XVI.
Scarcely had Maira, accompanied by the nurse, left the room to go with Coronis to the door and make a final survey of the house, when a noise like a pebble flung against the wall was heard outside. Faint as the sound was, Doris started and Clytie, who was in the act of putting on her tunic, stopped, blushed crimson, and held her breath to listen.
Doris ran to the peep-hole and drew the red curtain aside. A voice whispered a few words which sounded like a question.
Before Doris replied, she turned towards Clytie and said: “It is his slave Manodoros.... He asks if you are alone.”
Then she put her head through the hole and answered in a smothered tone: “Yes, entirely alone. But what do you want? Speak. My mistress’ mother has just gone out, and will be back directly.”
Again there was a whisper outside.
Doris stretched her arm through the opening as far as she could. At the same moment her neck and ears grew crimson, and she stamped her foot impatiently. “Let go!” she cried, “let go! This is no time for trifling.” When she again turned, she held in her hand a letter written on a papyrus-scroll.
“Read it, dear Mistress,” she said as she took the bath-tub and carried it away. “I’ll keep watch outside.”
Clytie seized the letter with a trembling hand and broke the seal. The dull expression of her features had vanished, and her lovely face was radiant with expectation and hope.
The letter contained the following lines, which seemed to have been hastily written, for here and there a word was erased and changed for another.
“Dearest Clytie!
“You are alone against many; I fear you may let yourself be over-persuaded. You must fly; it is the only way of escape. The priestess of Sabazius is willing to receive you. Doris must go, too, or she will be tortured and confess everything.
“In the name of all the gods, do what I advise, my beloved. Have you not yourself called me the lord of your life? You can easily escape through the garden; keep concealed a few days, and all danger will be over. I shall know how to soothe your father’s wrath. Besides, can it be counted against the many happy years awaiting us?”
If this letter had come earlier, Clytie would never have decided upon a step so entirely opposed to what was seemly for an Attic maiden. The idea of quitting her father’s roof would have appeared to her the most impossible of all. Yet, now that her aversion to Acestor had become as intense as her love for Hipyllos, she thought the letter very bold, but at the same time perceived that Hipyllos told the truth. The danger was imminent, and there was no escape save flight if they were not to be parted forever.
“He is right,” she thought. “I have called him the lord of my life. Should I then fail to fulfil his first command? No—I will do what he directs—happen what may.”
When Doris entered to fetch the empty hydria, Clytie stood before her with flushed cheeks and a glance which expressed firm resolution.
“When everything is quiet in the house,” she said, “I shall fly through the garden. You will go with me.”
Doris stared at her in open-mouthed amazement; the empty hydria she had taken dropped from her hand and broke with a rattling noise on the tiled floor.
“May the gods avert the warning!” she murmured, as she picked up the pieces.
But Clytie did not allow herself to be disturbed.
“When father and mother are asleep,” she continued, “you must slip into their chamber and get the key of the garden.”
Doris scarcely believed her ears. She no longer recognized Clytie. Was this the timid young girl who had been afraid to meet Ninus and whom she was obliged to lead step by step? Now it was Clytie who commanded and Doris who hesitated.
“But, do you think, Mistress...?”
Clytie raised her hand with a gesture that commanded silence.
At the same moment steps were heard outside. Clytie’s mother returned and, sending Doris away, seated herself on the edge of the couch and drew the young girl down beside her. This was the last evening the daughter would spend at home. Maira tenderly stroked Clytie’s hair, clasped her hands in her own, and talked a long time to her in a whisper. When they at last parted it was reluctantly, after many an embrace and caress, and the eyes of both were wet with tears.
Clytie felt a twinge of remorse, but it did not change her resolve.
Tearing a strip of papyrus from Hipyllos’ letter, she wrote the following lines:
“Dear Mother!
“Forgive me, I must fly—I abhor that man. But do not fear! I shall seek a safe place, where no harm will befall me. Doris goes with me. In a few days, when the danger is over, I will come back. Farewell, dear mother, blessings on you for your love! I leave my father’s house a virgin, and as a virgin I shall return.”
When Clytie had fastened the strip of papyrus with a pin to the pillow, she gathered together the few articles of clothing she would need for a short absence. Doris now came stealing in; she had been listening outside the chamber. Xenocles and his wife were not yet asleep, but were talking to each other; she had heard them utter the word “bride-man.”