“Not at all. I would have once, but now I have a chance of staying in this delightful island, I don’t think it would be such a great loss after all.” Maurice had hardly said these words when he heard a grunt of satisfaction behind him, and on turning his head saw Justinian standing beside him, in company with Caliphronas. “So you don’t mind if you lose your English property,” said the Demarch in a peculiar tone. “No; not when I can stay here. Did you hear the story I was telling to Helena?” “Some of it. Do you think your Uncle Rudolph is alive?” “Hardly, after forty years.” “What is forty years to a long-living race like the Roylands?” “How do you know we are long living?” “Why, you told me so yourself,” said Justinian hastily; “but, after all, your uncle may be alive, and claim the property, in which case you will be penniless.” “Oh, then, I shall stay here as sculptor to your public works.” The old man laughed approvingly, and nodded his head. “I will be glad of that. None of my Greeks can sculpture. It is a lost art with the Hellenes since the days of Praxiteles.” “I will make a statue of Helena here as Venus Urania.” “Better as Chloris,” remarked Caliphronas, with a forced smile, coming forward; “Chloris, the goddess of flowers.” “For that charming suggestion,” cried Helena, rising to her feet, “I will give you a rose, Andros!” “I will treasure it as my life,” he replied in a low, passionate voice, as she fastened the flower in his embroidered jacket. “What about my rose, Helena?” asked Maurice, who viewed this proceeding with silent rage. “Here is one for you,” answered Helena quickly; “both roses are red, so you can’t complain I don’t treat you fairly.” “Perhaps you had better make the roses white, in order to mean silence,” said Caliphronas, pale with anger as he saw Maurice receive a flower; “the red rose means love, you know.” “Sisterly love,” retorted Helena, looking at him with an undeniable frown. Caliphronas, with a sudden outburst of rage, tore the flower from his breast, flung it on the pavement, and walked out of the court without a word. Helena in astonishment turned to Maurice, only to find that he also had vanished, but, with more self-restraint than the Greek, had taken his rose with him. Only Justinian was left, and he, looking sadly at his daughter, placed his hand reproachfully on her shoulder. “My child,” he said reprovingly, “do not make ill blood between these two men by your woman’s wiles. Ate flung the apple of discord on the table of the gods, but it would have done no harm but for woman’s jealousy. Your name is Helena: you are, I doubt not, as fair as she of Troy, so beware lest your beauty be as fatal to Melnos as it was to Ilium.” CHAPTER XXIII. BACCHANALIA.