To-night! Oh, could she go down into the lane and greet him there? But how? The house wall was too high for her down-clambering or for his ascent. The front door was guarded by Medon. She would ask Baltè to take her. Surely on this her last night at home Baltè would be kind. Meanwhile the news of Theria’s departure was noised through the house. Melantho was excited, bewildered, frightened. She was closeted with Nikander. The slaves were weeping. One after another stole to Theria’s door, the men awkward in their grief, the women and girls throwing their arms about their little mistress in stress of tears. Theria waited till nightfall before she asked Baltè. “Just to go out into the lane a little while, Baltè—to stand near the stream.” Baltè sometimes had taken her there. But always of a morning when Baltè was doing her washing. “Not in the evening, little mistress. You know your mother would not allow it.” “She will not care this time. Oh, Baltè, you will have no more chances to please me!” “But surely I am going to be with you in the Pythia House, little mistress?” cried Baltè, frightened. “There, Baltè, don’t cry. Of course you will.” But Baltè had already consented to her little mistress’s wish. The two entered the lane at nightfall, climbed the short steep path beside the stream to the very wall of the cliff. “But, Missy, I should think you would rather stay down near the highroad where you could glimpse the folk passing.” “Not to-night, Baltè. It is only the air I want and to be still, very still.” She slipped into a cleft of the hillside and drew Baltè with her. How quiet it was. A cricket chirped above her on the hillside, lonely in the stillness. At the opening of the lane the highroad was half hidden by the rocks. “Missy, it’s growing late. We mustn’t stay too long.” “Oh Baltè, wait—wait.” Never in her life had Theria known fear such as this—the fear of the Argive’s not coming. It choked her. It tasted bitter in her mouth. But why should he come? Oh, why should he, to her who had been only cruel, who had thrown only contempt from her window—that window which now stared at her dimly at a distance like some vacant fate—— What was that? Oh, Paian, a stir in the bushes above her, a form in the dusk that walked swiftly and stopped under her window. Ah, dear gods, how intently he gazed up where he thought to find her! She slipped from Baltè’s hand and sped like a freed bird toward him. Lightly she touched his arm. She could not speak. He wheeled—saw her. “Gods in Olympos! My lady!” The Argive’s hope had been largely boasting. He had never imagined a thing like this that she should greet him in the lane. Now he saw her changed face. His voice broke with tenderness. “Eleutheria,” he whispered. Her timid hand reached toward him.