I believe in life and in all it holds Of beauty and joy and love, In the flowers that dream in my garden gay, And the glittering snows above. In the sweet fresh breath of dawn in spring-- Rose hills in the sunset light-- In the moon peeping out from her spangled veil, In the warm scented summer night. In play I believe, in sport and game, In the call of the swift foot pack; In the arrow’s flight and the sword-blade’s kiss, In the hoofs drumming down the track. In the stress of work that makes our world, In the days of the tautened trace; In the task that we finish clean and fair, With a laugh in Death’s dark face. I believe in the friendships held so dear, Children’s laughter and men’s grave smiles, In the pleasures shared and the sorrows halved, In the thoughts that bridge the miles. But love is the pivot that swings the whole, The molten heart of the glow, Just a man and a woman--all in all-- _That’s_ God’s heaven for us below. The music was pregnant with life, and Aryenis sang it as if she meant every word of it. When she finished, there was a low hum of applause--the real thing. She came over and sat down by Milos and me. “Did you like the tune of that?” she asked. “Very much, Aryenis.” “I’m glad. It’s rather a nice thing that Paulos composed. I’ll write you out the words in Greek one day. It’s all about life and what life ought to be like. It’s a wonderful thing to have been written by a cripple. The music is Andros’s. He’s clever, isn’t he?” “Yes. Is he as good at other things, too?” “I think there’s nothing Andros can’t do,” said Milos. “He’s one of the best riders I know; quite the finest shot with a bow in the whole clan, and last year he carried off the prize for the best man at arms in our weapon show. He’s a good leader in war, and popular with everybody under him. A good musician, and--though he’s shy about it--somewhat of a poet.” “You’re fortunate in having a man like that under you,” said I. “Aryenis was telling me that he helps you a good deal.” “Yes. He’s getting more and more my right-hand man. Under Kyrlos and myself most of the preparations for this war have been made by him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, which does not always go with the more showy qualities.” Then he turned to Aryenis. “Will you finish the evening for us with that little song of Andros’s? I have not heard it for quite a long time, and you used to sing it a lot.” “If you like, uncle mine. If Andros will play it for me, that is.” Milos called to Andros, asking him to play again, and Aryenis sang a little short ballad with a very haunting refrain. If I could write verse as Andros does, I wouldn’t be shy about it. I’d put it into print straight away and let the world see it. But still they have no press in Sakaeland, and if you have some one like Aryenis to sing your poems, then a press is worse than superfluous.