing above, were listened to
attentively, almost with reverence The speaker, an
old man and one in authority, apparently, paid no
heed to the fringe of human faces which lined the
edge of the precipice ; his lamentation, for such it
proved to be, was for himself and his fellow sufferers
only. He was too haughty by nature, too wounded
in pride, too moved by the words he was about to
utter, to take notice of those into whose power he
had fallen.
He had no sermon to preach, no lesson to impart.
He had thought to find in the words of Euripides,
concerning the woe of the Trojan Women, sorrow
similar to his own, and with it an understanding, and
in consequence a fellowship, to which none but the
great poet could give so adequate an expression.
And therein he thought to find consolation for the
stricken men around him.
A drama of which, as has been said, " the only
movement is a gradual extinguishing of all the
familiar lights of human life with, perhaps, at the
end, a suggestion that in the utterness of night, when
all fear of a possible worse thing is past, there is
some source of peace and even glory," one in which
296 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
eternal sorrow is glorified and made beautiful, and
almost raised to the sublimity of a sacrament, could
not fail to exalt men's minds above mere physical
pain and mental torment.
As he spoke he spared not his own countrymen
in his denunciation of their greed of conquest.
"What but destruction to Athens could come, as it
came to the destroyers of Troy," he was saying, " we
who have sacked Melos, and dishonoured the
gods ? "
Delirium was evidently upon him ; fever shone
from his eyes — a fever which alone gave him strength
to speak thus.
The beetlmg cliffs of glaring white, the emaciated
faces around him, his own sufferings, were now lost
to him in the scene of burning Troy and its Women.
He was no longer the warrior, the acknowledged
leader, but one who, in the earnestness and fervour
of simulation, has sunk his individuality in the
character assumed. The profound woe of Hecuba,
the Queen, torn by agony for the death of all she
held most dear, was in his soul. For the moment
he saw with the eyes, spoke with the mouth of
Hecuba. Loss of home, kindred, liberty, comrades,
the haunting fear of bondage, had driven him to
despair, as they had driven the Trojan Queen.
In a frenzy of lamentation he spoke the words of
Hecuba, not consecutively, but choosing them as they
occurred to memory. At times he addressed his
CYANE. 297
listeners ; at others, raising his eyes to the small patch
of sky above, sole symbol left of the Hberty he had
lost.
"Lo, I have seen the open hand of God," he
cried, " and in it nothing, nothing, save the rod of
mine affliction, and the eternal hate beyond all lands.
Hath lie not turned us in His hand, and thrust our
high things low, and shaken our hills as dust, we had
not been this splendour, and our wrong an everlast-
ing music for the song of earth and heaven ! God,
O, God of Mercy! . . . Nay, why call 1 on the Gods?
They know, they know my prayers, and would not
hear them long ago."
Profound silence reigned. The prisoners hstened
with bowed heads to words which went straight to
their hearts, as a httmg expression of their own woe.
The faces of the Syracusans above, on which the sun
shone, were set with rapt attention.
"And I the aged, where go 1?" he continued.
" I, a winter-frozen bee, a slave death-shapen, as the
stones that lie hewn on a dead man's grave. Ali,
well-a-day, this ache of lying comfortless and
haunted. Ah, my side, my brow, my temples ! All
with changeful pain my body racketh, and would
fain move to the tune of tears: for tears are music,
too, and keep a song unheard in hearts that weep.
Mine is the crown of misery, the bitterest of all our
days."
The silence of a long pause was broken only by
298 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
sobs from the captives reduced by disease. Wild
cries of birds of prey hovering overhead in the blue
distance were added to the sobs.
" This ruined body ! " the old man continued, laying
his hand on his breast. " Is the fall thereof too deep
for all that now is over me of anguish, and hath
been, and yet shall be ? Ye Gods . . Alas ! Why call
on things so weak for aid ? Yet there is something
chat doth seek, crying, for God, when one of us hath
woe. O, I will think of things gone long ago, and
weave them to a song, like one more tear in the
heart of misery."
Then his mind turned from a personal suffering,
and he spoke more directly to his companions : " Our
comrades, dead, lie naked beneath the eye of Pallas,
and vultures croak and flap for joy. Beat, beat your
heads : beat with the wailing chime of hands lifted
in tune. No wife came with gentle arms to shroud
the limbs of them for burial, in a strange and angry
earth laid dead. And there at home, the same long
dearth : women that lonely died, and aged men wait-
ing for sons that ne'er should return again, nor know
their graves, nor pour drink offerings to still the un-
slaked dust. Yea, voices of Death ; and mists are
over them of dead men's anguish like a diadem.
