“Always you make me remember that you are Eleutheria,” he said in a low, awed voice. “If you were like other women I could not so love you—oh, do you believe how I love you—love you?” Then before she could answer— “Go,” he said hastily. “While I can let you go.” She bowed her head and started down the lane. But he caught her back with passionate kisses. He knew it was the last time. There in the narrow lane pure love, neglected and chilled by Greek custom and unknown to Greek sullying passion, burned high and clear like an altar flame. Baltè was beside herself with fear. Yet if she gave the alarm what a punishment there would be for her darling! Only the dread Cyprian could know when they would have parted had not a step echoed from the highway and Medon’s deaf-hollow voice called: “Baltè, ye fool. If ye don’t come in I’ll lock the door on ye. What time is this to be stayin’ out in the night with the little mistress?” And at this Baltè gathered her nurseling in her arms and almost carried her into the house. CHAPTER XXI A PROCESSION OF SACRIFICE Next morning it was Nikander himself who came to awaken his daughter. The house was full of the bustle and awe of the departure. The dawn was yet grey. Melantho brought a white festal robe and for one long hour she and Baltè dressed the young candidate, pinning the robe at the shoulders, clasping the girdle, drawing the soft fabric up through it, full over the breast, then adjusting the long straight folds to the sandalled feet. Melantho brought the casket of jewels. “Where are the pearls?” she complained. “You should have the pearls to-day.” Theria put her deft fingers among the jewels, stirring their glitter. “Please leave me without jewels, Mother,” she said quietly. Then she added, “Oh, Mother, let me give them to the god. Apollo loves gifts. He says if one gives one’s all it is as great as the bowl of Crœsos. These are my all. Perhaps they will help.” So they crowned her with red roses and hung a great garland of roses about her neck. Baltè thought she had never seen any one so beautiful as her dark-eyed darling. But Nikander, coming to look at her, was touched with anxiety. “Daughter,” he questioned, “your hope is yet strong in you? Do you feel that you can reach the god?” “Yes, Father, I was never so sure as to-day,” she answered him. He took Baltè aside. “What is it? Her eyes?” he asked anxiously. “It is almost a fatal look. Is she well?” “Yes, Master,” said Baltè. “But Master must remember that she is leaving her home. That is awesome for a maid.” “No doubt; yes, indeed,” he agreed. He went to his own room and brought forth a cup of his most delicate wine. “I want roses in your cheeks this morning, Theria,” he said as he gave it to her. But the roses came before she drank. For as she took the cup she noted its picture—the same that was on the cup that she had broken—Athena bestowing upon a worshipper—the same delicate sureness of drawing—unmistakable!