XI.
Meantime the men had wandered a considerable distance from the fountain. The youths succeeded in driving the hare into a snare, whose owner thought he had exclusive right to it, while those who had driven it into the trap demanded a share of the prize. When the older people came up their opinions differed and, amid the dispute, they did not notice the screams of the women, especially as they often shrieked in sport when they splashed water upon each other.
Suddenly a very young girl, scarcely beyond childhood, came running towards them, beckoning with agitated gestures while still a long way off. The men suspected that something unusual must have happened and hurried to meet the messenger, though without forgetting the hare. Weeping bitterly, she told them what had occurred.
Her hearers were filled with alarm.
“Byssa carried off!” exclaimed the oldest. “Woe betide us! Woe betide us! Curses on the hare, it is the cause of the whole misfortune.”
The walk home from the fountain was very different from usual.
In those days it was not well to be the bearer of evil tidings. Lyrcus’ outbursts of fury were well known; it was also known how passionately he loved Byssa, and no one felt the courage to tell him what had happened. Yet it was necessary that he should hear it.
The party had almost reached the Cychrean cliff, and still no plan had been formed. But an unexpected event ended their indecision.
Lyrcus came to meet the returning band.
He had just finished his task of forging and, after standing in the heat and smoke, it was doubly pleasant to breathe the cool sea-breeze. He had never felt more joyous and light-hearted.
“How silent you are!” he called as he advanced. “Have the women lost their voices? By Pan, that would be the greatest of miracles.”
But when he came nearer, seeing their troubled faces, he himself became grave, and with the speed of lightning his glance sought Byssa.
The men, one by one, slunk behind the women.
“Where is Byssa?” said Lyrcus.
No one answered.
He now put the same question to a very young girl, who chanced to be the same one who had rushed from the fountain to meet the men and brought the ill-omened message.
Startled by the unexpected query, she turned pale and vainly tried to answer; her throat seemed choked.
Lyrcus seized her firmly by the arm.
“Speak, luckless girl, speak!” he said. “What have you to tell?”
The girl strove to collect her thoughts, and in faltering words said that a Pelasgian had sprung out of the thicket and carried Byssa away.
Then, falling at Lyrcus’ feet, she clasped her hands over the knife he wore in his belt, shrieking:
“Don’t kill me. I did nothing....”
“Where were the men?” asked Lyrcus sternly.
She was silent.
“Where were the men?” Lyrcus repeated, in a tone which demanded an answer.
The girl clasped his knees imploringly.
“They had gone hunting,” she whispered almost inaudibly.
Several minutes passed ere Lyrcus opened his lips. The men wished the earth would swallow them; but their chief’s thoughts were already far from their negligence.
“Who was the Pelasgian?” he asked with a calmness which, to those who knew him, boded danger.
No one replied.
At last the young wife who had flung the flowers into Byssa’s lap stepped forward, drew the kneeling girl away and, without raising her eyes to Lyrcus, said with a faint blush:
“No one knew the ravisher. He held in his mouth a green leaf which concealed his face. But Byssa was forced to obey him or she would have been killed before our eyes. He drew his sword.... Directly after we heard a chariot roll away.”
“A chief then!” said Lyrcus, and without another word he returned by the same way he had come.
Lyrcus was too good a hunter to have any doubt what he should do. Going directly home he unfastened Bremon, led him into the house, and let him snuff Byssa’s clothes, repeating:
“Where is she? Where is Byssa?”
The dog uttered a low whine, put his muzzle to the ground and snuffed several times, wagging his tail constantly as if to show that he knew what was wanted. Lyrcus buckled his sword around his waist, seized a spear and shield, flung a cloak over his arm and led Bremon out.
The dog fairly trembled with impatience, and without once losing the trail guided Lyrcus, who held his chain, directly to the fountain of Callirhoë.
Here he followed the bank of the river a short distance but suddenly, as if at a loss, began to run to and fro in all directions.
Lyrcus released the animal but, as it constantly ran down to the bank and snuffed the water, the chief perceived that Byssa must have waded out into the stream. So he led Bremon along the shore, hoping to find the place where she had come out on the land.
Suddenly the dog stopped, snuffed, and began to wag his tail again. This was the spot where Periphas had put Byssa down after having carried her to the bank. Bremon now led Lyrcus away from the brink among some low hills, but here once more he began to run to and fro irresolutely—doubtless where Byssa had entered the chariot.
Meantime night had closed in.
Lyrcus at first thought of getting a torch, but soon perceived the impossibility of following the trail of the chariot by torch-light. There was nothing to be done except to wait for morning.
It was a time of terrible torture.
Byssa in a stranger’s power! At the thought he was seized with a frenzy of rage that almost stifled him. But whither should he turn? Who was the ravisher—Periphas? No, he would not have had courage for such a deed directly after a defeat. Besides, the abductor seemed to have gone in the opposite direction to the road to Periphas’ home.
Lyrcus did not know that the Pelasgian had concealed himself in a cave in Mt. Hymettus.