The next morning neither Helena nor Caliphronas was present at breakfast, as the girl, in company with Zoe, had gone up the mountain shortly after sunrise in quest of flowers, and the Greek had not been near the Acropolis since he had left it the previous night.

“Can he have left the island?” said Maurice anxiously to the Demarch.

“Hardly,” replied the old man grimly; “unless he has borrowed the wings of Icarus, for I alone have the key of the tunnel.”

“There is the western pass,” suggested Crispin thoughtfully.

“True; but even supposing he did get to the sea-beach, he will find it difficult to obtain a boat,” said Justinian calmly. “All the boats are fast chained and padlocked to the rocks; so, unless his friend Alcibiades finds him waiting, like a second Ulysses, on the beach, I hardly see how he can take French leave.”

“What are you going to do about him, Justinian?” asked Maurice curiously.

“I am waiting until you and Helena come to an understanding, and then I will tell Caliphronas that he has been beaten with his own weapons of treachery.”

“Helena has gone up the mountain. Will I await her return?”

“By no means. Follow her at once to her favorite haunt.haunt. There is a narrow path leading to it—a glade near the western pass, in the center of which is an altar inscribed Te??.”

“Oh, I know it! Helena showed it to me some time ago. Crispin, I am going a-wooing!”

“I wish you every success.”

“Do you think my fortunate star is in the ascendant?”

“You are as faint-hearted as you were last night,” said the Demarch, laughing. “Do you think, if I were not sure of Helena’s answer, I would send you on a fruitless errand? Go, my son; and when you and Helena come to ask my blessing, I will deal with Andros.”

“Punic faith!” remarked Crispin a trifle sadly.

“Well! what would you?” demanded the Demarch with energy. “Had I not made use of Andros, he would have made use of me. It is a mistake in being too honest when dealing with a scoundrel. One cannot go straight on a crooked road. If I were dealing with you, or with Maurice, I might not stoop to diplomatic lies; but as to that serpent of an Andros—pah!—the end justifies the means.”

“Do you think he will come and see you again?”

“Of course! He will come to demand the fulfilment of my promise, and ask me to force Helena into this distasteful marriage. Then I will reveal all, and drive him from the island.”

“But is it wise to let him go free, seeing he is our declared enemy?”

“What! you wish me to keep him as a hostage?” said Justinian good-humoredly. “Nothing would be gained by such an act. Alcibiades intends to attack the island, with or without Andros; and the only thing this scamp can do is to urge his friend to assault Melnos at once. Everything is ready: the men are in splendid training; I have arms in plenty; and we are thirteen Englishmen, so the sooner the strife is decided the more satisfied I will be.”

“Well, I will leave you to talk over your military schemes with Crispin,” said Maurice, as he arose to go, “and meanwhile will go in search of Helena.”

“Good luck go with you!” cried Crispin, as he left the room; and Maurice heartily seconded the kindly wish.

It was an exquisite morning, and the sun was just below the eastern peaks of the island; but as Maurice lightly climbed up the slopes behind the Acropolis, the luminary came into view, and flooded the high elevation of snowy pine forest, and olive trees, with yellow radiance. The cup of the valley lay in shadow; but amid these lofty solitudes all was luminous light and brilliant sunshine. The little path which led to the glade had been worn into a narrow earthen track by the light feet of Helena; but on either side grew the long lush grass, starred with primrose, violet, anemone, and cyclamen—all delicately blooming in the warm atmosphere. From this floral carpet arose stately plane-trees, arbutus, and here and there lance-shaped cypresses; while, between the luxuriant foliage, Maurice could catch glimpses at intervals of the terraced vineyards, yellowish-green with the autumnal tints of the vine-leaves, and purple with bunches of grapes; sometimes the white gleam of a winepress, from whence arose the merry song of peasants treading the ripe clusters; and far overhead, seen like a vision through the ragged framework of leaves, the serrated peaks of milky hue cutting the intense azure of the sky. All this loveliness was irradiated with the strong sunlight, and steeped in the luminosity of the atmosphere, so that the variety of tints, the infinite delicacy of the colors, the almost imperceptible blendings of the one into the other, made a picture enchanting to the most careless observer. Added to this, the air, rising warm from the valley below, yet coolly tempered by the higher snows, produced an atmosphere exhilarating in the extreme; and a pleasant murmur of song of bird and peasant sounded on all sides, blending with the rustle of the boughs, and the gentle sigh of the wind moving innumerable leaves to airy whisperings.

