“Such aid is not always effectual,” said Justinian significantly, whereat the Greek shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
“Well, for my part,” observed Helena reflectively, “I do not worship Artemis so much as I do Demeter. There is something grand about the earth goddess who causes the earth to break into the glory of flowers.”
“I think she must have been here,” said Maurice, looking round at the profusion of flowers.
“Ah, these are all my treasures, Maurice. I adore flowers, and there is not a nook in Melnos where I have not hunted for blossoms. Yes, even up to the verge of the snows, where grow tiny saxifragas. Wait till you see our harvest—our vintage—then you will see Mother Demeter in her glory.”
“Do you celebrate those festivals?”
“Yes,” said Justinian quickly; “I keep up all the old Greek customs, though, of course, I adapt them to the needs of my people. The Bacchanalia of Melnos do not include the debauchery of Athens, nor are the Anthesphoria anything more than innocent flower festivals.”
“In honor of Proserpina,” exclaimed Helena gayly. “Crispin, do you remember the Flower Hymn to Demeter you wrote long ago?”
“Yes, very well; but I’m afraid my poems were very bad in those days. Can you remember it?”
“Of course; but not in Greek, in English, I translated it myself.”
“Sing it, Helena,” said her father, and his request was eagerly seconded by the whole company, especially by Maurice, who was anxious to hear a voice which he was sure would outvie the nightingale.