Take courage I no vain dream hast thou beheld,
But in thy sleep a truth.

HOMER.

At the time of Philothea's death, PandÆnus, the nephew of Phidias, was in Athens, intending soon to return to Elis, in company with an ambassador bound to LacedÆmon; and Eudora resolved to avail herself of this opportunity to follow the farewell advice of her friend. As the time for departure was near at hand, no change was made in household arrangements; and though the desolate maiden at times experienced sensations of extreme loneliness, the near vicinity of Clinias and Phoenarete left her no fears concerning adequate protection.

This confidence seemed well grounded; yet not many days after the funeral solemnities, Eudora suddenly disappeared. She had gone out, as usual, to gather flowers for the tomb of the beloved sleeper; and not rinding sufficient variety in the garden, had wandered into a small field adjoining. Milza was the first to observe that her absence was unusually protracted. She mentioned her anxiety to Geta, who immediately went out in search of his young mistress; but soon returned, saying she was neither in the house of Clinias, nor in the neighbouring fields, nor at the Fountain of CallirhÖe.

The faithful attendants at once suspected treachery in Alcibiades. "I never rightly understood what was the difficulty, when Eudora was locked up in her chamber, and Lucos chained to the door," said Geta; "but from what I could hear, I know that Phidias was very angry with Alcibiades. Many a time I've heard him say that he would always have his own way, either by a straight course or a crooked one."

"And my good old master used to say he had changed but little since he was a boy, when he made the wagoner turn back, by lying down in front of his horses," rejoined Milza: "I thought of that, when Alcibiades came and drank at the Fountain, while I was filling my urn. You remember I told you that he just tasted of the water, for a pretence, and then began to inquire where Eudora was, and whether she would remain in Athens."

After some further consultation, it was deemed best for Milza to request a private interview with Phoenarete, during which she freely expressed her fears. The wife of Clinias, though connected by marriage with the house of Alcibiades, was far from resenting the imputation, or pretending that she considered it groundless. Her feelings were at once excited for the lonely orphan girl, whose beauty, vivacity, and gentleness, had won upon her heart; and she readily promised assistance in any plan for her relief, provided it met the approbation of her husband.

There was in Salamis a large mansion built by Eurysaces, the ancestor of Alcibiades, by whom it had been lately purchased, and repaired for a summer residence. Report said that many a fair maiden had been decoyed within its walls, and retained a prisoner. This place was guarded by several powerful dogs, and vigilant servants were always stationed at the gates. Milza proposed to disguise herself as much as possible, and, with a basket on her head, go thither to offer fish for sale. Geta, being afraid to accompany her, hired an honest boatman to convey her to the island, and wait till she was ready to return to Athens.

As she approached the walls of the mansion, the dogs began to growl, but were soon silenced by the porters. Without answering the indecent jibes, with which they greeted her ears as she passed along, the little fish-woman balanced her basket on her head, and began carelessly to sing some snatches of a hymn to Amphitrite. It was a tune of which Eudora was particularly fond; and often when Milza was humming it over her work, her soft and sonorous voice had been heard responding from the inner apartment.

She had scarcely finished the first verse, ere the chorus was repeated by some one within the dwelling; and she recognized the half-suppressed growl of Hylax, as if his barking had been checked by some cautious hand. Afraid to attract attention by a prolonged stay, Milza passed along and entered the servants' apartment. Having sold a portion of her fish, and lingered as long as she dared in conversation with the cooks, she returned slowly in the same direction, singing as she went, and carefully observing everything around her. She was just beginning to fear the impossibility of obtaining any solution of her doubts, when she saw a leaf fluttering near the ground, as if its motions were impelled by some other cause than the wind. Approaching nearer, she perceived that it was let down from a grated opening in the wall above, by a small thread, with a little ball of wax attached to it for a weight. She examined the leaf, and discovered certain letters pricked upon it; and when the string was pulled gently, it immediately dropped upon her arm. At the same time, a voice, which she distinctly recognized as Eudora's, was heard singing:

On a rock, amid the roaring water,
Lies Cassiopea's gentle daughter.

