After all that he had come through, Maurice found no difficulty in inducing sleep to come to his pillow. The room he occupied was one of those built by Justinian when he renovated this antique fane, and the walls, floor, and ceiling were of that fine-grained red sandstone of which the staircase was built. The pavement was bare, save for Turkish rugs scattered here and there, which lack of carpeting made the apartment wonderfully cool and pleasant, but the walls were draped with a heavy kind of woollen tapestry similar to those in the court, saving that the color was a pale gray, and the embroideries terra-cotta color to match the floor. A wide window, shaded by Indian beadworked blinds, looked out on to a pleasant prospect of forest which clothed the side of the mountain, and the cool wind, heavy with aromatic scents, stole into the room. It was also furnished in a somewhat antique fashion, though here and there an anachronism betrayed the nineteenth century, but the couch whereon Maurice rested was purely Greek in design, and lying on this in his white robe, with a purple coverlet flung carelessly over his feet, he might have been taken for some dweller in ancient Athens. True, the mustache on his lip savored somewhat of the barbarian, but in all other respects the comparison was close enough, for if his features were not quite so classic in outline as those of Caliphronas, they were sufficiently so to pass muster in the carrying out of such fancy.

Lying there with his eyes half closed, the young Englishman in a drowsy fashion felt the balmy odors permeating the warm air, and saw as in a dream the antique room, the pleasant prospect beyond, which was but mistily seen through the veiling beadwork blind. He was puzzled over the kind reception accorded to him by this strange Justinian, who he had been led to believe was a kind of modern freebooter. No swarthy, fantastically-dressed, savage marauder was this island king, but a gracious, courteous gentleman, arrayed in the white robe of Socrates, with a winning smile on his face, and polite words on his lips. Crispin seemed to mistrust him indeed, but even Crispin seemed somewhat astonished at the suavity of his greeting, and now appeared inclined to recant his former dislike of the old man. Maurice longed to have a confidential chat with Crispin, and find out his feelings on the subject, as it was evident that, far from inclining to Caliphronas, their host seemed more disposed to side with them.

Again, Maurice found it difficult to account for the old man’s sudden liking for himself, for the satisfaction with which he had received the information that his daughter’s face had lured the young Englishman to his island retreat, and for many other things.

“Mystery, mystery, nothing but mystery!” said Maurice to himself, as he closed his aching eyes. “I cannot make these folks out; but, at all events, King Justinian does not seem to disapprove of my passion, and is inclined to give Crispin the information he desires, so I trust all will go well. Sooner or later I will solve all these problems which are now so tantalizing; but, come what may, one good thing is in store for me. I shall see Helena to-night!”

A wave of sleep seemed to roll over his weary brain, now relaxed from the terrible tension of the previous night, and he gradually sank into a deep slumber, with the name of his unseen goddess still on his lips.

Then he dreamed strange dreams of romance, filled with the serenity of Hellenic calm, which floated magically through his brain, and made his slumber delightful with forms of exquisite beauty. He was standing with Helena in the temple of Athena, and together they touched the knees of the undying goddess; but the face of Helena was veiled, and he could see but vaguely the perfect features which had hitherto been so clear in his dreams. Again, they were wandering like lovers beneath the serene Attic sky, beside the bright, gushing Ilissus, and he strove to kiss her, the kiss of betrothal, but she faded away as did the cloud-Juno in the arms of Ixion, and a voice blown by some faint winds cried, “Love, but win.” Then he was on board a galley, putting off from the green shore towards the purple mists of sea, and Helena was lying in his arms, while the Greek Caliphronas strove fiercely to snatch her from him. Arrows rattled on the shields of his men, the watch-fires blazed on the high mountain tops, and the air was hot with the flame of battle. In his dream he saw the phantom of himself lay down the cloudy Helena, and dash on the phantom Greek with a mighty sword. A strident cry, a flash as of flame dividing the night, then the phantom Caliphronas vanished, and the galley was sailing, sailing far into the purple night, while, clasped in each other’s arms, Helena and himself murmured the songs of love, until they melted ghost-like into the misty splendor of the sinking sun.

When he awoke, it was quite dark, and, springing from his couch, he hastily took his watch to the window, and found it was nearly eight o’clock, so his sleep had lasted over six hours. Feeling greatly refreshed by this rest, he bathed his face and hands in cold water, with the intention of going outside into the delicious night air. That the moon was up he could see by the doubtful glimmer of her pale light, but, the shadow of the house being in front of her, she could not be seen in her full splendor.

