“You have saved me,” she said, childlike. “I was afraid and you have made me unafraid. Because you love me, just because you love me. Oh, Eëtíon. Death lies both ways. For the Persians will kill us if they get into Hellas. Only the god can keep them back. I must pray to the god. I must pray to the god. I know he will hear me. Must I not go when I know that? Oh, Eëtíon, help me—help me to go!”
He took her face between his hands, gazing into the brave depths of her eyes.
“Always you make me remember that you are Eleutheria,” he said in a low, awed voice. “If you were like other women I could not so love you—oh, do you believe how I love you—love you?”
Then before she could answer—
“Go,” he said hastily. “While I can let you go.”
She bowed her head and started down the lane. But he caught her back with passionate kisses. He knew it was the last time. There in the narrow lane pure love, neglected and chilled by Greek custom and unknown to Greek sullying passion, burned high and clear like an altar flame.
Baltè was beside herself with fear. Yet if she gave the alarm what a punishment there would be for her darling! Only the dread Cyprian could know when they would have parted had not a step echoed from the highway and Medon’s deaf-hollow voice called:
“Baltè, ye fool. If ye don’t come in I’ll lock the door on ye. What time is this to be stayin’ out in the night with the little mistress?”
And at this Baltè gathered her nurseling in her arms and almost carried her into the house.