The brilliant color had faded from the girl’s cheek, her hand trembled, her bosom heaved. Twice she opened her lips; twice the voice seemed to fail her. At last she spoke.
“You speak of your fathers. You are, I think, of the tribe of Pandion?”
“I am,” said Callias.
“And this is the column of their tribe, and this”—she pointed as she spoke—“the name of an ancestor of yours?”
“Yes,” replied the young man, “this Hipponicus whose name you see engraved here was my great grandfather.”
“He had been Archon at Athens the year before the great battle. You see,” she added with a faint smile, “I know something of your family history.”
“It was so.”
“And his son, a Callias like yourself, was Archon general many times—held, in fact, every honor that Athens could bestow?”
“Yes, there was no more distinguished man in the city than he.”
“And your father; he died, I think I have heard, in early manhood; but he was already far advanced in the career of honor?”