Woe is me for the dead."
When the speaker bewailed his own wretched fate,
and that of his comrades, the Syracusans, who had
collected in ever increasing numbers above, kept
CYANE. 299
silence, spell-bound by words which touched them
deeply with pity for his years, for the dead fallen in
battle. But when he referred to Athens, and those
who might yet be awaiting the return of the expedi-
tion, their revengeful nature found expression, and
silence gave way to derision and a storm of invective
and curses hurled at the men below.
The orator paid no heed, nor did his companions
glance upward. They were too accustomed to the
mockery of their conquerors. In the earlier days of
confinement they haci been goaded to desperation
by the taunts ; but their proud resentful spirits were
now broken, sapped by disease and want, and insults
were regarded stoically as part of their grievous lot.
As the Athenian prisoner spoke, Cyane listened
with tears welling to her eyes, moved to the depths
of her being by the sufferings, which, though voiced
by one alone, were, she well knew, those of the
thousands shut in by the pitiless walls of stone.
Several times she attempted to leave a scene of such
misery, but her friends refused to accompany her.
To dissuade Cyane from her intention one of them
tried to interest her in the old man who had spoken,
relating that when first he had been brought to the
Latomie he had assiduously nursed a youth badly
wounded — a son perhaps, or a friend. No mother
could have been more tender, nor shown more
anxious care. It was noticed with that absorbing
interest which the Syracusans had in the actions of
300 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
their captives, that the older man took his own scanty
garments to shield the other from the chill of night,
gave him of his meagre portion of bread and water,
which in the cruel revenge of their captors, was but
half the ration of a common slave. As the air
became more tainted from the presence of men con-
fined, foetid from the corpses of those who died by
hundreds, left to rot in the sun because means and
strength alike failed to give them burial, the youth
was carried laboriously by no other arms but his from
place to place, where the scorching heat of the sun
by day and the damp and cold of night would be
less. He never left his friend until he died with his
arms about him, his head resting on his breast.
From that day the elder man, who had seemed
sustained by an unknown strength during his watch,
after he had scratched with his own fingers until they
bled a shallow grave for his friend, fell ill and lost
his reason for a time. Then he recovered and en-
deavoured to lessen the suffering of his companions
in the manner already related.
Cyane's attention became rivetted, as her girl-
friend related the illness and death of the young
Athenian. She was about to question her as to his
appearance, to ask if she had heard his name. She
was filled with dread that the youth who had died
almost within call of her own home might have been
Ariston. But she checked herself. No longer could
she rightly think of him now passed from her life.
CYANE. 301
Then her companion told her that the old orator
had been tended in his turn by a younger man who,
scarcely recovered of his wounds, had crawled from
one of the arched recesses of the quarries. He also
seemed to be hailed with respect and deference, and
his words listened to with interest and attention.
At the sound of his voice when he spoke the sick,
starving, and maimed dragged themselves from
various parts, or were helped by others to hear him,
looking for encouragement, anxious to share the
sympathy he was prodigal of giving.
" Look," added the girl, pointing with her finger
to the prisoners grouped about the orator. " I see
him now, he is addressing words to the older man."
Cyane gazed listlessly. She failed to perceive
aught in the distance but a pale face, drawn with
suffering, the lower part of which was covered with
a beard.
At that moment Lydias saw her from afar, and
making his way with difficulty through the crowd,
joined her. He, like Cyane, would not consent to
take part in the pastime of mocking fallen enemies.
He had heard of her being at the quarries and
followed.
The lament from below re-commenced. Now a
redoubled earnestness in the voice reciting the
words, solemn as they were, seemed to indicate a
deeper meaning on the part of him who spoke.
" What, then, lacketh, 'ere we touch the last dead
302 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
deep of misery ? But a space, ye Dead, and I am
with you," he said, turning with yearning eyes to a
far off spot where lay buried the body of his dead
friend. " Cast me on a bed of earth, rock pillowed,
to lie down and pass away, wasted with tears.
There liveth not in my life any more the hope that
others have. Nor will I tell the lie to mine own
heart that aught is well, or shall be well."
Here the voice failed and the speaker would have
fallen had not a ready arm supported him. The
inert crowd of dejected captives silently watched the
face of the dying man. They did not stir. They
had no relief to offer.
Then the last flicker of life, the final utterance of
woe came.
" Ah, me ! and is it come, the end of all, the very
crest and summit of my days, thus ? " With those
words the old warrior sank to the ground ; he lay
lifeless in the clasp of one who held him.
Laying down the body tenderly, the other rose
to address his companions. Though his back was
towards Cyane, she recognised him as the young man
who had been pointed out by her girl companion.
