Evidently Alcibiades had but little stomach for midnight fighting, for he made no attempt to storm the pass under the cover of darkness, and was apparently making preparations to begin the fight at the first flush of the dawn. In thus deciding, he was wiser than he knew, for many of his men had been killed in the tunnel by their own friends, owing to the confusion which prevailed during the retreat down the staircase. Moreover, with the electric light showing the position of the enemy to the defenders, and dazzling their eyesight when they advanced to the attack, there was nothing to be gained by a night sortie, and Alcibiades thought it best to storm the pass by day, so that he, at least in the matter of light, might have the same advantage as Justinian.

All day long, the Demarch and his nephew posted themselves on the heights above the gorge, and from their vantage, with the aid of strong field-glasses, saw the preparations which were being made for the final attack. Alcibiades, with more military precision than of yore, had divided his two hundred men into two bodies, one of which was commanded by himself and the other by Count Caliphronas. Under these two leaders were four other commanders responsible for fifty troops each, but these deferred to Caliphronas and Alcibiades, while the Count in his turn took his orders from the old pirate as the supreme head of the whole army.

Without doubt, Alcibiades desired to attack the island in two separate places, for he knew, thanks to the treachery of Caliphronas, that Justinian’s force was too few in numbers to admit of division, and thus, while the one body was attacking the palisade in the gorge, the other could get at the rear of the Melnosians by another way. Unfortunately for this daring scheme, the cliffs on either side of the pass were perfectly inaccessible, as they arose smooth and arid from the beach to the height of two hundred feet, and as the besiegers had not wings, they could scarcely hope to climb up these sterile steeps, which would not have afforded foothold even for a goat. The only path available for this plan was perfectly well known to Caliphronas, but, unluckily for the besiegers, was inside the outer palisade, from whence it wound up to the heights where the Demarch and his nephew were seated, and from thence went through the altar glade, down to the back of the Acropolis.

Once the outer defence was taken, Caliphronas intended to lead his century of men up this secret way, which he knew thoroughly, and thus gain the heart of the island as exemplified by the Acropolis, while the Demarch was keeping back the feigned attack at the stockade. This stratagem was very clever and very feasible, but the difficulty in carrying it out consisted in the fact that, before the path could be ascended, the outer defence would have to be taken, which was no easy task, when defended by such determined men as the Melnosians. However, it was toto all appearances the only chance of gaining speedy possession of the island, without risking prolonged fighting; so Alcibiades adopted the plan without hesitation, and arranged with his subordinates to assault the palisade at early dawn, carry it with a dash, and then, while he made a feigned attack at the inner defence, Caliphronas and his men, gaining the interior of the island by this path, could attack the defending party in the rear.

It never for a moment struck Messrs. Alcibiades & Company that Justinian was far too wide awake not to have thought of this contingency, and had made his preparations in consequence. The entrance of the path from the gorge was up a narrow, winding staircase, cut in the live rock, which could only hold two men abreast, so, in the event of the outer defence being beaten down, this staircase could be easily defended by a dozen or so of men. Added to this, an iron gate closely locked was placed at the entrance; therefore, even if the enemy did gain an entrance into the pass, they had considerable difficulties to overcome before marching in triumph into the Acropolis. Justinian would, indeed, have been a bad general had he not foreseen this danger, but even though he thus guarded against it to the best of his ability, he trusted that his men would be able to hold the outer defence until Alcibiades retired in discomfiture.

As a matter-of-fact, the fiery old adventurer would have liked nothing better than to sally forth at the head of his handful of men and drive his enemy into the sea, but he was no longer the reckless Rudolph Roylands of the past, and judged it best to be cautious, nor risk the chance of a pitched battle in the open with unequal numbers. Intrenched in the strong outworks of the pass, his little band could hope to face their enemies with more than a fair chance of victory, but if he was foolish enough to make a sally, his ninety-five men would, in spite of their bravery, be quickly cut to pieces by more than double the number. Of course their military precision would doubtless tell against the undisciplined hordes of Alcibiades; still the risk was too great, and Justinian, much as he desired to make a bold dash for victory, deemed it best to take advantage of all the shelter and advantage his fortifications afforded.

The western pass was not unlike the tunnel in conformation, for, extending from inside to outside, a distance of a quarter of a mile, it ran upward from the cliffs of the beach for some little way, then, turning in an abrupt angle, pursued a straight way into the interior of the crater. Evidently created by a volcanic eruption for the outlet of lava, the sides, rent apart by some convulsion, arose precipitous and sterile to the height of over two hundred feet. No vegetation softened the nakedness of these rugged rocks, which, streaked with green, yellow, and red, presented a singularly forbidding appearance. On the top grew ancient pines, whose sombre branches, nearly touching one another as they stretched across the gulf, only permitted a thin streak of sky to be seen; so that the depths below were singularly gloomy, and to the imaginative Hellenes might well have suggested the thought that it was the Gate of Hades, by which name it was traditionally known. Justinian, however, abandoned such cognomen as of evil omen, and called it “The Western Pass,” by which title it was generally called by the Melnosians. It was indeed a remarkably eerie place even on the brightest day, and the light which filtered downward from between the branches of the pines but half revealed, in a glimmering gloom, the horrent rocks, the lack of flowers and grasses, and the chill, vault-like seeming of the whole tremendous cleft.

