The back of the stage represented a smooth, white marble wall, fronted by a range of Corinthian pillars wreathed with milky blossoms, and in the centre, great folding doors ready to be flung open when required by the exigencies of the play. Against this absolutely colorless background moved the brilliant figures of the performers in measured fashion, with stately gestures, as moved those serene, side-faced figures on the marble urn dreamed of by Keats. The clear light of the sun burned on the great half-circle of eager faces with steady effulgence, and left in delicate shadow that wide white stage, whereon was to be enacted a drama such as we in England, lacking all things necessary to such colossal majesty, can never hope to see. All being read, the curtain arose, or rather fell, for Crispin, with strict fidelity to Athenian usages, had adopted this curious mode of withdrawing the veil between audience and performers. The stage is empty, but a wild chant sounds in the distance, and a long train of Moslems, headed by their Sultan, sweeps in, bearing with them Hellas, a captive in her own land to the barbaric power. Helena, draped in black and manacled with chains, represented Hellas, who stands with melancholy mien amid the gaudily dressed chorus of Moslems, listening to their songs of triumph over her downfall. “We have chained you to our chariot,” they sing tauntingly, “yet thou need’st not look so downcast, for a slave hast thou been before, and a slave thou wilt be hereafter. Thy shrines, thy palaces, thy city walls have fallen, and fallen too art thou.” The chorus having ended their exalting strains, the Sultan addresses Hellas, and offers to make her his wife, thus incorporating the ancient land of loveliness with the newly constructed power of the Turk; but Hellas, who is Athena incarnate, scorns his offer to make her an odalisque of the harem. “Virgin I was, virgin I am, virgin I remain,” says the fallen queen, with haughty grace; “my body you may chain with iron, but the soul is under the protection of Zeus, the Supreme; therefore will I sit here in desolation rather than partake of the splendors you offer me.” Furious with rage, the barbarian smites her, but she, still smiling, repeats constantly, “The body is thine, but the soul is mine;” so in wrath he leaves her, with a promise that her woes shall never end, and the Moslem chorus follow him from the stage, with triumphant shouts of joy at the success of their arms. Left alone, chained and desolate, amid the ruins of her temples, Hellas bewails her downfall, which contrasts so darkly with her former brilliance in classic times. Crispin afterwards translated the play into blank verse for the benefit of Maurice, but the English verse gives but a poor idea of the fire and majesty of the sonorous Greek original. “Woe is me!” cries the fallen queen—