"As thy soul should soar to the stars. O son of Hercules, when I hear thee burst into thy wild nights of ambition, I see not thy way to the stars."
"Why dost thou ever thus chide the ambition which may give me thee?"
"No, for thou mightest then be as much below me as thou art now above.
Too humble to mate with the Heracleid, I am too proud to stoop to the
Tributary of the Mede."
"Tributary for a sprinkling of water and a handful of earth. Well, my pride may revolt, too, from that tribute. But, alas! what is the tribute Sparta exacts from me now?—personal liberty—freedom of soul itself. The Mede's Tributary may be a king over millions; the Spartan Regent is a slave to the few."
"Cease—cease—cease. I will not hear thee," cried Cleonice, placing her hands on her ears.
Pausanias gently drew them away; and holding them both captive in the large clasp of his own right hand, gazed eagerly into her pure, unshrinking eyes.
"Tell me," he said, "for in much thou art wiser than I am, unjust though thou art. Tell me this. Look onward to the future with a gaze as steadfast as now meets mine, and say if thou canst discover any path, except that which it pleases thee to condemn, which may lead thee and me to the marriage altar!"
Down sank those candid eyes, and the virgin's cheek grew first rosy red, and then pale, as if every drop of blood had receded to the heart.
"Speak!" insisted Pausanias, softening his haughty voice to its meekest tone.
"I cannot see the path to the altar," murmured Cleonice, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.