Milza had just begun to sing, "Bold Perseus comes," when she perceived a servant crossing the court, and deemed it prudent to retire in silence. She carefully preserved the leaf, and immediately after her return hastened to the apartment of Phoenarete, to obtain an explanation. That matron, like most Grecian women, was ignorant of her own written language. The leaf was accordingly placed in a vessel of water, to preserve its freshness until Clinias returned from the Prytaneum. He easily distinguished the name of PandÆnus joined with his own; and having heard the particulars of the story, had no difficulty in understanding that Milza was directed to apply to them for assistance. He readily promised to intercede with his profligate kinsman, and immediately sent messengers in search of PandÆnus.

Geta awaited intelligence with extreme impatience. He was grateful for many an act of kindness from Eudora; and he could not forget that she had been the cherished favourite of his beloved and generous master.

At night, Clinias returned from a conference with Alcibiades, in which the latter denied all knowledge of Eudora; and it seemed hazardous to institute legal inquiries into the conduct of a man so powerful and so popular, without further evidence than had yet been obtained. PandÆnus could not be found. At the house where he usually resided, no information could be obtained, except that he went out on the preceding evening, and had not returned as usual.

During that night, and part of the following day, the two faithful attendants remained in a state of melancholy indecision. At last, Geta said, "I will go once more in search of PandÆnus; and if he has not yet returned, I have resolved what to do. To-day I saw one of the slaves of Artaphernes buying olives; and he said he must have the very best, because his master was to give a feast to-night. Among other guests, he spoke of Alcibiades; and he is one that is always sure to stay late at his wine. While he is feasting, I will go to Salamis. His steward often bought anchovies of me at Phalerum. He is a countryman of mine; and I know he is as avaricious as an Odomantian. I think money will bribe him to carry a message to Eudora, and to place a ladder near the outer wall for her escape. He is intrusted with all the keys, and can do it if he will. And if he can get gold enough by it, I believe he will trust Hermes to help him settle with his master, as he has done many a time before this. I will be in readiness at the Triton's Cove, and bring her back to Athens as fast as oars can fly."

"Do so, dear Geta," replied Milza; "but disguise yourself from the other servants, and take with you the robe and veil that I wear to market. Then if Eudora could only walk a little more like a fish-woman, she might pass very well. But be sure you do not pay the steward till you have her at the boat's edge; for he that will play false games with his master, may do the same by you."

Necessary arrangements were speedily made. Geta resolved to offer the earnings of his whole life as a bribe, rather than intrust the secret of his bold expedition to any of the household of Clinias; and Milza, fearful that their own store would not prove a sufficient temptation, brought forth a sum of money found in Eudora's apartment, together with a valuable necklace, which had been a birth-day present from Phidias.

It was past midnight when three figures emerged from the shadow of the high wall surrounding the mansion of Alcibiades, and with cautious haste proceeded toward the cove. Before they could arrive at the beach, a large and gaily-trimmed boat was seen approaching the shore, from the direction of the PirÆus. It was flaming with torches; and a band of musicians poured out upon the undulating waters a rich flood of melody, rendered more distinct and soft by the liquid element over which it floated. One of the fugitives immediately turned, and disappeared within the walls they had left; the other two concealed themselves in a thick grove, the darkness of which was deepened by the glare of torches along its borders. A man richly dressed, with several fillets on his head, and crowned with a garland of violets, ivy, and myrtle, stepped from the boat, supported by the arm of a slave. His countenance was flushed with wine, and as he reeled along, he sung aloud:

"Have I told you all my flames,
'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?
Have I numbered every one
Glowing under Egypt's sun!
Or the nymphs, who, blushing sweet,
Deck the shrine of Love in Crete—
Where the God, with festal play,
Holds eternal holiday?"

"Castor and Polydeuces!" whispered Geta, "there goes Alcibiades. He has returned from his wine earlier than usual; but so blinded by the merry god, that he would not have known us, if we had faced the glare of his torches."

