“The Rev. Stephen Carriston, Rector of Roylands,” replied Maurice, amazed at this emotion; “did you know him?”
“Know him?” said the Demarch, with a forced smile; “no. I have been absent from England these many years. Rector of Roylands!” he muttered in an undertone; “strange, strange!”
“What is strange?” asked Roylands curiously.
“Nothing, nothing!” answered Justinian, turning away with a frown. “I was thinking of something which you would not understand. But here come our Bacchanalians, Maurice. Now you will see a glimpse of ancient Hellas.”
Maurice pondered over the strange emotion of Justinian, which he found himself quite unable to explain, and, coming to the conclusion that the Demarch must have met some one of the same name under unpleasant circumstances, he dismissed the subject from his mind as trivial, and concentrated his attention on the rapidly approaching procession.
Justinian had closely followed the old lines of the Dionysian ceremonies, saving that he expurgated all the coarser elements of drinking and debauchery, and during the whole three days’ festival, modelled on the ancient feasts of Hellas, Maurice did not espy one offensive thing, which could bring a blush to the cheek of modesty. Indeed, Helena and all the women of the island were present, so their mingling in the ceremonies would alone have prevented any coarseness, even without the stern interdiction of the Demarch; for the Greeks have a great sense of delicacy, being especially careful not to offend the delicacy of women in any way whatsoever. This modern Bacchanalia, then, represented the antique solemnity, as it was in the earlier Attic days, before later worshippers defiled the rites of the god with their vile orgies.
It was a perfect day, but, as there had been a slight rainfall in the morning, in the east loomed a sombre cloud, which, however, foreboded nothing, as across its darkness, like a many-hued scarf, was flung a splendid rainbow. Helena caught sight of this first, and clapped her hands merrily.
“Oh, father, see how red is the rainbow!—that is a good sign for the vintage.”
“How so?” asked Roylands, somewhat puzzled at this Iris prophecy.
“It is an old Greek superstition,” answered Justinian, smiling at his daughter’s glee; “if red prevails in the rainbow, there will be plenty of grapes; if yellow, a fine harvest; and when green it will be a year for olives. This one is reddish, as you see, so our Bacchanalia will turn out successfully.”