It was truly wonderful how rapidly Maurice had adapted himself to the mountaineering life of Melnos; and he breasted the steep path with a vigor which had been quite foreign to him, when listless, enervated, and melancholic, in England. The artificial life of six years in London, amid a deleterious atmosphere, surrounded by ugly houses and stony streets, had saddened and depressed his spirits; but now that he had returned to Nature for cure, her calm and soothing medicines had stilled his fretful spirit, had smoothed the wrinkles from his brow, removed the haggard anguish of his heart; and now, reinvigorated and vitalized, he felt that it was good to live. Doctors can do much, but Nature can do more; for, while physical ills are to a certain extent under the control of the former, only the latter can minister to the mind; and the intangible influence of landscape, mountain air, rustic quiet, and woodland music, on the diseased mental faculties, cannot be over-estimated in their curative powers. Wise, indeed, were the Greeks to fable how the giant AntÆus drew fresh vigor for his frame from his mother Tellus; and if we in modern days did but apply this parable of nature-cure to our crowded city populations, how infinitely less would be the physical and mental ills to be endured by our worn-out, exhausted toilers of this over-anxious age!

What wonder if the Hellenes were a joyous race, dwelling as they did in a radiant climate, amid scenes of undying beauty, in healthful communion with the Earth-spirit! They exercised the body in the palÆstra, the mind in the portico, and, ever drinking in health, beauty, and the music of leaves, winds, and waves, were therefore easily able to attain and preserve that serene calm of existence, which we see stamped in vivid beauty on the faces of their marble masterpieces. The countenances of Egyptian sphinx and granite king express the awful solemnity of communion with the unseen; the rapt faces of mediÆval saints a spiritual unrest to escape from the world they despised; but in the frieze of the Parthenon, in the statues of god, goddess, hero, and nymph, we but see the calm of contentment, of serene satisfaction, arising from the healthful minds and bodies of the race, whose joyous tranquillity was the gift of Nature to her believing children. Yet we, while envying their beatitude, and desirous of emulating their intense calm, make no effort to do so; for we leave the country, and rush to the already overcrowded cities, wrangling, toiling, worrying, striving to attain an unsatisfying end. Wiseacres talk of the complexity of modern civilization, of the over-population of the world, of the survival of the fittest; but this is, so to speak, merely laying the blame of our own mistakes on the stars, for we ourselves have produced this age of unrest, which we profess to loathe. When the humors of the body run to one spot, a tumor ensues, which throws the whole system out of order; and it is the same with the misdirected way in which we govern our modern nations. If, instead of rushing to cities, and thus begetting what may be called geographical tumors, our rustics and wearied toilers stayed in the open country, then would our civilization become less restless, and more akin to the envied calm of Hellenic life. Food would be more plentiful, minds would be more at peace, bodies would be more healthy, and the world happier. But we will not do this;—fired by ambition, by desire for gold, by longings for luxury, we crowd together in noisy multitudes, and turn away from the calm serenity of Nature, who would take us to her breast and make us happy, even as she did those wiser children of old. Nature sent her herald, Wordsworth, to proclaim this truth, but alas! he piped in vain; and his songs of purity were drowned in the jingle of gold and the shouts of ambition.

These were Maurice’s thoughts as he clambered up the mountain-path; and so rapt was he in his dreamings of Nature-worship, that, all unconsciously, he emerged into the glade near the western pass.

It was encircled by ilex, tamarisk, beech, and elm, woven together as in brotherhood by straggling creepers, festooned gracefully from bough to bough, from branch to branch; and in the centre, amid the flowing grass, was placed a small marble altar, on a low flight of steps. In front the trees had been cut down, and there was a glimpse of the white houses in the valley, the waving red line of the grand staircase; and, high above, the bizzarre colors of the volcanic rocks, fringed by a dark green belt of forest, from which luxuriance the arid peaks shot up into the blue sky like white marble cones. But not at valley, nor forest, nor aerial peaks looked Maurice, for his eyes were fixed on Helena, who, robed in her favorite white, crowned with a wreath of roses, stood by the altar with a mass of brilliant flowers thereon, looking like the nymph of the place.