"Oh, hasten! hasten!" said Eudora, weeping and trembling, as she spoke. "I beseech you do not let a moment be lost."

As Alcibiades and his train disappeared, they left the grove, and hurried toward their boat; keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the trees. They reached the cove in safety, and Geta rowed with unwonted energy; but he was single-handed, and Salamis was many stadia from Athens. Long before he arrived at the place were he had been accustomed to land, they heard the sound of distant oars plied with furious rapidity.

They landed, and with the utmost haste proceeded toward the city. Eudora, fearful of being overtaken, implored Geta to seek refuge behind the pillars of Poseidon's temple. Carefully concealing themselves in the dense shadow, they remained without speaking, and almost without breathing, until their pursuers had passed by. The moment these were out of hearing, they quitted their hiding-place, and walked swiftly along the PirÆus. Intense fear imparted a degree of strength, which the maiden, under other circumstances, would have hardly deemed it possible to exert. She did not for a moment relax her speed, until they came within sight of the Areopagus, and heard noisy shouts, apparently not far distant. Eudora, sinking with fatigue and terror, entreated Geta not to attempt any approach to the house of Clinias, where her enemies would certainly be lying in wait for them. With uncertain steps they proceeded toward the great Gate of the Acropolis, until the helpless maiden, frightened at the approaching noise, stopped suddenly, and burst into a flood of tears.

"There is one place of safety, if you have courage to try it," said Geta: "We are nearly under the PropylÆa; and close beside us is the grotto of CreÜsa. Few dare to enter it in the day-time, and no profane steps will venture to pass the threshold after nightfall; for it is said the gods often visit it, and fill it with strange sights and sounds. Shall we enter?"

It was a windy night, and the clouds that occasionally passed over the face of the moon gave the earth a dreary aspect. The high wall under which they stood seemed to frown gloomily upon them, and the long flight of white marble steps, leading from the PropylÆa, looked cold and cheerless beneath the fitful gleamings of the moon.

Eudora hesitated, and looked timidly around; but as the sound of riotous voices came nearer, she seized Geta's arm, and exclaimed, in hurried accents, "The gods protect me! Let us enter."

Within the grotto, all was total darkness. Having groped their way a short distance from the entrance, they found a large rock, on which they seated themselves. The voices approached nearer, and their discordant revelry had an awful sound amid the echoes of the grotto. These gradually died away in the distance, and were heard no more.

When all was perfectly still, Eudora, in whispered accents, informed Geta that she had been seized, as she stooped to gather flowers within sight of her own dwelling. Two men suddenly started up from behind a wall, and one covered her mouth, while the other bound her hands. They made a signal to a third, who came with two attendants and a curtained chariot, in which she was immediately conveyed to a solitary place on the seashore, and thence to Salamis. Two men sat beside her, and held her fast, so as to prevent any possibility of communication with the few people passing at that early hour.

Arrived at the place of destination, she was shut up in a large apartment, luxuriously furnished. Alcibiades soon visited her, with an affectation of the most scrupulous respect, urging the plea of ardent love as an excuse for his proceedings.

Aware that she was completely in his power, she concealed her indignation and contempt, and allowed him to indulge the hope that her affections might be obtained, if she were entirely convinced of his wish to atone for the treachery and violence with which she had been treated.

Milza's voice had been recognized the moment she began to sing; and she at once conjectured the object that led her thither. But when hour after hour passed without any tidings from PandÆnus or Clinias, she was in a state of anxiety bordering on distraction; for she soon perceived sufficient indication that the smooth hypocrisy of Alcibiades was assumed but for a short period.

She had already determined on an effort to bribe the servants, when the steward came stealthily to her room, and offered to convey her to the Triton's Cove, provided she would promise to double the sum already offered by Geta. To this she eagerly assented, without even inquiring the amount; and he, fearful of detection, scarcely allowed time to throw Milza's robe and veil over her own.

