Theria rose from the window as though the youth had struck her.
“How dare you, how dare you?” She gasped. “Words not meet for a maid to hear.”
“Lady,” he called so loud that she came back to her window for very caution. “Hush, hush,” she whispered. “Will you disgrace me?”
“No, no; lady, I pray for you, I bless you to the immortal gods.” He beat his palm against the house wall for emphasis. “Can you stop the stream of Castaly flowing down from the cliffs?” he questioned passionately. “No more can you stop the stream of my love. It will refresh and bless you whether you will or no. Ah, what I would do for you, dear child, if I only might.”
He tossed With a skilful fling a bunch of fresh ferns into her window. Then he was gone.
If the stream of Castaly had indeed fallen on Theria’s head she could hardly have been more shocked. She stood in the middle of the room angered into tears, hurt, strangely frightened. How dared the man return her kindness in this fashion? When a man wanted a friend he took a man, creature of his own mental stature, not a girl.
Well did Theria know that love-making was disgraceful and not for high-born maids. Pure girls dreamed of marriage, of course, but not of love. Theria had dreamed of neither. She picked up the scattered ferns and tossed them out of the window. Their delicate scent of the wild wood met, her as she did so. Suddenly she longed for her mother’s touch and voice, even her scolding voice. She hurried out of the room.
But as she went to sleep that night she remembered only that Argos had Medized.