" Men of Athens," he said, with faltering voice,
" weep not for him. Euripides has sung for such
as he : ' there is a crown in death for him that
striveth well and perisheth unstained. To die in
evil were the stain. The dead hath now lost his
pain, and weeps no more. To die is only not to be ;
CYANE. 303
and better to be dead than grievously living. They
have no pain, they ponder not their own wrong.'
Ah, weep no more for him."
Then Hfting his hands above his head, his face
turned to the reddening patch of sunset sky beyond
the prison walls, he spoke comfort to his listeners
thus in prayer :
" Thou deep Base of the World, and thou high
Throne above the World, who e'er thou art, unknown
and hard of surmise. Chain of things that be, or
Reason of our Reason ; God, to Thee I lift my praise,
seeing the silent road that bringeth justice ere the
end be trod to all that breathes and dies."
The speaker concluded what he had to say slowly,
and in evident pain, with that noble resignation to,
that recognition of a Higher Power, in a voice shaken
by emotion. As he withdrew his gaze from the
opening in the cliffs above, it had rested on the
serried ranks of Syracusans by the verge. There he
saw what he had thought never to look upon again
— the steadfast eyes of Cyane gazing into his, and
therein a light which shone with love unfathomable.
304 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER XV.
Great commotion filled the ranks of Syracusans. If
the death of the older Athenian orator had agitated
them, the words of the younger moved them more
deeply. It was the first time they had Hstened to
the public expression of such noble sentiments ; the
first time, too, that that audacious cry for help to
one Supreme Being, enigmatical and undefined though
it was, had fallen upon their ears. The feeling was
not one of disdain, reproach, or protest such as was
levied against Euripides, its author, in his own
country, driving him to banishment among strangers
in a distant land. It was one in accordance with the
advanced thought and teaching of the time, which
vaguely knew of and sought for truth far above and
beyond the polytheism of the day, a seeking for what
might satisfy higher aspiration, accomplish a higher
destiny. To the fatalist the " Chain of things that
be " suggested a sequence in unknown laws. To the
sage and philosopher the " Reason of our Reason "
a dreamt-of fountain head of knowledge at which
both drank. To the majority this new and startling
idea of a Divinity reaching them from the depths
CYANE. 305
of a foetid prison by the mouth of a despised cap-
tive — subhme in thought and expression as it was —
captivated at once their imagination, their sense of
the beautiful, and their sympathy.
The savage look of hatred and scowls of vengeance
vanished from their faces. And though no pity was
within them for the sufferings they had witnessed,
the words which they had heard filled them with
amazement and admiration. A revulsion of feeling
became manifest, and a loud murmur of approval
ran through the people.
The crowd of Syracusans was too intent to notice
the change which came to Cyane as the younger
Athenian had bidden his companions to be comforted
at the death of the other. She had started violently
at the sound of that voice ; it stirred her to the very
depths of her soul. A moment of agonising fear came
that it might be a delusion, that the hope now
sprung again to life was but a phantasy, a dream,
a mock reality, to which great longing had given
birth. But in the next instant she knew that the
voice was the same she had heard when she went
to the Temple of the Great Mother near the banks
of the Anapos, and again in her father's garden on
Achradina.
The voice was the voice of Ariston without doubt,
changed by pain and privation though it might be.
That she knew instinctively, as surely as she knew
that in that moment the world had become bright
20
306 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
and full of joy, her life radiantly happy once more.
Then almost simultaneously, and with a sick shock,
she remembered the promise given to Lydias — a
promise which if unwillingly given was no less bind-
ing. The recollection turned her to stone, her
momentary gladness to the fulness of despair. Ariston,
in whom centred her sole hope of happiness in the
future, could be nothing to her now ; and even if she
had not given herself to Lydias, the former was a
prisoner with whom the daughter of a proud Syra-
cusan could never mate.
Lydias, at her side, had been watching Cyane's face
intently and unknown to her. He had seen the
supreme joy that swept over it as she heard the young
man's impassioned voice, the blank despair which
followed. Lie divined the cause. Blood rushed
tumultuously in his veins, tingeing all he looked upon
with the colour of blood ; his head reeled and he
would have fallen. Recovering himself quickly, his
eyes sought those of Cyane. In the furtive glances
interchanged he saw terror and abject misery, and she
haughty defiance and anger.
Below, in the charnel-house prison, the spectacle
was over for the day. The Athenians had silently
and wearily lifted the body of the latest victim, and
borne it to the further corner on which the dead
man's gaze had last rested, there where his dead
friend lay.