Having thus far effected her escape, Eudora was extremely anxious that PandÆnus and Clinias should be informed of her place of retreat, as soon as the morning dawned. When Geta told her that PandÆnus had disappeared as suddenly as herself, and no one knew whither, she replied, "This, too, is the work of Alcibiades."

Their whispered conversation was stopped by the barking of a dog, to which the echoes of the cavern gave a frightful appearance of nearness. Each instinctively touched the other's arm, as a signal for silence. When all was again quiet, Geta whispered, "It is well for us they were not witty enough to bring Hylax with them; for the poor fellow would certainly have betrayed us." This circumstance warned them of the danger of listeners, and few more words were spoken.

The maiden, completely exhausted by the exertions she had made, laid her head on the shoulder of her attendant, and slept until the morning twilight became perceptible through the crevices of the rocks.

At the first approach of day, she implored Geta to hasten to the house of Clinias, and ask his protection: for she feared to venture herself abroad, without the presence of some one whose rank and influence would be respected by Alcibiades.

"Before I go," replied Geta, "let me find a secure hiding-place for you; for though I shall soon return, in the meantime those may enter whose presence may be dangerous."

"You forget that this is a sacred place," rejoined Eudora, in tones that betrayed fear struggling with her confidence.

"There are men, with whom nothing is sacred," answered Geta; "and many such are now in Athens."

The cavern was deep, and wide. As they passed along, the dawning light indistinctly revealed statues of Phoebus and Pan, with altars of pure white marble. At the farthest extremity, stood a trophy of shields, helmets, and spears, placed there by Miltiades, in commemoration of his victory at Marathon. It was so formed as to be hollow in the centre, and Geta proposed that the timid maiden should creep in at the side, and stand upright. She did so, and it proved an effectual screen from head to foot. Having taken this prudent precaution, the faithful attendant departed, with a promise to return as soon as possible. But hour after hour elapsed, and he came not. As Eudora peeped through the chinks of the trophy, she perceived from the entrance of the cave glowing streaks of light, that indicated approaching noon. Yet all remained still, save the echoed din of noises in the city; and no one came to her relief.

Not long after the sun had begun to decline from its meridian, two men entered, whom she recognized as among the individuals that had seized and conveyed her to Salamis. As they looked carefully all around the cave, Eudora held her breath, and her heart throbbed violently. Perceiving no one, they knelt for a moment before the altars, and hastily retreated, with indications of fear; for the accusations of guilty minds were added to the usual terrors of this subterranean abode of the gods.

The day was fading into twilight, when a feeble old man came, with a garland on his head, and invoked the blessing of Phoebus. He was accompanied by a boy, who laid his offering of flowers and fruit on the altar of Pan, with an expression of countenance that showed how much he was alarmed by the presence of that fear-inspiring deity.

After they had withdrawn, no other footsteps approached the sacred place. Anxiety of mind, and bodily weariness, more than once tempted Eudora to go out and mingle with the throng continually passing through the city. But the idea that Geta might arrive, and be perplexed by her absence, combined with the fear of lurking spies, kept her motionless, until the obscurity of the grotto gave indication that the shadows of twilight were deepening.

During the day, she had observed near the trophy a heap of withered laurel branches and wreaths, with which the altar and statue of Phoebus had been at various times adorned. Overcome with fatigue, and desirous to change a position, which from its uniformity had become extremely painful, she resolved to lie down upon the rugged rock, with the sacred garlands for a pillow. She shuddered to remember the lizards and other reptiles she had seen crawling, through the day; but the universal fear of entering CreÜsa's grotto after nightfall, promised safety from human intrusion; and the desolate maiden laid herself down to repose, in such a state of mind that she would have welcomed a poisonous reptile, if it brought the slumbers of death. It seemed to her that she was utterly solitary and friendless; persecuted by men, and forsaken by the gods.