Wondering where he would find Crispin, and whether that gentleman was yet awake, Maurice stole quietly from his room, and, drawing aside the curtains, looked out into the middle court, where he saw a sight which chained him to the earth. Not Paris sitting in judgment on Mount Ida saw such a vision of loveliness as now appeared to the enraptured eyes of Roylands. The picture—ah, that was but a pale reflection of this rich, ripe, glowing beauty! Venus, the goddess of love herself, yet with a touch of the chaste purity of Artemis—not Venus Pandemos, with flushed face and wanton glance, but Venus Urania, chaste, cold, pure, and serene as the moon-huntress herself.

The moon, hanging like a great silver sphere in the darkly blue sky, shone serenely through the hypÆthral opening of the court, and in her pale light the ranges of white columns glimmered like faint ghosts in the doubtful gloom.

Like a silver rod the fountain’s jet shot up to meet her kiss, and the splashed waters of the pool trembled restlessly with faint flashes within the marble marge. The cold, sweet odors of the flowers made the night air drowsy with their perfumes, and a distant nightingale began to trill deliciously in the still beauty of the evening. But the onlooker saw not the moon, the fountain, or the solemn range of pillars; he had no ears for the liquid notes of the unseen bird; for his eyes were fixed in an enamoured gaze on a tall, beautiful woman, who stood with upturned face gazing at the sky.

In that tremulous light she looked more than mortal in her spiritual loveliness—some goddess of ancient Hellas once more visiting the dear-loved islands of the Ægean—perchance Aphrodite herself, haunting the fane of her husband Hephaistos. To add to the plausibility of this fantastic idea, this girl was draped in the long white chiton of antique times, and her golden hair, dressed after the fashion of the Venus of Cnidos, was bound with triple bands of silver, while her slender arms, bare to the shoulder, were devoid of any ornament. So fair, so pure, so ethereal she appeared, that Maurice might well be pardoned for deeming her some pale sweet spirit of classic times, haunting the scenes of her former life, and listening, as she had done in the past, to the golden notes of the divine nightingale, thrilling to ecstasy the heart of the dusk.

For a few minutes Maurice stood spellbound in the contemplation of this lovely incarnation of Venus Urania, then inadvertently made a movement which made the girl start from her rapt attitude, and look in his direction. Being thus discovered, he came forward to meet the awakened divinity, looking himself, in his sweeping robe, like some young disciple of Plato or Parmenides. To his surprise and delight, this beautiful woman, with a smile on her exquisite face, came forward to meet him half-way with outstretched hands.

“You are Mr. Roylands,” she said in English, with a delicate sweetness in her voice that seemed to shame the notes of the nightingale, at least, Maurice thought so; but then, in his amazement, he was scarcely capable of cool reflection.

“Yes, I am Maurice Roylands,” he replied, taking both her outstretched hands within his own; “and you are Helena.”

“I am Helena,” she repeated gravely, drawing him a little to the left, so that the moonlight fell on his face. “You can have no idea how anxious I was to see you, Mr. Roylands. I do so love to see one of my countrymen.”

“Are you English?”

“Yes,” said Helena proudly, dropping his hands, much to his regret; “my father is English, so I am also, although my mother was a Greek. Still, I have spoken your language all my life, and have been brought up like an English girl, so I must be English.”

She spoke in a tone of such conviction that Maurice began to laugh, in which merriment she joined freely.

“My father would not tell me anything about you,” she resumed gayly; “and as you are the first Englishman that has come to Melnos, I was anxious to see what you were like.”

“I hope your anxiety has been repaid,” observed Maurice, with a smile.

“Oh, indeed it has. You are very good-looking, especially when you smile.”

Roylands was rather taken aback by this naÏvetÉ, and, being unaccustomed to such direct compliments, blushed like a girl, much to the amusement of Helena, who stood looking at him with clear, truthful eyes.

“Do you not like me saying that?” she observed innocently. “Andros always likes to be told he’s good-looking.”

“Well, I am not so conceited as Andros—at least, I trust I am not,” answered Maurice, quite touched by her rustic innocence; “but, you know, ladies in England do not speak so—so—very plainly.”

“Do they not? Why, do they tell their friends they are ugly?”

Maurice roared in spite of her presence, upon which she looked at him rather reproachfully.

“It is too bad of you to laugh at me, Mr. Roylands,” she said pettishly; “you can’t expect me to be like an English lady after living all my life at Melnos.”

“You are much more charming than any English lady I know.”

A charming smile dimpled the corners of her mouth.

“Really! Ah, I see it is the custom for the gentlemen to pay compliments to the ladies, not the other way about. I must not tell you you are good-looking, but it is quite proper for you to say I am charming.”