The pleasure-loving Syracusans turned away seek-
CVANE. 307
ing the city. As they went the sun sank behind the
mountains, sending up long rays of Ught reaching
the vault above, which was flecked with curling
thread-like clouds, like interlacing flame. The sea,
the plain, the white houses and the temples were
afire with the borrowed glow, earth and sky outvying
the other in rivalry of crimson and gold. Then dusk
fell quickly, eclipsing all but a lurid patch of cloud
beyond the western mountains, mercifully blotting
out from human gaze the hideous sufferings of cap-
tives in that pitiless prison of blank rock, wherein
dead men lay rotting without burial and living men
were jealous of their lot.
Cyane and Lydias were left alone. He made a
sign to draw apart from the crowd, and they strolled
towards the highest point of Achradina, enclosed on
the north by the old wall of the city. For long there
was complete silence between the two ; each was
fighting inward battles. Then Cyane spoke :
" You have seen and understood," she said simply.
" He is yet alive, and I know that my love for him
is as great as it ever was. But I renounce it once
again, as I renounced it before. I will be true to my
promise to become your wife."
Lydias said not a word. His veins stood out as
cords on his forehead. His clenched hands were
pressed firmly to his side. Cyane gazed into the far
20*
3o8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
distance, where the shadow of .^tna loomed under
the quivering glow of its fires.
" I said before I would give you all I have to give.
It is yours. I will not thwart your hopes nor my
father's wishes. If you wish for me as I am, take me."
Cyane turned to seek his eyes, but Lydias did not
look up. Nor did she expect an answer. The
plighted troth of a noble Syracusan was as an oath
irrevocably binding. Her gentle nature and innate
sense of right made withdrawal of her promise an
impossibility. Such was the result of the inward
conflict with herself as she walked by the side of him
she loved truly, but only with the love of a fond
sister who recognises the desires and longings of a
brother. Whatever the sacrifice demanded, and she
was aware it might cost her her life, or at least any
joy that existence might possibly offer in a distant
future, she did not hesitate. She was no longer free,
no longer her own mistress to say yes or no. She
belonged to Lydias already.
At length the latter spoke. His words were as
those of a dreamer speaking of things remote from
actual surroundings, with a far-away sound ; no life
in them, no conviction. They were mechanical and
hard, uttered because they had to be uttered what-
ever the cost might be. They were apparently
pointless, too ; beside the mark, indeed.
" Ariston then saved my life in the Great Harbour,"
he affirmed slowly, as if speaking to himself.
CYANE.
309
Cyane turned to him again, this time with swim-
ming eyes ; but through the tears a flash of supreme
joy hngered an instant. She said nothing. She
hardly expected him to say anything; to her, her
fate was irrevocably sealed.
Then he spoke : " I said before I cannot take you
thus, Cyane. You must come to me of your own
accord. I do not go from my word. I release you
from your promise. I should never have sought
you."
Lydias, the strong man, had also fought the inward
fight against his weaker nature, and this was the
victory of the one against the other, of right over
evil, of kindliness over hatred, of real love over selfish
longing. Once before had that battle raged within
him, and now with double fury. He was well aware
he had but to stretch forth his hand to take the
prize for which his whole being craved with increas-
ing longing, since Cyane was already his by the laws
of convention, as she herself allowed. Nothing was
wanting but the solemnity of the marriage rites — a
mere form which he might at any moment demand
and immediately procure.
The promptings of his great love, his wish to possess
her after so long a tarrying, urged him with all the
insistence and ardour of his southern blood to the
gratification of his desires. To make her his, to put
it out of the reach of another to obtain the inestimable
treasure, to clasp her to his heart and look upon
3IO TALES OF OLD SICILY.
her as his own irrevocably, to lay his never ceasing
devotion at her feet in future days of cloudless joy —
such was his hope, and such he had had to fight
against since he had seen that look of misery in
Cyane's eyes as she gazed into the depths of the
Latomie.
It had been a dire tussle, one of life and death to
him, but the spirit of good which lies within the soul
of every human being had emerged victorious. To
his aid had come his entire devotion to Cyane, his
sympathy for her in her suffering, his fear for her
health, his earnest desire for her happiness ; and
therewith a proud determination to have only what
he could win fairly, a reluctance to take what was
reluctantly given.
His was a complex nature in which the nobleness
of a race of heroic men was strangely mixed with
the strong savage instinct to possess what his senses
desired. But his entire love for Cyane caused noble-
ness to prevail in the end. Bitter and terrible as the
sacrifice was, love overcame self and was triumphant.
