XVII.
An hour later Doris again glided through the open hall of the women’s apartment, called the prostas, to the chamber occupied by Clytie’s parents. She listened, but heard nothing; the conversation seemed to have ceased. The room was one of the few apartments in a Greek house that could be closed by a door. Fortunately this door was ajar, but to slip in Doris was obliged to push it farther open. Scarcely had she touched it when she was startled by a loud, distinct creaking. She felt her cheeks grow bloodless, but she must go in. With the utmost caution she again took hold of the door, and this time it opened noiselessly. Silently as a shadow she stole bare-footed into the room. A sultry, heavy atmosphere greeted her. She heard the breathing of the sleepers, but there was no other sound. From the peristyle the faint light of the night-heavens shone through the open doorway. Doris saw the bed indistinctly; something light trailed on the floor beside it—doubtless a woman’s long robes hanging from a chain. She cautiously groped her way forward, fearing to knock against something and make a noise. There was a strange feeling of insecurity about her, and her feet seemed as heavy as lead. With dilated eyes she saw, or fancied that she saw, two human figures stretched upon the bed. Advancing a few steps nearer she felt paralyzed with terror and on the point of falling. One of the figures sat upright in the bed and turned its face towards her. She could not see the eyes, but was aware that the person saw her distinctly.
“Is it you, Doris? What do you want?” a voice said, interrupting the silence.
Doris knew the tones, though amid the darkness and stillness of the night they seemed to have a ghostly sound. It was Maira who spoke.
The mother was so engrossed by the thought of her daughter’s wedding, that she had not been greatly startled by seeing Doris glide in. The voice merely sounded a little surprised.
Doris could not answer; it was impossible for her to utter a single word.
“What do you want so late?” Maira said again, this time with a touch of impatience.
Doris forced herself to control her voice.
“The key....” she stammered, “I want to get the key.”
“Why?”
“The night-lamp has gone out, and I want to light it at the neighbor’s.”
“Simpleton, you can light it from Clytie’s. It is shining on the pillars outside.”
This was unanswerable—Doris thought her cause lost. But the very magnitude of the danger forced her to calm herself. She drew a long breath, and once more felt in possession of her wits. She would have the key. And all the resolution and defiance that exist in a firm determination suddenly filled her soul so completely that, heedless whether she roused Xenocles or not, she went straight to her goal.
“But I must have the key,” she replied in a tone that sounded cold and strange in her own ears, “I want to pour out the bath-water.”
“Let it stand till morning.”
Doris felt with her hand over the wall near the head of the bed and found the nail with the three-toothed key, which she took quietly without any extreme haste.
“I dare not let the water stand,” she said, “my mistress ordered me to pour it out.”
Without waiting for a reply, she left the room as lightly as a feather, and breathless with joy and excitement ran back to Clytie, before whom she triumphantly held aloft the key.
Clytie clasped her in her arms and kissed her tenderly, then, without losing a moment, she gave her the bundle of clothes, threw a blue-striped kerchief over her head, and holding her faithful maid-servant’s hand, glided out of the room.