“Well—that is—really, you know, I hardly know what to say,” said Maurice, finding himself somewhat in a dilemma. “The fact is, neither English men nor women pay each other compliments at all—at least, it’s not supposed to be good form.”

“What is good form?” asked Helena innocently.

“I must undertake your education, Miss Justinian.”

“I am not Miss Justinian. You must call me Helena.”

“Oh, is that so? then you must know, Helena, I am not Mr. Roylands—you must call me Maurice.”

“Maurice! Maurice! Ah, that is much nicer to say than Mr. Roylands. Yes, I will call you Maurice. I like Maurice,” she continued reflectively; “yes, I like Maurice.”

“I am very glad you like me,” he said artfully.

“Oh, I mean the name,” replied Helena, laughing at what she thought was his mistake. “But tell me, Maurice, do you now feel quite well?”

“Yes, thank you. The sleep of this afternoon has quite cured my fatigues of last night.”

“Oh, it must have been terrible!” said Helena, with a shudder; “papa told me all about it. I was so glad when Andros told us of your safety.”

“My safety, or that of Crispin?”

“I was glad for both your sakes, and indeed I am very fond of Crispin. You know, we are just like brother and sister.”

“Are you? Well, will we be brother and sister?”

“Oh yes,” she answered, frankly putting her hand into his; “I will be very glad to have another brother.”

Maurice felt a trifle disappointed at this calm acquiescence in his audacious proposal, but, finding her little hand within his own, clasped it warmly; whereupon she suddenly seemed to feel a touch of maiden modesty, and withdrew her hand, blushing shyly. Certainly she was the most ingenuous, delightful woman in the world, and Maurice was quite fascinated by this timid audacity, which was so different from the artificial modesty of many girls he had met. She was Undine without a soul, she did not know the meaning of life in any way whatsoever, yet, like some gentle wild thing, she started back with an instinct of caution when his touch thrilled her virgin soul with a deeper feeling than friendship. Both of them felt tongue-tied and awkward, Helena at the strange, unexpected feeling which made her heart beat and her cheek burn, Maurice with regret for having even unconsciously permitted his touch to convey anything further than the brotherly friendship of a man for a pure young woman.

Fortunately for them both, Crispin, alert and cheery, entered the court with Justinian, and they came towards the couple with careless unconsciousness. Justinian, indeed, did cast a rapid glance at the flushed faces of the pair, which betrayed their late emotion, but, far from being angry, an imperceptible smile passed over his lips, as if he were quite satisfied that this should be so.

“Helena!” said Crispin, coming forward and kissing her hand; “I am so delighted to see you again! You are more lovely than ever.”

“Maurice says English gentlemen do not pay ladies compliments.”

“Don’t they?” answered Crispin humorously. “My dear Maurice, that storm last night must have destroyed your memory. So you two have met?”

“Quite unexpectedly,” declared Maurice hastily. “I came to look for you, Crispin, and, glancing into this court, I saw Helena, so we have been talking ever since.”

“And Maurice has been telling me about England,” said Helena, clapping her hands together with a burst of girlish laughter, delicious as the carol of a thrush.

“Maurice! Helena!” repeated Justinian, smiling. “Really, you young people are getting on very well together.”

“Your daughter had some difficulty in saying Roylands,” said Maurice apologetically.

“And you do not know Helena’s other name, eh?”

“What is her other name, sir? If you don’t like me to call her Helena, shall I say Miss”—

“You can say Helena,” answered Justinian shortly; “she has no other name.”

“No; we are simple people here,” observed Crispin mischievously, “and dispense with such cumbersomeness as two names;—Justinian, Helena, Crispin, Andros; so you, Roylands, will drop your harsh English surname, and be henceforth known as Maurice.”

“I am quite content to be so as long as Helena speaks the name!”

“Another compliment!” laughed Crispin gayly; “I thought, according to you, gentlemen never paid ladies compliments?”

“This is the exception to prove the rule.”

“Helena,” said her father suddenly, “where is Andros?”

“I do not know. He was here an hour ago, and said he would be back to supper.”

“It is supper-time now,” said Justinian, moving towards the side entrance. “You must be hungry, gentlemen. I trust you feel quite recovered?”

“Speaking for myself, I do,” answered Maurice brightly; “that sleep has quite set me up. And Crispin”—

“Subscribes to all you have said, and feels as hungry as a hunter.”

“Hark! there is Andros,” observed Helena, placing one white finger on her lips, in which attitude she looked like some exquisite statue of Silence; “do you hear him singing?”

“An omen!” breathed Justinian under his breath, as the Greek drew aside the curtain of the main entrance; “he will not marry Helena!”