Though such were the principal cause there was
yet another which influenced Lydias' decision. The
opportunity had come at length to requite the signal
act of mercy by which he owed his life to Ariston.
He had often told himself he sought for the occasion.
Indeed, among the Athenian hosts, both fallen in
battle and imprisoned, he had searched and caused
search to be made diligently for the man who had so
CYANE. 311
greatly benefited him. Then, as Cyane had silently,
he also concluded that Ariston had perished, and that
his debt of gratitude would go for ever unpaid. The
thought troubled him.
The doubt and fear of both himself and of the girl
he loved had terminated simultaneously that evening
when listening to the prayer for justice of the
Athenian as it rose from the Latomie. His duty had
seemed plain before him ; and when that was evident
it was but will-force to determine whether he should
fail or conquer.
Cyane's only answer to the declaration that Lydias
liberated her from her promise were the tears which
flowed unceasingly, as witli bent head she clung to
his arm. Her heart was too full of gratitude, of pity
for him, to speak.
As the moon rose out of the Ionian sea, cresting
the waves with light and turning the dusk into a
world of light, the two retraced their steps to Mara's
house, the waterway of ever-widening dancing silver
on the sea appearing to Cyane to be prophetical of
the new life of hope now opening before her.
312 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
CHAPTER XVI.
To a nature like Lydias' no half measures recom-
mended themselves. Much might be required to
move him, but when he had resolved on a course of
action he dedicated himself thereto with an energy
and a determination which rarely failed to meet with
success.
The motive of his present activity was to bring
back to Cyane the happiness he desired for her. A
further one was to pay the debt of gratitude he owed
to Ariston.
The cruelty of the Syracusans towards the
Athenians, which had treacherously decreed death
to Nikias and Demosthenes, and kept thousands of
prisoners on the verge of starvation amid terrible
sufferings, was not satiated. Soreness caused by the
invasion, loss of lives and treasure, the terror of
danger so real and imminent, rankled still in their
minds. That was abundantly shown by the insults
and harsh treatment which the captives had to suffer
day by day.
For Lydias to apply for the immediate release of
Ariston would have been the same as to entreat a
CYANE. 313
stone wall for sympathy. Alone, his influence was
insufficient to obtain the favour. To induce Mara
to aid him in his plan was a step he wished to post-
pone for the present ; he would approach Cyane's
father later. He was in doubt how best to further
his ends.
The subtlety of the Grecian mind then came to his
assistance, and he resolved on a definite plan. The
fame of the reciters of Euripides' tragedy in the
Latomie had spread throughout the city. The words
which gave so eloquent an expression to human woe
reached many hearts. Perhaps the tragic death of
the elder of the two orators beneath the eyes of the
spectators had accentuated the poignancy of grief
which was the dominant key of that song of sorrow.
By carefully chosen means Lydias sought to in-
crease the enthusiasm. The crowd is always eager
to accept a new topic of talk, and it had one to hand
here. Men soon spoke of little save that wonderful
poem ; and they flocked daily in increasing numbers
to the edge of the stone-quarries, hoping for a repeti-
tion of its recitation.
In that they were disappointed. The ever
diminishing groups of captives gathered together at
periods of each day to listen to words of exhortation
and encouragement ; but not once was Ariston's
voice raised again to supplicate or lament in the
much prized words of the poet.
Then public excitement increased as was Lydias'
314 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
intent. Performances of other plays in the Theatre
were deserted. Discontent at being baulked of their
enjoyment became evident among the people.
When that agitation had continued for a time, it
was suggested by some to appeal to authority to
cause the surviving reciter to be brought from his
prison to satisfy the legitimate longing of the people.
A deputation presented itself before the magistrates
and obtained the necessary order.
A day was fixed for Ariston to appear, and great
preparations were made. The event was looked
upon as a public holiday, and thousands flocked to
the scene of the festival.
That enormous Theatre, holding more than twenty
thousand spectators, was packed from the floor to
its sixtieth tier of seats, and people unable to find
sitting room crowded to the high-standing ground ait
the back and side. The marble-covered and stone
seats, cut into the living rock, now represented a
semi-circular slope of human faces, expectant,
anxious, eager.
The sun above shone brightly in a sky which
canopied the vast meeting-place with a dome of
intensest blue. The land-locked waters of the Great
Harbour were seen below. To the left was Ortygia
— a neck of land closely packed with houses — going
to meet the rocky heights of Plemmyrion. Further
lay the Little Harbour, then the angle of the great
wall which ran its course to the ports.
