“What did you say were the names of the seven boats that left for Naxos?” asked one.
“They are named for seven goddesses or nymphs,” replied the other, “Doris, Leucothea, Metis, Aegle, Amphitrite, Doto and Persephone. This one is the ‘Persephone.’”
Zopyrus let his oars drift when he heard the last statement. Was the vision or name of Persephone to haunt him throughout life? When he was on land the leaves on the trees seemed to whisper “Persephone,” and now on the water, the boat in which he sat bore her name, and the ripples that washed its sides murmured the beloved accents.
The afternoon wore on, the sun’s rays became more slanting and the boats glided across the water like silent spirits. At length night descended upon the water—but no, it was growing brighter. Where but a few moments before the hills of distant Paros had slept on the edge of the darkness, now curve on curve was silhouetted against the silvery light of the moon, and the ripple of the oars on the water made a sheet of phosphorescence in its shadowy depths.
When Paros was passed, from across the water there floated on the gentle breeze the Dionysian hymn, sung by the occupants of the four preceding boats. Those in the “Persephone” joined in the chant, and Zopyrus heard Corinna’s pure, soft tones mingling strangely with the harsh notes of her companion.
As the prow touched the bank Zopyrus sprang from his seat eager to set foot on land, but he was checked by the glances of indignant remonstrance cast upon him not only by his fellow oarsmen, but by the others as well. He turned his face quickly into the shadow fearing to be recognized by some of the youths and maidens of Athens, but his fears proved groundless. After the boat had been emptied of the Bacchanalians, Zopyrus quietly stepped ashore, sauntering leisurely till beyond the range of vision of the oarsmen, who if they intended observing the rites of Bacchus, preferred to bide their time. Once out of their sight and hearing, Zopyrus quickened his pace, keeping well protected by the bushes and tree-trunks that lined the path, till he paused in awe as there appeared in a clearing to the left before him, the white Ionic columns and chaste lines of the Temple to Dionysus. Alas that its spotless purity was defiled by the wild orgies within! Its portals were thronged with gay devotees, and the sound of laughter and singing blended with the tones of flute and barbiton.
By now, indifferent to his plebeian dress, Zopyrus traversed the moon-lit sward to the temple and mingled with the light-hearted revelers. Groups of celebrants raised their voices in jubilant song, but here and there detached couples, their faces stamped with passion and lust, made horrible the scene. Now and then a hetera with appealing glance passed close to where Zopyrus stood like a statue, too horrified too move. The muscles of his mouth were drawn and his face was haggard. He suffered complete inertia till the sight of a girl who reminded him of Corinna aroused him from his lethargic state and he set out to find her before it was too late, for he knew that she had been ignorant of the nature of the revelries.
He pressed on down the length of the cella, scrutinizing the face of every maiden, but he did not see Corinna. As he neared the throne of Dionysus, the sound of triumphant acclamations, poured from the throats of a hundred devotees and Bacchantes who stood about the throne, fell upon his ears. He pushed his way nearer to the front, receiving many rebuffs and scornful glances because of his mean attire.
“What is the excitement?” he asked of a young man.
“You can see for yourself,” was the surly reply. “Dionysus has turned to flesh and blood and shares the throne with Ariadne!”