“Missy, it’s growing late. We mustn’t stay too long.”
“Oh Baltè, wait—wait.”
Never in her life had Theria known fear such as this—the fear of the Argive’s not coming. It choked her. It tasted bitter in her mouth. But why should he come? Oh, why should he, to her who had been only cruel, who had thrown only contempt from her window—that window which now stared at her dimly at a distance like some vacant fate——
What was that? Oh, Paian, a stir in the bushes above her, a form in the dusk that walked swiftly and stopped under her window. Ah, dear gods, how intently he gazed up where he thought to find her!
She slipped from Baltè’s hand and sped like a freed bird toward him. Lightly she touched his arm. She could not speak.
He wheeled—saw her.
“Gods in Olympos! My lady!”
The Argive’s hope had been largely boasting. He had never imagined a thing like this that she should greet him in the lane. Now he saw her changed face. His voice broke with tenderness.
“Eleutheria,” he whispered. Her timid hand reached toward him.
Then the arms that she had dreamed of were about her, wonderful, amazing in their love. She had not known they would tremble. She had not known they would seem so strong. All thought for winning courage for her duty left her—all thought of asking anything. She only longed to give him the gentleness and affection she had so long denied him. She lifted her hand, touching his cheek. It was wet with tears.