CYANE. 315
The lofty peristyles of the most sacred Herakleion
vied in grandeur with those of the Great Mother
and Persephone on the right hand ; and behind was
the plain whereon the Anapos and Cyane threaded
their united waters to the sea. Westward, in the far
distance, lilac-hued shadows with flat summits indi-
cated the high eminences and mountain fastnesses
of rock-tossed, fire-wrouglit Sicily. Immediately
behind and ponderously magnificent in Doric sim-
plicity was the portico of Apollo's Temple. The con-
templation of that scene which Grecian love of beauty
had specially chosen for the home of the Muses was
well calculated to redeem the tediousness of long
waiting, for in their eagerness many people had sought
their seats before dawn.
The tramp of soldiery was heard on the rocky
highway from the Latomie. A body of men guarded
Ariston on the march, and grouped themselves in
semi-circle behind him when they reached the
stage.
The figure of the Athenian captive, emaciated and
suffering, stood alone. His scanty clothing was
what remained to him after months of imprison-
m.ent ; he had indignantly refused to change them
for the raiment which had been offered when told
of what was expected of him that day. At first he
had declined to accompany his guard ; he preferred
the death which seemed drawing nearer to him with
giant strides dail)- to appearing before his unfeeling
3i6 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
conquerors in any character but a warrior. He had
relented only when one unknown had secretly bidden
him to comply at all costs.
Silently and unmoved he confronted that wall of
human faces. His gaze roved from face to face, from
tier to tier, seeking what it could not find. Equally
silent was his audience. Murmurings began after a
time. " Were they to be disappointed, baulked of
their pleasure by the tacit defiance of a prisoner ? "
they asked each other. As the impatience increased,
a magistrate intervened, bidding Ariston to speak
without delay.
The latter recalled himself from the reverie into
which he had fallen. At first he recited mechanically
the opening lines of the Tragedy wherein the god
Poseidon addresses the goddess Pallas Athena. He
had committed the words to memory long since, and
had in his captivity repeated and pondered over
them, so that his speaking now was without halting
or hesitation. Only when he reached the greater
significance of the poet's intention — the pourtrayal
of the sublime grief of the Troades, was he
roused from his indifference and merged his own
sorrows in those of the Trojan Women. Thence-
forth, emotion giving strength to his voice as it rose
with the heat of protest or fell in the subdued pity
of despair, the words seemed no longer words, but
the impassioned pleading of erring, tortured human
beings, not now mourning on a distant shore, but
CYANE. 317
present in the flesh, laying bare their souls in the
extremity of uttermost woe.
The lamentation of Hecuba as she wakes from her
troubled sleep after the fall of Troy and gazes upon
the Greek ships far off on the shore, her rebuke to
the Greeks for seeking Helen, her reviling of the
faithless wife of Menelaus, her appeal to the Women
of Troy in their huts, fell upon ears that drank in
eagerly every word. The reference to Sicily and
her mighty mountain provoked muttered sounds of
approval. The arrival of Talthybius, the herald, the
fear at his coming, his hideous message, the telling
of the destiny of the various women, moved the
audience in anxious anticipation. The madness of
Cassandra, whose darkened intellect, open yet to an
understanding of the woe of the future, her menace,
her tardy reticence, her own self-reliance, the sorry
comfort she essayed to give her suffering mother, kept
them spell-bound ; as did the grief of Andromache,
the leave-taking of her child, her final sacrifice, and
her departure for captivity. When Menelaus
appeared, followed by the guilty Helen, excitement
was at its height, and with difficulty were the shouts
of protest restrained as the latter sought for mercy,
and Hecuba pleaded for vengeance at his hands.
Sobs broke from the women when the body of the
boy Astyanax, " Hector's child," was laid before
Hecuba, when she tended him in abject grief, \\'rapt
him in raiments, and laid him on his dead father's
3i8 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
shield, sole relic of a glorious past. Increasing
grief thenceforth swayed the whole of that vast
multitude, until the end of the Tragedy, when
Hecuba, the Queen, with her women, goes forth to
slavery, as the crash of falling walls and flare of
flames proclaim the destruction of Troy.
Intense silence followed the conclusion of the
story. Ariston had not faltered in the recital. His
woes were as the woes of Hecuba, of Andromache,
of all the Trojan Women. His heart but spoke his
own torment. Therein lay his strength. But when
he ended with the final words of farewell of Hecuba,
his force failed him, and he sank to the ground.
The silence was broken then. Shout after shout
of admiration went up. They paused not to consider
that the lines were the lines of Euripides, the
thoughts his thoughts, that the greater praise was due
to him. They could only associate the great Tragedy
— that " cry of the great wrongs of the world wrought
into music," with Ariston, and all the meed of praise
was his by right. In that moment of exaltation,
hatred of the Athenians, lingering thoughts of ven-
geance, soreness of past suffering vanished, and
Ariston's name was passed from mouth to mouth in
praise and adulation.