Maurice, having slept all day, felt wonderfully refreshed when he awoke, just as the sun set, and, though his head was still painful with the wound, yet his brain was perfectly bright and clear; so, after making a hearty meal, he started with his uncle and Crispin for the western pass, where he was to remain all night. The enemy might, or might not, make a night attack, and Justinian rather inclined to the belief that they would wait till daylight. Nevertheless, to guard against any chance of such a thing occurring, he resolved that every one, both leaders and men, should remain in the pass during the hours of darkness.

The men thus being at the front, a number of the women were sleeping up at the Acropolis with Helena, so as to be near their relations, and the interior of the island was thus given over entirely to feminine influence; while the extreme end of the pass, near to the outer palisade, was occupied by the male defenders. At times the sunlight came into this cliff entrance, so there was a scanty vegetation for some distance inward, so on this sparse grass Justinian and his men made themselves comfortable. Many of the soldiers, wearied out with watching, were sleeping around, but there was a strong guard at the barricade, under the command of Gurt, who was much better, and had insisted upon coming to the front.

Round a fire sat the Demarch, his nephew, Crispin, and Dick, all talking earnestly about the coming struggle, for the bos’n, having snatched a few hours of sleep during the afternoon, was now quite alert and active. The fire was lighted more for the sake of comfort than because of cold, though, indeed, the bottom of this abyss was chilly enough, and the cheerful flames flickered redly in the intense darkness, while high above glimmered the pale stars, and to the right arose the frowning mass of the palisade black against the faint gleam of the luminous night. To their nostrils came the salt savor of the sea, and at intervals they could hear the songs and revelry of their foes on the beach below. What with the recumbent forms of the sleeping men, the firelight hollowing out a space for itself in the blackness, and the intense stillness of the night, broken only by the pacing of the sentries, and the fitful snatches of song from the near distance, the whole scene was extraordinarily weird, so much so, that Crispin, with his impressionable poet’s nature, soon relapsed into silence.

“Crispin, why don’t you think of business?” said Maurice mischievously, as he noticed the poet’s abstraction.

“I was thinking of—of—other things.”

“My niece for instance,” observed the Demarch, with a grave smile.

“It’s not improbable,” replied Crispin, reddening a trifle; “but, after all, I am in good company, for Maurice is doubtless thinking of Helena.”

Maurice, smiling, did not deny this remarkably accurate guess, and his uncle, smoothing his silver beard, laughed silently.

“I’m afraid Dick and myself are the only persons who are thinking of war.”

“I’m certain of it as far as you are concerned, but I will not answer for Dick there.”

“Dick, Dick!” said Justinian, shaking his head gravely; “what is this I hear?”

“About Zoe, sir,” answered the bos’n innocently.

“Oh, it is my daughter’s maid!”

“Well, you see, sir,” said Dick bashfully, “it was like this, sir. Zoe, you see, gentlemen, likes me, and I like Zoe; so, with your permission, Mr. Justinian, we were thinking of marriage.”

“My permission!” echoed the Demarch, with a lurking smile; “as far as that goes, it doesn’t seem to be needed. This is surely pairing time, for you three young men seem to be all choosing mates. Eunice, Helena, Zoe! Maurice, when your old tutor arrives, we must have a triple marriage.”

“We’ve got to drive away Alcibiades first, uncle.”

“No doubt; but that, though difficult, is not impossible.”

“I hope not. Crispin, wake up, sir! You are thinking about Eunice again.”

“Indeed I am not,” answered Crispin, with some dismay. “I am thinking of my revolver, which I have left behind at the Acropolis.”

“There’s a warrior for you,” said the Demarch, with a hearty laugh; “he forgets the modern substitute for a shield. Well, my lad, as your revolver is an important matter, you had better go back and get it.”

Crispin jumped gayly to his feet.

“I’ll go at once,” he said, putting on his sombrero; “but I hope the battle will not begin without me.”

“I think you may make up your mind there will be no row till dawn, sir,” said Dick, who was peering between the bars of the palisade; “there would not be all that kick-up going on down there if they meant business.”

“In that case,” observed Maurice, rising slowly, “I think I’ll go back for your revolver, Crispin.”