By degrees, all sounds died away, save the melancholy hooting of owls, mingled occasionally with the distant barking and howling of dogs. Alone, in stillness and total darkness, memory revealed herself with wonderful power. The scenes of her childhood; the chamber in which she had slept; figures she had embroidered and forgotten; tunes that had been silent for years; thoughts and feelings long buried; PhilÆmon's smile; the serene countenance of Philothea; the death-bed of Phidias; and a thousand other images of the past, came before her with all the vividness of present reality. Exhausted in mind and body, she could not long endure this tide of recollection. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively, as she murmured, "Oh, Philothea! why didst thou leave me? My guide, my only friend! oh, where art thou!"

A gentle strain of music, scarcely audible, seemed to make reply. Eudora raised her head to listen—and lo! the whole grotto was filled with light; so brilliant that every feather in the arrow of Phoebus might be counted, and the gilded horns and star of Pan were radiant as the sun.

Her first thought was that she had slept until noon. She rubbed her eyes, and glanced at the pedestal of a statue, on which she distinctly read the inscription: "Here Miltiades placed me, Pan, the goat-footed god of Arcadia, who warred with the Athenians against the Medes."

Frightened at the possibility of having overslept herself, she started up, and was about to seek the shelter of the trophy, when Paralus and Philothea stood before her! They were clothed in bright garments, with garlands on their heads. His arm was about her waist, and hers rested on his shoulder. There was a holy beauty in their smile, from which a protecting influence seemed to emanate, that banished mortal fear.

In sweet, low tones, they both said, as if with one voice, "Seek Artaphernes, the Persian."

"Dearest Philothea, I scarcely know his countenance," replied the maiden.

Again the bright vision repeated, "Seek Artaphernes, nothing doubting."

The sounds ceased; the light began to fade; it grew more and more dim, till all was total darkness. For a long time, Eudora remained intensely wakeful, but inspired with a new feeling of confidence and hope, that rendered her oblivious of all earthly cares. Whence it came, she neither knew nor asked; for such states preclude all inquiry concerning their own nature and origin.

After awhile, she fell into a tranquil slumber, in which she dreamed of torrents crossed in safety, and of rugged, thorny paths, that ended in blooming gardens. She was awakened by the sound of a troubled, timid voice, saying, "Eudora! Eudora!"

She listened a moment, and answered, "Is it you, Milza?"

"Oh, blessed be the sound of your voice," replied the peasant. "Where are you? Let me take your hand; for I am afraid in this awful place."

"Don't be frightened, my good Milza. I have had joyful visions here," rejoined the maiden. She reached out her arms as she spoke, and perceived that her companion trembled exceedingly. "May the gods protect us!" whispered she; "but it is a fearful thing to come here in the night-time. All the gold of Croesus would not have tempted me, if Geta had not charged me to do it, to save you from starving."

"You are indeed kind friends," said Eudora; "and the only ones I have left in this world. If ever I get safely back to Elis, you shall be to me as brother and sister."

"Ah, dear lady," replied the peasant, "you have ever been a good friend to us;—and there is one that sleeps, who never spoke an ungentle word to any of us. When her strength was almost gone, she bade me love Eudora, even as I had loved her; and the gods know that for her sake Milza would have died. Phoebus protect me, but this is an awful place to speak of those who sleep. It must be near the dawn; but it is fearfully dark here. Where is your hand? I have brought some bread and figs, and this little arabyllus of water mixed with Lesbian wine. Eat; for you must be almost famished."

Eudora took the refreshment, but ere she tasted it, inquired, "Why did not Geta come, as he promised?" Milza began to weep.

"Has evil befallen him?" said Eudora, in tones of alarm.

The afflicted wife sobbed out, "Poor Geta! Poor, dear Geta! I dreaded to come into this cavern; but then I thought if I died, it would be well, if we could but die together."

"Do tell me what has happened," said Eudora: "Am I doomed to bring trouble upon all who love me? Tell me, I entreat you."

Milza, weeping as she spoke, then proceeded to say that Alcibiades had discovered Eudora's escape immediately after his return from the feast of Artaphernes. He was in a perfect storm of passion, and threatened every one of the servants with severe punishment, to extort confession. The steward received a few keen lashes, notwithstanding his protestations of innocence. But he threatened to appeal to the magistrates for another master; and Alcibiades, unwilling to lose the services of this bold and artful slave, restrained his anger, even when it was at its greatest height.

