The tragedian, Aeschylus, crossed the room and seated himself by the side of Zopyrus, who wondered at his searching gaze but did not resent it. Above all things the sincerity of Aeschylus greatly impressed him. The poet seemed to be one who was forever searching after truth. Zopyrus regretted that he had read none of the plays of this great man. He knew that his fame was due principally to his powers as an advocate of the truth, painful though that truth might be, and to the fact that he did not avoid the difficult problems of life, but faced them with earnest zeal and saw them through to the finish. Of the mighty and forceful language which conveyed his ideas, as opposed to the more elaborate and artificial style of Pasicles, Zopyrus had heard, and he enjoyed the privilege of conversing with the great poet.
Two kindred souls had intercourse through the eyes and the medium of conversation. An attachment which time would strengthen sprang up between the young Persian and the older poet, such a friendship as was not uncommon among the Athenians, where a man of maturer years lived again in a younger man the joys and possibilities that might have been his, and where a youth looked with reverence to an older companion whom he worshipped as a hero.
Presently Pasicles arose, and leading the way through the court, bade his guests follow. Soon they found themselves in a garden, strolling along paths bordered with trees, flowers and shrubs, opening here and there to reveal a statue of some sylvan god reclining under the shade. An aged gardener was tending the flowers with loving care.
“Where are the women, Hagnias?” asked Pasicles as the five men approached.
“Under the arbor near the fountain,” was the reply.
It was as Hagnias had said. Upon a stone bench and a large high-backed stone chair were seated three women. The woman in the chair arose smilingly when she beheld the men and approached Pasicles who pressed an affectionate kiss upon her smooth white forehead.
“Cleodice my wife, and my daughters, Eumetis and Corinna, this is Zopyrus who is to be a guest in our home for awhile. The others you know.”
The matronly Cleodice heartily bade Zopyrus welcome and her sentiments were echoed by her daughters. Corinna who resembled her mother, especially in the wealth of auburn hair which both possessed acknowledged the introduction and then made her way to the other side of the fountain to where Polygnotus stood gazing into the mirror-like surface, and Zopyrus as his eyes followed these two, knew that love existed between them.
The other daughter, Eumetis, who seemed the feminine counterpart of her father, was her sister’s senior by at least a year. She did not possess the physical loveliness of Corinna but her plainer features expressed sincerity and selfishness almost to a fault. One knew that the plain exterior harbored a soul that would give and continue to give for the sake of those she loved. If it is possible to possess selfishness to a fault it is where one’s greatest joy comes from seeing others happy and this was true of the elder daughter of the poet. If self is the only prison that can ever confine the soul, Eumetis was as free as the birds of the air.
“Amid such charming surroundings as these, one ought never to be sad,” said Zopyrus to Eumetis after the introduction. “It seems a miracle that this lovely home was spared. Do you happen to know why it escaped pillage?”