XIII.
The following day Hipyllos returned from the race-course shortly after noon and flung himself upon a couch; but his blood was too keenly stirred for him to find immediate repose. He still saw and heard only the chariot-races. A long, long course, marble benches filled with passionately excited spectators, slanting rows of chariot sheds, falling barricades, horses dashing forward four abreast, clouds of dust, clapping of hands, and shouts of: “Speude, speude!” (haste) and: “Aristeue!” (keep ahead)—all this had gone to his head like intoxication. Gradually his excitement died away into a pleasant lassitude, and at the same time his thoughts wandered to the conjuration the day before in Sauros’ garden. Again he heard the priestess of Sabazius say: “You think of him very often, pretty maid?” and recalled the bewitching movement with which the young girl had bent her head and whispered the one word: “Always!” that had almost made him betray himself in his delight. He had reached this point in his love-dream, when the door-keeper entered.
“A young slave-girl wants to speak to you,” he said. “She has a letter from her mistress.”
Hipyllos started from the couch.
“Bring her in—quick.”
He understood two things—that some misfortune must really have befallen Clytie, and that what Doris had advised and the baetylus confirmed was—to write to him.
A young slave with a bright face entered and, folding her arms across her breast, bowed before him.
Hipyllos hastily advanced to meet her.
“In the name of the gods, what has happened?” he asked.
“This letter will tell you,” replied Doris—for it was she—and handed him two wax-tablets folded together.
Hipyllos broke the ribbon that confined them, opened the tablets, and read the lines traced upon the wax. They ran as follows:
“Clytie, Xenocles’ daughter, greets Hipyllos, Chaeretades’ son.
“It is necessary, doubly necessary, for me to write, first for the sake of the matter itself and secondly because a higher power has counselled me to do so. But I shall make the message short—for it concerns a misfortune. Know that my father, urged by that man, has hastened my marriage, and the wedding will take place in five days. Woe is me, funeral flambeaux would be more welcome than those bridal torches. Yet how is escape possible? Can a daughter contend against her father? Can a wife oppose her husband? My mother kisses me and weeps with me, but says she dares not do that. You, oh Hipyllos, are the only person with whom I can seek refuge. What you will do, I know not. But I turn to you as an ill-treated slave flies to the altar. Your vow that day, in my mother’s hearing, was no promise written in water. I read sincerity and truth in your face, and since that hour I have considered you the master of my life. You will not yield. In the midst of my grief I have but one joy—that you cannot see me. My cheeks are crimson with shame, and my eyes are full of tears. This letter, the first and last, I still write as a maiden.”
While reading these lines the most varied feelings assailed Hipyllos; he felt both grieved and charmed. He again glanced over the letter, and the superscription awakened a feeling of delight. The young girl, educated under her mother’s eye, was honesty itself—it had not once occurred to her to write anonymously. She did not utter a single unkind word about Acestor, the source of her trouble; she merely alluded to him as “that man.” And how touching was her confidence! She did not know what he would do, yet she appealed to him as the only person with whom she could find refuge. And the last warning that there was only a short time for action she expressed in the words “I write this still as a maiden.”
There was something so womanly in the letter that Hipyllos felt his heart swell with pride and happiness. It seemed as though some part of the lovely girl’s personality clung to the wax tablets and the delicate lines traced upon them, and again he vowed to win her, cost what it might.
Hipyllos glanced from the letter to the slave.
She was a blooming girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, rather tall than short, with a brown skin and curling black hair. Her dress was a white linen robe, confined under the youthful bosom by a girdle striped with blue and yellow.
Doris smilingly returned the look. She understood the whole matter.
“Why is the wedding so hurried?” asked Hipyllos. “Why does it take place in five days?”
“How should I know?” replied Doris. “Some of the slaves think Acestor needs the dowry.”
Hipyllos took from a low chest a reed, “the black kind,” and a roll of the papyrus known among dealers by the name of taneotica.
While Doris, knowing that on her return she would be obliged to describe every couch, rug, and tripod, was gazing around the room, Hipyllos sat down at a small table and wrote as his youth and love dictated:
“I greet you, beautiful Clytie, my light, my soul, and my life!
“Your letter has been a source of both terror and delight. But the terror is conquered and the delight remains. Rely upon me, I shall leave nothing untried. But should I not save you in the five days, my advice is this: Feign illness, so that the marriage must be delayed. I shall thus gain more time. And now farewell, dearest treasure of my soul! Be of good courage and calm yourself.”
A drachma was slipped with the letter into Doris’ hand and, blushing for joy, she left Hipyllos with the best wishes for him and Clytie.
The young man was scarcely alone ere he became absorbed in thought. “Five days!” he murmured, “five days!” He could have killed Acestor, but he perceived that violence was no way to win the fair girl. To go to Xenocles and tell him everything would certainly be the simplest method, but would the latter break his pledged word, especially so short a time before the wedding? It surely was not probable. After long irresolution Hipyllos thought of Thuphrastos. The old soldier was clever in everything he undertook, experienced in all the relations of life, and renowned for his wise counsel. Besides, Clytie’s father had the greatest respect for him. Perhaps he might help.