“Or for your heart,” replied the poet, laughing.

“Oh, I don’t wish to bring that back, especially in wartime. It is safer with Helena. Uncle, can I go?”

“By all means. I agree with Dick, and do not think there is any chance of a night attack. However, you had better make haste to come back to your post.”

“Crispin, keep your rude couplets to yourself, or I’ll forget to bring back your revolver. Adieu, gentlemen. I will return anon.”

Maurice stalked away up the gorge, like a tragedy actor, much to the amusement of Justinian. Indeed, this light-hearted, desultory conversation did a good deal to keep up their spirits, and, in spite of the serious danger at their gates, all the Englishmen were wonderfully merry. It is characteristic of the British, that, if they take their pleasures solemnly, they keep the balance even by being gay in the presence of danger, and he who doubts the truth of this statement has only to read Kinglake’s account of the battle of the Alma, in order to assure himself of its truth.

As before mentioned, the gorge was very dark, but Maurice knew every inch of the way, and, being sure-footed as a goat, never stumbled in his step, but strode merrily along in the darkness, whistling “Garryowen.” It was curious, amid all this Greek life, revival of paganism, and piratical invasion, to hear the quaint Irish air, but Maurice found it an admirable melody to which to march, and moved his legs so rapidly to the tune, that in a very short space of time he emerged from the pass into the moonlit road skirting the crater.

It was only about ten o’clock in the evening, and the moon, full and round, burned like a lamp in the sky near the Milky Way, which she was slowly drawing near. Brightly gleamed Sirius amid the feebler twinkle of minor stars, and eastward like a ruby glittered Mars, the planet of the soldier, foreboding war and blood. The wind gently moved the branches of the mulberry-trees above the head of the pedestrian, and, moderating his pace, he strolled lazily along the shadow-strewn road, while the nightingales sang in every thicket, thrilling his heart with their delicious notes.

Soon, however, another song mingled with theirs, a strange, wild melody, which, chanted in a clear, high voice, arose and fell sadly in the chill moonlight; then an imploring chorus of voices sounded in unison. Again the one singer cried in an appealing manner; then silence and the hurried notes of the hidden birds.

Curious to know the meaning of this strange singing, Maurice walked rapidly onward, bounded up the steps of the Acropolis, and entered into the vestibule. The music, shrill and fitful, sounded close at hand, so, stealthily approaching the curtains hanging before the entrance of the court, Roylands peered in, to discover the reason of such fantastic melodies. He was evidently disturbing the mysteries of the Bona Dea, for the court was thronged with women, and they seemed to be engaged in the performance of some rite—a kind of invocation to the moon, which appeared shining brilliantly in the sky through the hypÆthral opening of the building.

A small brazier filled with burning coals, and elevated on a tripod, stood near the fountain, before which stood Helena, in her long white robe, with loosely flowing hair and slender arms outstretched towards the serene planet above. Around the court knelt a number of Melnosian women in their long chitons; but Maurice’s eyes were fastened on that beautiful central figure which stood so motionless before the tripod. The moonlight softly fell on her lovely upturned face, on her snowy robe, her milky arms, and touched with chilly beam the disordered gold of her hair. Maurice, who felt that he was looking on at some ceremony not meant for masculine eyes, would have stepped forward and announced his presence, but at that moment, Helena broke out into a song so wild and thrilling, that he involuntarily paused in amazement. The words were in Greek, but he was now sufficiently master of the language to understand them. They were evidently some antique invocation to the inviolate Artemis, and he wondered where she could have discovered them, as they rippled from her lips, rising and falling with fitful sobbings, like the voice of some complaining wind on a lonely beach.

At this moment, Helena took something from her bosom, and, throwing a few grains of incense on the coals, held it in the thick white smoke which arose. Afterwards she advanced to the fountain and dipped it thrice, singing all the time that strange melody.

When she ended, the chorus of women arose to their feet, and slowly filed out of one of the side doors, leaving the court empty, and Helena still standing by the brazier, from whence the burning incense still rolled skyward. Maurice, quite astonished at this strange scene of magical incantation, stole quietly forward, and, looking over her shoulder, saw that she was gazing at the amber heart, which she had converted into an amulet by her moon spells.

“Helena!”

She turned with a cry of astonishment, and then fell into his arms with a joyous laugh.

“Oh, Maurice! my dearest! my darling! Are the old stories true, and have my spells drawn you back to my side?”

She was much excited, so Maurice drew her gently to one of the chairs near the fountain, and, placing her therein, knelt at her feet, smoothing her two hands, which he held between his own, to quieten her alarm at his sudden appearance.

“My dearest Helena, I came back to fetch Crispin’s revolver, which he has left behind. Hearing you singing, I looked in.”

“Oh!” cried Helena, with a blush; “and what did you see?”