Lydias saw that the moment he awaited had come.
Surrounded as he was by friends specially chosen for
the occasion, he rose in his place. When silence had
been restored, he turned to the audience. In a loud
CYANE. 319
voice he demajided the hberation of Ariston as a
mark of gratitude, of appreciation of his talents. As
soon as the proposal was understood the crowd re-
echoed it, and with one voice shouted : " He is free,
he is free."
All faces were turned anxiously towards the seats
of honour whereon sate the magistrates of Syracuse.
The latter were seen to be in deliberation. The
chief magistrate rose as spokesman for the rest.
" The popular verdict is our verdict," he said.
" We grant freedom to the noble Ariston. His deeds
of valour in war, though directed against ourselves,
have secured our admiration as greatly as the words
he has just now uttered."
A singular and impressive silence followed this
pronouncement. Suddenly a great sob came from
the expectant multitude — a sob at once of relief and
of exultant joy. Then the shouts of those who
listened and hoped were redoubled ; and the sky was
filled with shouts of " Ariston, Ariston ! "
Two days later Lydias and Ariston went to the
house of Mara. The former had accomplished the
task he had set himself to perform. Mara had
offered no opposition since it was at the instigation
and prayer of Lydias that he should consent to
Cyane's union with Ariston.
And now but one thmg more remained for Lydias :
320 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
to bid farewell to the house that had sheltered him
from childhood, to Mara and Cyane, who had been
father and sister to him. His intention was to join
the Lacedaemonians in their renewed attack against
Atliens ; to seek in war abroad the peace of mind
which could not be his in Syracuse.
The entreaties of Cyane and of her father, and of
Ariston, could not prevail to alter his determination
nor delay departure. He was to sail for Greece at
once, taking Dion with him.
Late that night a man and woman stood on the
furthermost point of the promontory of Ortygia.
The full moon, past the zenith, was sinking to the
mountains beyond the plain. The city, wrapt in
profound silence, shone with silvered brilliancy.
But neither the scene, nor yet their love for one
another, their past sufferings, their future union,
occupied the minds of the two. Cyane and Ai'iston
gazed earnestly and sorrowfully at the faint shadow
of a ship gradually withdrawing into the distant
gloom, thinking of one on board, who had brought
happiness to both by self-sacrifice, and was now a
voluntary exile from the country of his birth for
their sakes.
CYANE. 321
EPILOGUE.
Among " the elm-woods and the oaken " on the
northern slopes of Mount Olympus, little Amydon,
the shepherd, leaned against a rock. Below him the
goats and sheep grazed leisurely on green grass by
the side of springs, which leapt among the stones in
downward course, noisily tossing here and there thin
mists of spray.
From the rudely-fashioned w-ax-stopt pipe the boy
held to his lips merry notes came. Joy was in his
heart, was echoed in the music that he piped. Why
he knew not. But joy, too, was in the shadowy
woodlands, in the heights and valleys, in the sky
above, in the trills of hidden merles and nightingales
that came from thick bushes. Even the breeze mur-
mured pleasantly as it moved amid the leaves. Bells
of roving herds tinkled faintly from afar. The grass
was a lacework of dancing shadow embroidered by
the sun. Pasonies, pink and w^hite, and yellow
primulas, bedecked the ground with gladsome colour.
So little Amydon, pipe in hand, unwittingly played
his part in that joyful chorus of content, for joy begets
joy.
21
322 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
But suddenly the boy ceased his playing and fled
to a thicket swiftly. In the distance he had seen
one of whom the elder shepherds spoke with deepest
reverence, and he regarded with the greatest awe.
Trembling in his leafy sanctuary he watched him as
he approached, for, he told himself, he gazed on an
Immortal, one who had his home among the towering-
peaks above, where none might tread ; and he greatly
feared, though he had seen him often among the
trees.
Euripides, the Bard of Salamis, the glory of nobler
Athens, yet rejected of his countrymen and a
wanderer, had gone to Macedon to find the honours
which should have awaited him at home. Welcomed
and revered there, as he had been scorned and
mocked at Athens, he had now come to Mount
Olympus from the friendly court of Archelaiis, to
seek the solitude he needed for the furtherance of
his work — the final outpouring of his soul, wherein
the god Dionysos goes to the city of Thebes to be
rejected by his own people, to suffer insult and the
pain which Euripides himself had also suffered.
The usual grave and stately bearing of the poet
had become more stern. Of care his face was typical.