She flushed red with delight as Maurice drew near, and paused in her dainty task of arranging the blossoms with the air of some startled shy thing of the woodlands. Like stars her eyes, like sunshine her glinting hair, and as for her face, the roses in her wreath were scarce so delicate in hue. The lovely glade, the solemn, flower-piled altar, the beautiful priestess—it was not Melnos, it was not the nineteenth century, for this was Arcadia; and in this bird-haunted dell was Flora discovered, weaving flowers for future summer’s adornment.

“Are you Nymph, Dryad, or Oread?” he asked, pausing with one foot on the lowest step.

“No; I am Chloris, the goddess of flowers,” she answered, entering into the spirit of his jesting speech.

“Give me, then, O goddess, of your treasures!”

“Violet, rose, and cyclamen! take them all,” she cried merrily, and threw a rain of many-colored flowers on the laughing, upturned face of the young man. Then, while he bent to pick up one crimson bud which had fallen at his feet, she burst out into one of those old English songs her father had taught her:—

“Clearly,” quoth Maurice, with a smile, “this wreath is meant for me, for I have golden hair.”

Helena smiled, and continued both her garland-weaving and her song.

“Better and better!” said the lover, mounting the steps. “I am nearest! I have yellow locks, so I decidedly am Colin dear!”

They were now standing on either side of the altar, with the rainbow heap of flowers between them; and, despite Maurice’s boldness in thus coming so close to his goddess, he was now seized with a fit of shyness, which communicated itself to the sympathetic Helena, so they gazed with embarrassment at one another, tongue-tied, with burning cheeks.

“Where is Zoe?” asked Maurice, breaking the awkward silence.

“Zoe,” replied Helena demurely, “is assisting Dick to find more flowers.”

“And, pray, what is Dick doing here?”

“Aha! you must ask Zoe.”

“I would rather ask you.”

Helena glanced at him with a laugh, then suddenly flushed crimson, and sat down on the steps, with the white lap of her gown full of flowers.

“I am no oracle to give answers,” she replied, carefully selecting some buds.

“That means you are no goddess,” said Maurice, sitting down a step lower, and looking up into her charming face. “Well, I prefer you as a mortal maiden. But what about Colin’s wreath?”

“I am weaving it now.”

“Roses for love, myrtle for joy, violets for modesty. What a charming wreath!”

“Ah, you know the language of flowers!”

“I know what this wreath means—‘Modest love is a joy.’ Am I right?”

“Yes—no—yes—that is—Oh dear me! Is it not a lovely day?”

“Is it not a lovely face? Very lovely.”

“I speak of the day.”

“And I of you.”

Decidedly Maurice was getting on capitally in the art of saying nothings which mean somethings, and Helena was woman enough to know what he was hinting at, yet also woman enough to indulge in a little coquetry. She had burnt her fingers with Caliphronas; yet, quite forgetful of the warning, began to tease Maurice with charming persistence.

“Am I very lovely?”

“You are as beautiful as Helen,” replied Maurice, rather taken aback at the directness of this question.

“I am as beautiful as Helen! Well, I am Helen; so you mean I am as beautiful as myself. That is not a compliment.”

“What a vain child you are! I am speaking of the Trojan Helen.”

“I am not a child. I am nineteen years of age—and a woman.”

“I believe that, for you possess all the art of a woman in tormenting a man. Where did you learn it?”

“Learn what?”

“The art of being cruel, kind, merry, sad, delightful, yet tormenting.”

“Do you mean to say I possess all these contradictory qualities at one and the same time?”

“Well, you are capricious at times.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Helena pettishly, resuming her task. “Then I must be full of faults.”

“They are very charming faults, at all events.”

“I am not listening, Maurice. I am too busy with this wreath.”

“My wreath.”

“I did not say it was yours.”

“Not in words, perhaps; but then, you see, I can read the language of the eyes.”

Helena blushed at this, but, purposely misunderstanding the hint, made demure reply.

“Ah, you see my education has been neglected in that particular branch.”

“Shall I teach you?”

“I am afraid you will find me a bad pupil.”

“I don’t mind taking that risk, Helena.”

He laid his hand on one of hers with a caressing gesture, upon which she let it remain, but snatched up a cornflower with the other.

“Look what a beautiful blossom!”

“It is the color of your eyes.”

“No, no; I mean this red rose.”

“The tint of your cheeks.”

“I hate compliments,” said Helena in a dignified way, trying to release her hand from his warm grasp.

“Always?”

“Yes, always; unless I like the person who pays them.”

“And in this case?”

“I—I—don’t know.”

“Let me read the truth in your eyes.”