Against the dark draperies veiling the archway the slender figure of the handsome Greek stood out in bold relief. He also had assumed a robe of white, and, with his clear-cut features and graceful pose, looked the incarnation of that delicate Greek adolescence whereof Pindar sings in his Olympian Odes. As he caught sight of Maurice standing near Helena, he frowned perceptibly, and advanced hastily, as if to come between them, but, meeting the keen, significant look of Justinian, he faltered in his hasty step, and broke into a charming smile.

“Are you waiting for me?” he said cheerfully, as they all went to have supper. “I have been down in the valley speaking to your sailors.”

“Are they all right?” asked Crispin anxiously, for carelessly gay though he seemed to be, he was terribly disturbed at the loss of so many lives in the storm.

“Oh, they are quite happy. All your subjects, Justinian, are making heroes of them, especially the women, much to the dismay of the men of Melnos.”

“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.

“No,” said Caliphronas, walking forward in his stately fashion; “I have no love for the swarthy god of the Cyclops. For me, Venus!”

“Pandemos!”

“Or Urania, I care not which, provided the goddess is herself,” replied the Greek coolly. “Ah, we all worship those old pagan gods, who were but the incarnation of our own desires. You, Crispin, bow to Apollo; Mr. Maurice, you adore the Muse of Sculpture, of whose name I am ignorant; and Justinian loves the supreme Zeus, who gives power and dominion.”

“And I?” asked Helena gayly; “whom do I worship, Andros?”

“The inviolate Artemis!”

“There’s a good deal of truth in what you say,” observed Justinian serenely; “but I should have thought your deity was Hermes.”

The remark was so pointed that Caliphronas winced, but at once smiled gayly and replied in the same vein,—

“Venus and Hermes—Love and Trickery! Well, doubtless the one helps the other.”

“Such aid is not always effectual,” said Justinian significantly, whereat the Greek shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

“Well, for my part,” observed Helena reflectively, “I do not worship Artemis so much as I do Demeter. There is something grand about the earth goddess who causes the earth to break into the glory of flowers.”

“I think she must have been here,” said Maurice, looking round at the profusion of flowers.

“Ah, these are all my treasures, Maurice. I adore flowers, and there is not a nook in Melnos where I have not hunted for blossoms. Yes, even up to the verge of the snows, where grow tiny saxifragas. Wait till you see our harvest—our vintage—then you will see Mother Demeter in her glory.”

“Do you celebrate those festivals?”

“Yes,” said Justinian quickly; “I keep up all the old Greek customs, though, of course, I adapt them to the needs of my people. The Bacchanalia of Melnos do not include the debauchery of Athens, nor are the Anthesphoria anything more than innocent flower festivals.”

“In honor of Proserpina,” exclaimed Helena gayly. “Crispin, do you remember the Flower Hymn to Demeter you wrote long ago?”

“Yes, very well; but I’m afraid my poems were very bad in those days. Can you remember it?”

“Of course; but not in Greek, in English, I translated it myself.”

“Sing it, Helena,” said her father, and his request was eagerly seconded by the whole company, especially by Maurice, who was anxious to hear a voice which he was sure would outvie the nightingale.

Helena clasped her hands round her knees, and, lifting up her face to the stars, began to sing in a clear, sweet voice, which, though entirely untrained, had a trill in it like the liquid notes of a bird.

When her sweet voice died away, an emulous nightingale began to sing as if in rivalry, and Helena burst out into girlish laughter.

“Do you like my translation, Crispin?”

“It is charming—much better than the words.”

“No, indeed!” said Maurice, who was enchanted with the song and the singer; “as Wordsworth would say, it is a very pretty piece of paganism.”

“Oh, that faint praise is worse than blame.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Justinian, rising from his seat, “I am going to retire to rest, as I cannot do without my sleep. Old age is not like youth, you know. Helena!”

“I am going, father,” she cried, springing to her feet. “Good-night, Andros—Crispin! good-night, Maurice!”

“‘Good-night, and sweet dreams be thine,’” murmured Maurice from some poet.

Their departure was a sign of breaking up, for Caliphronas, not feeling inclined for a conversation with two men he disliked so much, went off immediately; and after they had finished a last pipe, Maurice and Crispin sought their repose.

“Well,” said Crispin, as they parted, “what do you think of Helena?”

“Think of her!” echoed Maurice in an indescribable tone. “That she is simply perfection, far above what you told me. If your poetry is not better than your description, Crispin, it must be poor stuff.”

“You are bewitched, Maurice. Beware the spells of Circe.”

“Circe! No! she is no malignant enchantress, but a beautiful girlish angel.”

“Nausicaa!” said Crispin gayly, and went off to bed.