Long locks clustered about a high forehead, locks
as white as the beard which covered the massive jaw,
as the eyebrows which overshadowed deeply sunken
eyes. But if suffering was not absent from a face
CYANE 323
of singular beauty and refinement, it had not marred
the benign expression which lurked about the brow
and eyes.
Euripides, when espied by Amydon afar, was re-
turning to the grotto among the wooded slopes
wherein he was wont to write. Reaching the cave,
" in the still dell where the Muses dwell," above which
towered the " cloudless, rainless, windless " summit
of the mountain, the home of the Immortal Gods, he
sate awhile to ponder the thoughts which had come
to him during his lonely ramble. To him " the
wilderness was filled with moving voices and dim
stress " ; the earth and sky, the trees, the running
water having messages that other mortals failed to
hear.
Escaped but lately from the malicious persecution
of fellow-men to lonely solitudes, his mind was at
ease. In the peace of his surroundings, a quietude,
undisturbed except by the song of birds, the music
of wind among trees, the soft murmuring of distant
seas breaking on Thermaic shores — his soul found
rest.
He had lived long in Athens among bitter
jealousies, heated rivalries, ceaseless ambitions,
scepticism, doubts and heresy. He with his surpass-
ing genius had been foremost in that human turmoil,
seeking to control, striving to correct, and the end
had been but scorn and exile. No recompense was
it to him that his enemies had suffered, that his
21*
324 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
warnings had come true, for thereby Athens, his own
Athens, had suffered also.
But among the glades, the rocky heights, the shade
of mighty forests, fear had left him. He was safe
because he was alone — alone in that supernal world
which deep wisdom creates about a man and into
which none but he himself may enter.
" What else is wisdom ? What of man's endeavour,
Or God's high grace, so lovely and so great ?
To stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait ;
To hold a hand uplifted over Hate,"
he murmured softly to himself as he sate down to
rest.
Euripides' work was all but done, his term of life
nearing its close, as he knew. Yet here he was con-
tent ; content to have left the cares and toil of cities
to live in the enjoyment of that world which he him-
self had made and finally chosen, " alone in the
loveliness" of Thought and Nature. He could well
" hold a hand uplifted over Hate," as he had sung,
since he was now far above where " Hate " could
reach, guarded by his immortal fame, secure on the
heights of his imperishable achievements.
At that moment voices were heard, and steps ap-
proached. Euripides moved uneasily. He liked not
to be disturbed. His grave face showed signs of
annoyance.
Some five or six men, in whom fatigue of travel
and recent suffering were plainly visible, appeared
CYANE. 325
before the mouth of the cave. Amydon, the
shepherd, had laid aside his pipe and led them
in their search of the Poet ; with companions the lad
was more courageous.
Euripides asked what made the men disturb his
quiet unbidden. One, acting as spokesman, answered
for the others :
" We venture thus to seek you, for a cause more
grave and weighty than mere desire to speak with the
great Euripides," he said. " We have a debt to pay, to
give a message, and not on behalf of ourselves alone.
To you we owe our liberty."
The Poet looked up enquiringly.
" In Syracusan quarries," the man continued, " and
in infinite torment we lay, lost to all hope of free-
dom and of life. Each morn Death claimed our
bravest and our best ; and it seemed that nought re-
mained but to die and rot as they. One day our
prison gate was open and redemption was at hand.
At first no cause weis given for that leniency. But
then we knew. It was the magic of your poetry.
Hearts as hard as those walls of stone which shut us
in relented tardily, were melted at the sunshine of
your words, the beauty of your Muse. We come to
thank you, O Euripides, to praise the Gods and you
for their eternal gift."
Wlien the spokesman had finished the men knelt
at the feet of Euripides to kiss the hem of his robe.
The severe look of sorrow faded from the old man's
326 TALES OF OLD SICILY.
face. His eyes softened, and filled with tears of com-
passion, then of gratitude. He understood that his
words, sown broadcast, had not fallen on barren
ground, but had helped to ease a suffering of which
his own heart was full to overflowing.
Little Amydon, open-eyed and standing apart from
the others, approached the group, seeking in his goat-
skin wallet for his pipe meanwhile. He thought to
join once more the song of nightingale and merle
among the branches, to call the birds to sing the
louder at the bidding of the pipe ; for on the old
man's face he saw a joy akin to his, akin to that of
peaks and valleys, of shadowy woodlands, of music
of falling waters, of leafy soHtudes — a joy speaking
of sunshine and the clear sky above, which had filled
his own heart that morning. Then he was afraid no
longer of Euripides ; and he shyly stooped to kiss
the old man's hand.
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