Courage, my poet! The age of iron is not yet supreme, For youth still throbs in the old veins of Mother Earth, wan and weary with sorrowful centuries. Tho’ girdled our world by wires multitudinous transmitting the swift message of electricity; Tho’ the straight and curved lines of the railway run parallel along the immensity of continents for the advancement of culture; Tho’ ships, steam-driven, even against storms, plough the waters of perilous oceans;— Yet somewhere beyond the confines of our selfish civilization There lies an Arcadia among the lone mountains, or perchance encircled by tideless seas, Wherein dwell delicate beings who know not ambition or avarice, And work but for bread—for bread alone, tempering such toil with singing melodious, and merry pipings at sundown. Therefore, courage, my poet! They were early risers in Melnos, for in that invigorating climate it was impossible, even for the most indolent, to lie sluggishly in bed, and the sun was hardly above the eastern horizon before Justinian, his household and guests, were seated at breakfast. Helena was not present, having already gone out in the deliciously fresh morning air on some expedition connected with flowers; so the meal was a strictly masculine one, and the four men made their plans for the day. Crispin and Caliphronas decided to remain at the Acropolis, as they were already well acquainted with the lions of the island, the one to write letters, the other to await the return of Helena, over whose movements he kept watch with all the jealous solicitude of a doubtful lover; and Maurice, in company of Justinian, went down to the valley, in order that the Englishman might be shown all the wonders of this unique place. The white indoor robes of the previous evening were now discarded in favor of a serviceable costume similar to that worn by the rough Cretan mountaineers,—long boots of brown leather, loose blue trousers thrust therein at the knees, a red sash, white shirt of wool, and blue jackets, together with a flowing capote and hood to cover the head when the sun grew unpleasantly strong. Justinian wore a red fisherman’s cap with a gold tassel on his white locks, but Maurice was supplied with a large gray felt sombrero, the shade of which was very grateful. The island king looked truly regal in this picturesque dress, with his long gray beard, his sun-tanned skin, fierce black eyes, and reverend locks; lithe and active as a young man, he carried his burden of sixty-five years with the greatest of ease, and as he walked beside Maurice, with a light springy step, the sculptor began to think that his companion must have discovered the secret of perpetual youth.