V.
Byssa stepped farther from under the rush canopy and shaded her eyes with her hands. On the right the view was closed by Mt. Lycabettus, whose twin peaks looked almost like one; on the left the gaze rested on dark Parnes, whose strangely-formed side-spur, Harma, the chariot, was distinctly visible from the Cychreans’ cliff.
For a long time Byssa saw nothing, then she accidentally noticed, much nearer than she had expected, a white spot among some trees.
“There he is! There he is!” she cried joyously, clapping her hands. “Tratta, rejoice! I see a light spot out there—his white horse.”
In a mountainous country like Attica even the plains are uneven, and a rise of the ground concealed her view of the approaching steed.
At last the light spot appeared again—this time considerably nearer. Then several moments passed, during which it seemed to grow larger.
Byssa strained her sight to the utmost, her bosom heaving with anxious suspense. Suddenly she turned very pale and throwing herself upon Tratta’s breast, faltered in a low voice:
“Something terrible has happened. The horse is alone—riderless.”
Almost at the same instant she released herself from the slave’s embrace and went to the very verge of the cliff. From thence, at a long distance behind the horse, she descried a group of people slowly advancing. Several men who looked like black specks seemed to be carrying another, and several more followed.
At this sight Byssa uttered a loud shriek and clenched both hands in her hair. But Tratta held her back.
“Be calm, child,” she said with all the authority of age. “First learn what has happened. You can find plenty of time to mourn.”
But Byssa did not heed her. The horse had come very near and was galloping swiftly to its stable at the foot of the cliff.
Ere Tratta could prevent it, Byssa hurried to the nearest flight of stairs and darted madly down the rough-hewn steps, where the slightest stumble would cause mutilation or death. The slave, not without an anxious shake of the head, slowly followed.
The horse had scarcely allowed itself to be caught when Byssa, with tears in her eyes and a peculiar solemnity of manner, turned to the old servant and pointed to the animal’s heaving flank.
There was not the slightest wound to be seen; but a streak of blood a finger broad had flowed down the steed’s white side and matted its hair together.
“I knew it, Tratta, I knew it!” cried Byssa despairingly.
Then, in a lower tone, she added: “It is his blood.”
But Tratta answered almost angrily:
“His or some other person’s; what do you know about it? Help me to get the horse into the shed.”
Byssa, without knowing what she was doing, obeyed and then looked out over the plain, where she beheld a sight that made her tremble from head to foot.
Lyrcus was approaching uninjured at the head of his men.
Byssa uttered a shriek of joy that echoed from cliff to cliff as, with outstretched arms and fluttering hair, she flew to meet her husband.
Lyrcus knit his brows.
“What is it? What do you want here?” he asked, surprised to find her at the base of the cliff.
But Byssa heeded neither words nor look. Throwing her arms around his neck she clung to him and covered his wolf-skin robe with tears and kisses.
“Lyrcus, you are alive,” she repeated frantically, while all the fear and suspense she had endured found vent in soothing sobs.
“Byssa, speak! What is it?” asked Lyrcus, amazed at the excitement in which he found his wife.
Byssa took him by the hand, led him to the stable, and put her finger on the red streak upon the horse’s side.
“Simpleton!” said Lyrcus laughing. “That is no human blood.” And he pointed to a huge dead wild-boar, which two men could scarcely carry on a lance flung over their shoulders. “After the hunt,” he continued, “we wanted to put the great heavy beast on the horse; but it was frightened, bolted, and ran home.”
Meantime the men had come up. In spite of their fear of Lyrcus they could not refrain from looking at pretty Byssa, who was now doubly beautiful in her agitation and delight. Nay, some were not content with gazing at her face, but cast side-glances at her bare feet and ankles, which were sufficiently well-formed to attract attention, though it was customary for women to go about with looped garments.
Lyrcus noticed these stolen glances, and frowning gripped his lance more firmly.
“Why do you wear that red rag?” he said harshly, pointing to Byssa’s short petticoat. “Haven’t I given you long robes?”
“The sun is so hot—and I was alone at my weaving,” stammered the poor young wife with a burning blush.
As she spoke, confused and abashed, she put her foot on the lowest step of the rock-stairs and was going to hurry up the cliff. But Lyrcus seized her and hurling her behind him so that he concealed her with his own body, shouted sternly to his companions:
“Forward!”
Then he himself went up after them, watching rigidly to see that no one looked back, but left Byssa and the slave to follow as best they could.