“I hope they won’t be getting into trouble,” said Justinian, with a frown. “I want no quarrels here.” “Then you had better go and see about them to-morrow, for if this hero-worship goes on, trouble there certainly will be.” “And doubtless you would be very glad to see such trouble,” thought Justinian to himself, as he eyed Caliphronas with a doubtful face. “I must lose no time in putting things to rights. Trouble at this juncture would play into your hands, my friend.” There was a very merry party that night, as even Caliphronas seemed to forget all his jealous feelings with regard to Maurice, and lay himself out to be entertaining. The stern face of Justinian relaxed, and Helena, full of girlish glee, was evidently quite charmed with this handsome Englishman who had arrived so unexpectedly in Melnos. As for Crispin, he was very happy, for he now began to hope that Justinian would tell him all he wanted to know, and thus sweep away all obstacles to his union with Eunice. In fact, one and all laid aside their secret cares and plans to indulge in light-hearted merriment at the simple meal. Simple it was in every way, and yet infinitely charming, consisting as it did of goat’s flesh, white bread, golden honey, fresh cheese; and for drink, that strong resinous Greek wine, which Maurice found so rich for his palate, that he was fain to follow the temperate example of Caliphronas, and mingle it with water. After supper they all went out into the court, and with the exception of Caliphronas, began to smoke Turkish tobacco provided by Justinian, who was rather proud of his Latakia, while Helena, seating herself on the marge of the fountain, joined gayly in the trifling conversation in which all indulged out of sheer light-heartedness. At the end of the court a charcoal fire burned in a kind of tripod, and, perfumes being cast thereon, a thick white smoke ascended like incense to the clear sky. Near this stood Caliphronas, and the red light streaming on his statuesque face, his white garb, made him a very striking figure. The other gentlemen were seated decorously in chairs, and the moon streaming down on their snowy robes, on the exquisite upturned face of Helena, produced an effect quite antipathetical to their excessively modern conversation. Pale moon, glittering stars, solemn court, soaring incense;—they should have been a company of philosophers talking of the destiny of the soul, of the sacred festivals, and unseen deities; but, by the law of contrast, they talked nothing but frivolity, and laughed at their own light badinage; Helena’s girlish laugh ringing clear above the deep tones of the men. “I was wrong,” said Maurice to himself, as he watched this perfect girlish picture; “she is not Venus, but Nausicaa, and I am a modern Ulysses at the court of Alcinous.” “Are you worshipping at the altar of Vulcan, Caliphronas?” called out Crispin to the Greek, who stood almost veiled in the clouds of incense.