“Polemo!” The old man glanced up, and his wrinkled face broke into a smile. Calling to his oxen, he hurried toward the girls, hobbling along fast enough with the help of his stout stick. “Greeting, Sappho,” he said, “and to your friends greeting. What do you so far from the town, you who are to run to-day? Your mother early this morning bade me keep watch for you, saying you had gone to the hills at daybreak. Will you climb into the ‘chariot’?” and he chuckled, designating the heavy cart with its four-spoked wheels, with a sweep of his staff. “May we, Polemo? That will be great fun. These friends of mine have never been to our Lesbos before—it is but right they should enter Mitylene in state.” “Climb in, all of you. You’ll keep your feet out of the dust, even though you won’t reach home much sooner for all these four beasts will do for you. But climb in, climb in,” and the old fellow laughed as the three youngsters clambered joyously aboard his lumbering vehicle, Ruth and Rose hugely amused and delighted to be travelling in a manner so unusual. “What is this race you are to run, Sappho?” asked Rose, as they stood swaying in the cart, grasping one side firmly, and watching the oxen plant their heavy feet in the white dust, while they grunted protestingly in reply to the urgings of Polemo. “This is the maiden’s day, and we younger ones are to run the torch race. All the city will be out to see us. I am afraid of only one among the girls, my cousin Chloë. She is a few months my elder, and a very Artemis for running. But you will bring me fortune.” “I’m sure I hope so. How did you know we were coming to-day?” Sappho hesitated. “I—I don’t know exactly. I only know I was to go to the hill and fetch you. But your names I know not.” The girls quickly told her. At that moment a chariot flew by them, drawn by three horses and driven by a tall young man in fluttering robes. “Oh, look, Rose,” cried Ruth, her eyes shining. “Isn’t it just like the circus, only better.” “He threw the discobolus farther than any last year,” said Sappho. “Is he not beautiful!” And she waved her hand at the disappearing driver.