“When the battle is over, where will you go?” he asked.
“Wherever my father or uncle wish,—and you?”
For a moment he hesitated. Should he tell her of his Greek mother and of the conflicting emotions which had been his ever since the beginning of the campaign? She observed his indecision and said softly even seductively: “You have seen much to rouse your sympathy for my people, have you not? Surely the atrocities wrought by the Persians have not met with the approval of one who could rescue a maiden in dire distress, though she were of the enemy!”
Zopyrus was soldier before he was lover. He had come over with the Persian host to aid in subduing Greece, and here he was nearly allowing himself to be swayed by the charms of a Greek maid. For the moment he forgot that his Greek mother had been the strongest influence, barring his vows as an officer, that had as yet actuated him in this campaign. He felt momentarily the sting of the defeat of Salamis.
“I go to the Persians at Phalerum, after I have seen you safe with your people,” he replied coldly.
“There is no danger now,” she answered, and there was a twinkle in her eye. “With the defeat of the Persians, I am secure in my own country.”
He looked at her speechlessly as she stood in an attitude of superb defiance, then moved by a sudden impulse, he strode toward her and gathered her roughly in his arms, crushing her against him till she cried out with pain.
“You see your danger is not over, is it?” he asked fiercely.
She ceased to struggle, and when he looked at her pale face and into her eyes, which are ever truer messengers of the soul than the spoken words of the mouth, he read a truth which bewildered him. Passionately he kissed her lips, once, twice, thrice, then rudely put her from him and strode away in the direction of Phalerum.