The Perilous Seat

by Caroline Dale Snedeker

And like answer to her thought came the clear picture to her closed eyes. The Argive standing in the moon-lit lane with face upturned to hers. “Can you stop the stream of Castaly? Even so will my love refresh you whether you will or not.”

She lifted up her face timidly in the empty room. Ah, he had loved her. He had come again and again with his love. So faithful, so patient, and how true he was to Greece! How ready to fight for Hellas! If she should go to the window to-night, would he give her strength—strength for her fearful duty? But how could he? Would he reach up his hands? What could he say?

Suddenly she was trembling so that she had to sit down, clasping her hands, unclasping them again. How could he do anything except to put arms about her as she had longed for her mother to do? But these arms as they stole about her spirit were not like Melantho’s. They thrilled her, brought her near to weeping. They were the arms of love, the love he had told of, the love that understood the inmost of her heart. She began to long so intensely for their comforting that she was frightened. The barriers of her coldness went down at once, leaving her as tender as young spring. Unconsciously she reached out her hands in the dim room.

Then a panic assailed her. Perhaps he would not come. Perhaps her long refusal had broken even his faithfulness. Perhaps he would fail her for just this one evening. Then it would be too late. To-morrow she would be locked in the Pythia House. Then even to see him would be sin.

To-night! Oh, could she go down into the lane and greet him there? But how? The house wall was too high for her down-clambering or for his ascent. The front door was guarded by Medon.

She would ask Baltè to take her. Surely on this her last night at home Baltè would be kind.

Meanwhile the news of Theria’s departure was noised through the house. Melantho was excited, bewildered, frightened. She was closeted with Nikander. The slaves were weeping. One after another stole to Theria’s door, the men awkward in their grief, the women and girls throwing their arms about their little mistress in stress of tears.

Theria waited till nightfall before she asked Baltè.

“Just to go out into the lane a little while, Baltè—to stand near the stream.” Baltè sometimes had taken her there. But always of a morning when Baltè was doing her washing.