To appease his master's displeasure, the treacherous fellow acknowledged that Geta had been seen near the walls, and that his boat had been lying at the Triton's Cove.

In consequence of this information, men were instantly ordered in pursuit, with orders to lie in wait for the fugitives, if they could not be overtaken before morning. When Geta left CreÜsa's Grotto, he was seized before he reached the house of Clinias.

Milza knew nothing of these proceedings, but had remained anxiously waiting till the day was half spent. Then she learned that Alcibiades had claimed Eudora and Geta as his slaves, by virtue of a debt due to him from Phidias, for a large quantity of ivory; and notwithstanding the efforts of Clinias in their favour, the Court of Forty Four, in the borough of Alcibiades, decided that he had a right to retain them, until the debt was paid, or until the heir appeared to show cause why it should not be paid. "The gods have blessed Clinias with abundant wealth," said Eudora; "Did he offer nothing to save the innocent?"

"Dear lady," replied Milza, "Alcibiades demands such an immense sum for the ivory, that he says he might as well undertake to build the wall of Hipparchus, as to pay it. But I have not told you the most cruel part of the story. Geta has been tied to a ladder, and shockingly whipped, to make him tell where you were concealed. He said he would not do it, if he died. I believe they had the will to kill him; but one of the young slaves, whose modesty Alcibiades had insulted, was resolved to make complaint to the magistrates, and demand another master. She helped Geta to escape: they have both taken refuge in the Temple of Theseus. Geta dared trust no one but me to carry a message to Clinias. I told him he supped with Pericles to-night; and he would not suffer me to go there, lest Alcibiades should be among the guests."

"I am glad he gave you that advice," said Eudora; "for though Pericles might be willing to serve me, for Philothea's sake, I fear if he once learned the secret, it would soon be in Aspasia's keeping."

"And that would be all the same as telling Alcibiades himself," rejoined Milza. "But I must tell you that I did not know of poor Geta's sufferings until many hours after they happened. Since he went to Salamis in search of you, I have not seen him until late this evening. He is afraid to leave the altar, lest he should fall into the hands of his enemies; and that is the reason he sent me to bring you food. He expects to be a slave again; but having been abused by Alcibiades, he claims the privilege of the law to be transferred to another master."

Eudora wept bitterly, to think she had no power to rescue her faithful attendant from a condition he dreaded worse than death.

Milza endeavoured, in her own artless way, to soothe the distress her words had excited. "In all Geta's troubles, he thinks more of you than he does of himself," said she. "He bade me convey you to the house of a wise woman from Thessalia, who lives near the Sacred Gate; for he says she can tell us what it is best to do. She has learned of magicians in foreign lands. They say she can compound potions that will turn hatred into love; and that the power of her enchantments is so great, she can draw the moon down from the sky."

"Nevertheless, I shall not seek her counsel," replied the maiden; "for I have heard a better oracle."

When she had given an account of the vision in the cave, the peasant asked, in a low and trembling voice, "Did it not make you afraid?"

"Not in the least," answered Eudora; "and therefore I am doubtful whether it were a vision or a dream. I spoke to Philothea just as I used to do; without remembering that she had died. She left me more composed and happy than I have been for many days. Even if it were a vision, I do not marvel that the spirit of one so pure and peaceful should be less terrific than the ghost of Medea or Clytemnestra."

"And the light shone all at once!" exclaimed Milza, eagerly. "Trust to it, dear lady—trust to it. A sudden brightness hath ever been a happy omen."

