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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. 
 
 Printed hy The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.
 
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