She looked up with a pretty gesture of mock despair, but, meeting the tenderness of his look, dropped her eyes in confusion, while Maurice, shifting his seat, slipped his left arm round her slender waist, still holding her hand gently.

“Helena!”

No answer.

“Helena, do you know what your eyes tell me?”

No answer.

“They say that you will not be cruel enough to refuse me your love.”

“My love!” she murmured confusedly.

“Yes,” he whispered passionately. “I said you were capricious. You are not capricious, but true, loving, and charming beyond expression—a very woman, whom I love, and who loves me in return. Helena!”

All the virginal passion of this island maiden burned like red roses in her cheeks, as Maurice drew her slender form closer to his breast, and murmured broken sentences of love in her ear.

“I love, you! I love you, Helena! I saw your face in a picture, and I loved the face; now I see the woman, and I love the woman. My dearest! my darling! say you love me just a little!”

“I cannot say that,” she whispered, hiding her face on his shoulder.

“Oh, Helena!”

“Because I love you a great deal.”

“My darling!”

She lay in his strong arms, with her head on his shoulder, blushing with maidenly fear at the ardor of his passion; then Maurice, bending down his comely head, pressed a kiss on her lips.

“My dearest! my own!” he murmured rapturously; “how I love you! love you! love you!”

Lost in the overwhelming deeps of each other’s affection, they remained silent, filled with feelings too deep for words, too inexplicable to be translated otherwise than by sighs and glances. The delicate voices of the woodlands sounded in their ears, the brilliant colors blazed in the luminous light, the sun shone, the birds sang, but they heard nothing, saw nothing; for, with their hearts beating, their souls blending, their lips meeting, they were far away from this earth in the heaven of love.

There was something sacred about this outburst of passion, which sent a thrill of fear through their breasts; for this was no vulgar affection, no sensual desire, no mere adoration of outward beauty, but a chaste union of two souls, in which the woman’s melted into the man’s as a dream into a dream. The virginal purity of the young girl experienced no repulsion in this case, as it had felt when near to the frank animal passion of the handsome Greek; and Helena, exquisite blossom of maidenhood, lay in her lover’s arms without shame or dread, for she knew that this clinging clasp, these broken sighs, this vivid ardor, were the outcome of a love as pure and chaste as was her own; so there she lay, cradled on his beating heart, and the birds around sang their betrothal song, as doubtless they carolled to our first parents in the garden of Eden. Time was not, earth had vanished, humanity was but an empty name, for, clinging together with passionate ardor, they were all in all to one another, and the divinity which clothed them with his splendors was no rosy, mischievous urchin, with his bundle of arrows, but a terrible, unseen, unknown, unfelt deity, who now, for the first time, had permitted them to enter into his Holy of holies, and touched with their lips the burning coals of his sacred altar.

Alas! mighty as are the pinions of Love, they weary in that divine atmosphere of transcendentalism; so, folding his wings, he ceased his song of bliss, and dropped like a tired lark to the earth. The lovers awoke from their mystic trance, and looked at one another with wide-eyed rapture; then Helena, with a happy sigh, once more laid her head on her lover’s shoulder, and began to talk of earthly matters.

“My father!”

“Your father will be delighted, my dearest. He told me that this was the dearest wish of his heart.”

“Ah! is he so anxious, then, to lose me?”

“No, he will not lose you, my sweet queen. For when we are married we will still dwell in Melnos, and reign over it through years of happiness.”

“My father wants you to be his successor?”

“Yes; and to marry you. So if you fulfil the first, I will accept the second.”

“I will marry you whenever you like,” said beautiful Helena, smiling through her tears. “But will you not weary of staying here?”

“With you? never!”

“Ah, it is I who am the attraction—not Melnos!”

“It is both; but in my eyes you are before everything else in the world.”

“And if you grow tired of me?”

“I will never grow tired of you!”

Helena picked up a rose from her lap and held it up to him.

“This rose is very beautiful, but it fades. Is your love like the rose?”

“Yes; but not because the rose fades. My love is like the rose-plant itself, which renews itself afresh with every coming of summer. In this island it blooms all the year round; and my love will be the same.”

“Will you not regret your home, your money, your position?”

“My dearest, none of those things brought me happiness. I was a weary, mournful man, tired of life, tired of myself, tired of all around me; then by chance I saw your face, and it was as a star in the darkness of my night. I followed that star, and it led me to happiness, and to you!”