Two baskets, filled with Copaic eels and anchovies, had been deposited near the mouth of the cavern; and with the first blush of morning, the fugitives offered prayers to Phoebus and Pan, and went forth with the baskets on their heads, as if they sought the market. Eudora, in her haste, would have stepped across the springs that bubbled from the rocks; but Milza held her back, saying, "Did you never hear that these brooks are CreÜsa's tears? When the unhappy daughter of Erectheus left her infant in this cave to perish, she wept as she departed; and Phoebus, her immortal lover, changed her tears to rills. For this reason, the water has ever been salt to the taste. It is a bad omen to wet the foot in these springs."

Thus warned, Eudora turned aside, and took a more circuitous path.

It happened, fortunately, that the residence of Artaphernes stood behind the temple of Asclepius, at a short distance from CreÜsa's Grotto; and they felt assured that no one would think of searching for them within the dwelling of the Persian stranger. They arrived at the gate without question or hindrance; but found it fastened. To their anxious minds, the time they were obliged to wait seemed like an age; but at last the gate was opened, and they preferred a humble request to see Artaphernes. Eudora, being weary of her load, stooped to place the basket of fish on a bench, and her veil accidentally dropped. The porter touched her under the chin, and said, with a rude laugh, "Do you suppose, my pretty dolphin, that Artaphernes buys his own dinner?"

Eudora's eyes flashed fire at this familiarity; but checking her natural impetuosity, she replied, "It was not concerning the fish that I wished to speak to your master. We have business of importance."

The servant gave a significant glance, more insulting than his former freedom. "Oh, yes, business of importance, no doubt," said he; "but do you suppose, my little Nereid, that the servant of the Great King is himself a vender of fish, that he should leave his couch at an hour so early as this?"

Eudora slipped a ring from her finger, and putting it in his hand, said, in a confidential tone, "I am not a fish-woman. I am here in disguise. Go to your master, and conjure him, if he ever had a daughter that he loved, to hear the petition of an orphan, who is in great distress."

The man's deportment immediately changed; and as he walked away, he muttered to himself, "She don't look nor speak like one brought up at the gates; that's certain."

Eudora and Milza remained in the court for a long time, but with far less impatience than they had waited at the gate. At length the servant returned, saying his master was now ready to see them. Eudora followed, in extreme agitation, with her veil folded closely about her; and when they were ushered into the presence of Artaphernes, the embarrassment of her situation deprived her of the power of utterance. With much kindness of voice and manner, the venerable stranger said: "My servant told me that one of you was an orphan, and had somewhat to ask of me."

Eudora replied: "O Persian stranger, I am indeed a lonely orphan, in the power of mine enemies; and I have been warned by a vision to come hither for assistance."

Something in her words, or voice, seemed to excite surprise, mingled with deeper feelings; and the old man's countenance grew more troubled, as she continued: "Perhaps you may recollect a maiden that sung at Aspasia's house, to whom you afterwards sent a veil of shining texture?"

"Ah, yes," he replied, with a deep sigh: "I do recollect it. They told me she was Eudora, the daughter of Phidias."

"I am Eudora, the adopted daughter of Phidias," rejoined the maiden. "My benefactor is dead, and I am friendless."

"Who were your parents?" inquired the Persian.

"I never knew them," she replied. "I was stolen from the Ionian coast by Greek pirates. I was a mere infant when Phidias bought me."

In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, Artaphernes asked, "Were you then named Eudora?"

The maiden's heart began to flutter with a new and strange hope, as she replied, "No one knew my name. In my childish prattle, I called myself Baby Minta."

The old man started from his seat—his colour went and came—and every joint trembled. He seemed to make a strong effort to check some sudden impulse. After collecting himself for a moment, he said, "Maiden, you have the voice of one I dearly loved; and it has stirred the deepest fountains of my heart. I pray you, let me see your countenance."

As Eudora threw off the veil, her long glossy hair fell profusely over her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful face was flushed with eager expectation.

The venerable Persian gazed at her for an instant, and then clasped her to his bosom. The tears fell fast, as he exclaimed, "Artaminta! My daughter! My daughter! Image of thy blessed mother! I have sought for thee throughout the world, and at last I believed thee dead. My only child! My long-lost, my precious one! May the blessing of Oromasdes be upon thee."