Chios sat lazily in his studio. Work he could not; something had come over him—an influence unseen hovered near. He was not sad, nor was he joyous. There was a deep quiet reigning such as he had never before experienced. He seemed to be moving into a new faith; a serenity of softest light lingered around his spirit—a mild delight into which one would sink until it blossomed into ecstatic joy.

The light streamed through the open doorway, and fell into the shadows which dwelt behind the marble pillars.

He heard soft strains from a distant lyre, and they sweetly moved his soul. The melody of song floated on the evening breeze. He arose from his seat, and followed the strains down between the sweet-scented myrtles to the entrance-gate.

There was a poor emaciated minstrel, singing for bread. The heart of Chios was touched; he beckoned to the man, and brought him within and set food before him.

'I like thy voice, sweet singer. Now thou art refreshed, tell me of thy life.'

'Thou art passing good, kind sir. I was born in Delos, of Greek parents, who died whilst I was yet a child. I was thrown upon the cold world. A sailor crew took me up, and on board a Phoenician ship I sailed the seas to Argos, Spain, and Gaul, and settled in the islands of the West named Britain. There I eked out an existence, a stranger on a foreign shore. I learned the customs of those strange people, accepted their faith, sang their songs, married, lived the life of a Briton until my wife died—I loved her—then my star waned. I fell sick, and pined for my Eastern home, came back to Sidon, roamed through Syria, Galatia, Phrygia, and here; and now, faint, weary, and tired of living, I fain would lay me down and die. But for this cherished lyre and the pleasure of song, I have no other joy save the memories of the past, and would like to rest and join my only love, the British girl of far Bolerium.'

'Ah! a sad story. The same old tale. Love the leveller, affinity, fate—one gone, the other panting to follow. Man, thou hast a good score of summers before thee. Cheer up! Let us be joyous!'

And Chios poured forth some refreshing wine, and bade the minstrel partake of it.

'Now sing me one of thy love-songs, and thou shalt not want for a good meal for many a day.'

'What wouldst thou like, good sir? Shall I sing to thee a British song, a legend of the Saronides?'

'Sing on.'

Then the wanderer rose and flung his worn mantle over his shoulders; his wealth of dark hair flowing from under his cap, and the shadows falling around like a veil of mystery, lowering the tone of his pale but beautiful face.

Raising his lyre, he swept his fingers over the strings, and a burst of harmony arose and filled the marble room; and, as it died away in softest echoes, his sweet, clear, pathetic voice sang forth these words:

As the last notes died away, the singer saw a great change come over the face of the Greek.

His head rested on his right hand, and with the other he convulsively clutched a little silver shrine which hung from his neck. He was as pale as death; he moved not, spoke not, until the minstrel said:

'What ails thee, noble lord?'

Chios braced himself together, and replied:

'I was deeply touched with thy tender tale. My soul flew out to Sidon. Tell me, is this story true?'

'Yes, 'tis true. I knew the priestess princess, but the Roman I never saw.'

'What was she like?'

'Beautiful—rarely beautiful! She moved among the Druid bards the queen, like a queen of night—tall, commanding, with great dark eyes like dusky diamonds; deep, piercing were those eyes, set beneath eyebrows fit for Juno. Every lineament of her face spoke forth a soul of souls. When she walked, her robe of white fell like a summer cloud, and her dark, waving hair in masses of beauty moved over her shoulders down to her feet. Everyone knew her, feared her—everyone loved her. In an evil hour she fell, was punished, and died far, far away from her island home.'

'What was her name?'

'Saronia.'

'Great God! Saronia?'

'Yea, my lord. Thou art agitated?'

'No, no, no! Go on!'

'Nothing much remains to be told. This only: They mourned her fall, her loss, her death. The prophets in that land have cast a destiny of her child, and say she shall shine forth as the moon, terrible as the sun; that she shall tread with dignity the floorway of a great temple, and shall minister at its altar; that she shall rise to the greatest eminence, and——'

'Stay! Say no more, man—say no more! Leave her there!'

And a great pain passed over the face of Chios, and he pressed his head between his hands as if to hide from his gaze some hideous vision. Then, suddenly recovering, he said:

'Hast thou that song written in words? If so, sell it to me.'

'I have it,' replied the minstrel; and, taking from his bosom some time-worn parchments, selected one. 'This is it; thou art welcome—thou shalt not purchase. The parchment is naught to me; the words are written on my heart. This copy shall be thine.'

Chios took it, and saw the song was written on the back of an old Celtic manuscript. He cared not for these unknown characters. What he wanted was the song only, and for that he would not take a thousand drachmas.

Pressing some golden pieces into the hands of the minstrel, he said:

'Come to-morrow and sing to me. We are friends. Go now to thine home, for the chill evening air is wedding the night, and thou mayest take hurt.'

When Chios was alone the torrent of his mind was unloosed.

He lit the silver lamp, threw himself on his couch, drew out the parchment, gazed long and intently on it, read it again and again—

until his eyes were suffused with tears, and, overcome with his feelings, he fell asleep.

The next day he awaited the coming of the singer, but he came not. The day following did not bring him. Then he determined to seek him, and, after finding the place of his abode, found the spirit of the minstrel had moved to a far-away shore. The singer had sung his last song on earth.

This was told to Chios by an old woman with whom the minstrel lodged.

'What is thy name, good man?' said she.

'Chios.'

'Art thou Chios, the great artist of Ionia?'

'They say so.'

'Then take those parchments. The poor fellow wished it so. And, in dying, he uttered thy name and another. Poor man! he was only a strolling minstrel, but I verily believe he has gone to the Great. He was no ordinary man. Peace rest his soul!'

Chios went his way, muttering to himself:

'Ah! peace rest his soul. What of my own? Would I could reach Saronia! It is a long time since I met her. I dare not go again. Now my soul is greatly troubled. I am wavering in faith and in doubt as to what is truth. In danger for my doubt; in love with the being I may never meet. For aught I know, death may seal me in oblivion, and there shall be no more of me. All this confronts me, and more. I firmly believe I could place before Saronia strong evidence from the song and the words of the minstrel. See her I must. If I die, one is free—free if I live again! I must survive! Though no light breaks over this great problem, no voice or echoes from the distant land, yet my soul, finer element of myself, whispers, "Thou shalt never die."

'Well, Chios, another attempt. Without a pretext, I never could, but I have a strong case this time. Go I will, this very night. I know the way, and will venture all. The parchments I will not take—I will leave them at my studio.'

He folded them carefully, sealed them with his signet, and addressed them to the High Priestess of the Temple of Diana at Ephesus.

'That is right,' said he. 'If I fail, she will receive them.'