“Nothing very dreadful,” he replied, laughing, “I only saw a symposium of women, and felt like Clodius surveying the mysteries of the Bona Dea. What on earth were you doing?”

“Oh, it was only a game, Maurice,” she replied, burying her head on his shoulder. “I am ashamed you should have seen me acting so childishly, but, the fact is, there is a woman here who told me about it.”

“About what?”

“This incantation to the moon. In spite of father’s being so particular about purity of blood, some of the women are of Arab descent. This one who told me how to make a talisman, comes from Africa, and, I believe, is a descendant of the old Carthaginians.”

“Nonsense! they were all stamped out by the Romans. Well, what about this modern Dido?”

“Well, she saw how anxious I was about you, and told me if I invoked the moon, and bathed some small article in moon-water and incense, it would become endowed with powerful virtues, and protect its wearer from danger.”

“You foolish child!” said Maurice, tenderly stroking her loose hair; “and was all this mummery on my account?”

“Yes; but if you laugh at it, the talisman will lose its power.”

“Then I’ll be as grave as a judge. Where is this wonderful amulet?”

Helena held out the amber heart which lay in the centre of her little white palm, from which Maurice lifted it daintily, and pressed his mustache against her hand.

“And am I to wear this?”

“Round your neck.”

“But there is nothing to fasten it there.”

“Oh dear me, I must get some string, or silk, or—Oh,” she cried, struck with a sudden thought, “have you a knife?”

“No.”

“Then lend me your sword.”

“What! are you going to cut my head off for overlooking your Bona Dea ceremonies?” he said laughingly, drawing the keen weapon from its sheath.

For answer, she arose to her feet, and shook the loose gold of her hair over her shoulders. Carefully selecting one long tress, she smoothed it down with her hands, and held it out towards her lover.

“Cut it off.”

“What! your beautiful hair!” cried Maurice, who stood before her with his sword gleaming in the moonlight. “Oh, Helena, I could not do that.”

“Then give me your sword, and I’ll do it myself.”

“My dearest, you would hurt yourself. Why do you want to cut this lock?”

“To make a chain for the heart.”

“There’s a chain round my heart already,” said her lover, still hesitating. “Won’t it spoil your hair?”

“Maurice! how tiresome you are! Cut it off at once.”

She stamped her foot with pretty petulance, so, seeing she was obstinate, he carefully sheared off the tress close to her head. This being done, she shook her locks over the shorn place, and, sitting down in her chair once more, began to weave the shining hair into a delicate chain.

“You silly child, making me despoil you of your glory!” said Maurice, touched by her action. “There, let me put my sword up again, and I will help you.”

“Hold the end of the chain then, and do not talk, or you will break the charm.”

Maurice, sheathing his sword, knelt down before her, and, taking one end of the glittering coil daintily between finger and thumb, watched her weaving the threads rapidly together, crooning the while a strange old song in a low voice.

“There!” said Helena, having finished the chain; “now let me tie up the ends—give me the heart.”

“My heart?”

“I have that already,” she answered mischievously. “The amber heart, please; I must bind it to the chain.”

“Where did you learn that song?”

“I made it up all by myself,” said Helena triumphantly, dangling the chain before him. “Do you think that only Crispin is a poet?”

“No, my Sappho.”

“There is a chain of my hair and a talisman attached to keep you from harm, so bend your head, my knight, and I will give it to you.”

Maurice, entering into the spirit of her charming humor, bowed his head, over which she flung the slender chain of hair, then, kissing him on the forehead, leaned back and clapped her hands gayly.

“There! now you are safe. Nothing can harm you while you wear that.”

“Nothing can harm me while I think of you,” he whispered tenderly, taking her in his arms; “your love is my safeguard both in peace and war.”

“Oh dear me!” sighed Helena, as she pillowed her head on his shoulder; “what nonsense it is, Maurice! Still, it’s very pleasant nonsense.”

“Very pleasant.”

“And I am very nice?”

“You are very vain,” he said, kissing her and rising to his feet. “There, you charming sorceress!”

“A new Circe.”

“Precisely; but I must not stay with Circe any longer. Let me go to Crispin’s room for his revolver, and then good-by.”

As quickly as possible he ran into the poet’s bedroom, and found the weapon on the bed, where the neglectful poet had left it. Slipping it into his belt, he came back to say good-by to Helena.

“Now mind you go to bed, dear,” he said, kissing her tenderly; “no more magical ceremonies to-night.”

“No, I will go to bed. Oh, do take care of yourself, Maurice!”

“I will, both for your sake and my own. Besides, your talisman.”

Helena threw her arms impulsively round his neck.

“I give you the talisman, and I give you my love.”

He bent down and kissed her, then without a word went away into the moonlit night on his way to battle, and perhaps—death.