“So we will live here?”

“Till our days be ended. You will be queen, and I your very humble slave and lover. No; I do not desire to return to the world, with all its tumult, ambitions, and fret. I am weary of the crowded cities, the haggard faces, the gray skies of England. I only care to live in this lotus-land with you, my angel, to wander with you amid the fair flowers, yourself the fairest of all; to sleep at dusk with your loving arms around me, to awake at dawn under your caress; and thus to live in paradise until we meet in a still brighter paradise beyond the grave.”

“Will we meet beyond the grave?”

“Helena!”

“I know nothing of religion, my dearest. Indeed, it is not my fault, for my father has always refused to answer my questions. He would not allow old Athanasius to speak to me of sacred things, and I know nothing, save that there is an Almighty Being called God.”

“And your father?”

“Believes the same. Look!”

She pointed to the majestic block of white marble behind her, and there was deeply sculptured the one word “Te??.”

“So of old the Athenians erected an altar to p??? t?? ???ast?? Te??,” said Maurice sadly, rather puzzled to know what to do. “My dearest, I am no saint, to be able to instruct you in such things; and I am afraid my views are not what the Church would approve of. However, my dear old friend and tutor, Mr. Carriston, is, I trust, coming out here to see me; and he will marry us, and tell you all you wish to know of sacred things.”

They had risen to their feet, and were standing looking at that solemn altar, so noble in its hugeness amid the encircling green. No relic of paganism sculptured with nude figures, with wreathes and nymphs and long-drawn pomp of Panhellenic festival, but a severely plain mass of stainless stone, with no other indication of its meaning than the mystic word “Te??” cut thereon. After looking at it in silence for a few minutes, Helena gathered up her flowers in order to return home, for the sun was now at his zenith, and the heat intolerable.

“Oh, not yet!” entreated Maurice, anxious to prolong the sweet communion; “you must make me my wreath.”

“Are you Colin?”

“I think so,” he said, kissing her fondly.

“So do I,” she replied demurely; “therefore, Colin, I will finish your garland.”

Once more she sat down on the steps and began busily wreathing the flowers together in long fragrant strings, while Maurice, lying lover-like at her feet on the flowery turf, looked ever up into the delicate beauty of her face, and wondered at his good fortune in being loved by such an enchanting divinity.

Zoe and Dick came back armed with flowers, and Dick grinned somewhat sheepishly as he saw Maurice smile. A fellow-feeling, however, makes us wondrous kind, so Maurice made no remark, but sent Zoe and her swain with their newly gathered flowers down to the Acropolis.

“Do you think Dick is in love with Zoe?” asked Helena, when the laughter of the sailor and his companion had died away.

“Do I think you are in love with me?” retorted Maurice lazily. “My dearest, Dick is as much in love with that wicked little brunette, as I am with a certain charming blonde.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Helena complacently. “I do not wish to lose Zoe.”

“You must when she marries.”

“Oh no! If Dick becomes her husband, he will stay here. I’m sure he would not mind, as he is very fond of you.”

“That’s very kind of him, considering the battering I gave him yesterday.”

“Oh, Maurice, it was terrible!”

“For Dick?”

“No; for you.”

“Poor Dick! he got the worst of it, yet you pity me.”

“Ah, but you see I’m not engaged to Dick,” said Helena gravely, holding out a wreath to him.

“No; but Zoe is. At least, if she is not now, she soon will be. But come, Helena, fasten this wreath round my hat.”

Helena obediently did so, and then placed it on her lover’s head, upon which he gave her a kiss, and insisted that she should deck herself with the remaining flowers. Nothing loath, Helena did so, and was shortly one mass of delicious bloom, from which her face peered out like some laughing Dryad. Rose-wreath on her golden head, green myrtle girding her slender waist, and flowers of myriad hues bedecking her dress, she looked indeed like Chloris, the goddess of flowers, to whom Maurice had so often compared her.

“Come, my dearest,” he said, taking her hand, “and I will lead the Spring down to the valley. We are not Maurice and Helena, but Florizel and Perdita, shepherd and shepherdess; so come, my dearest, adown the mountain.”

They walked slowly along, talking all kinds of charming nonsense, and laughing merrily, he rose-wreathed like an ancient Hellene, she decked, like a goddess of the spring, with delicate blossoms, and both full of mirth and joy and happiness, which bubbled from their lips in gushes of liquid song.