The girl knew them now. She had seen before the brown-faced twins, both wearing tiny horns; they always kept together. She knew the great white ewe with a blue ribbon on her neck, and the huge ram with twisted horns that made her half afraid. Would he mind Scotch plaid, she wondered, as he raised his head and eyed her? She sat alert, ready for swift flight up the slope behind her in case of attack, but he turned to his pasture in the pit with the air of one ready to waive trifles, and the girl leaned back again. When Apollo, the keeper of sheep, entered, Daphne received his greeting with no surprise: even if he had come without these forerunners she would have known that he was near. It was she who broke the silence as he approached. "A theatre seems a singularly appropriate place for you and your flock," she remarked. "You make a capital actor." There was no laughter in his eyes to-day and he did not answer. A wistful look veiled the triumphant gladness of his face. "They didn't play pastorals in olden time, did they?" asked Daphne. "No," he answered, "they lived them. When they had forgotten how to do that they began to act." He took a flute from his pocket and began to play. A cry rang out through the gladness of the notes, and it brought tears to the girl's eyes. He stopped, seeing them there, and put the flute back into his pocket. "Did you take my advice the other day?" he asked. "The advice was very general," said Daphne. "I presume an oracle's always is. No, I did not follow it." "Antigone, Antigone," he murmured. "Why Antigone?" demanded the girl. "Because your duty is dearer to you than life, and love." "Please go down there," said the girl impetuously, "and play Antigone for me. Make me see it and feel it. I have been sitting here for an hour wishing that I could realize here a tragedy of long ago." He bowed submissively. "Commands from Caesar's seat must always be obeyed," he observed. "Do you know Greek, Antigone?" She nodded. "I know part of this play by heart," she faltered. "My father taught me Greek words when I was small enough to ride his foot." He stepped down among the sheep to the grassy stage, laying aside his hat and letting the sun sparkle on his bright hair. The odd sheepskin coat lent a touch of grotesqueness to his beauty as he began. "'Nay, be thou what thou wilt; but I will bury him: well for me to die in doing that. I shall rest, a loved one with him whom I have loved, sinless in my crime; for I owe a longer allegiance to the dead than to the living: in that world I shall abide forever.'" Slow, full, and sweet the words came, beating like music on the girl's heart. All the sorrow of earth seemed gathered up in the undertones, all its hunger and thirst for life and love: in it rang the voice of a will stronger than death and strong as love.