“But he felt otherwise,” said the Master, “and which, think you, is likely to feel most wisely?”
“Ah! I hope it is Epicurus,” said the youth, snatching his instructor’s hand. Their conversation was here interrupted by the bursting of the storm. The fire flashed round the horizon, the thunder cracked over the zenith, and the first big drops fell from the burdened clouds. “We are near the Temple,” said the sage, “let us seek shelter under its portico. We may watch the storm there, without a wet skin.” They had hardly gained it, when the rain poured down in torrents. Ilissus, whom the burning sun had of late faded into a feeble rill, soon filled and overflowed his bed: wave after wave, in sudden swell, came roaring down, as if he now first burst to life from the womb of his parent mountain. But the violence of the storm soon spent its strength. Already the thunder broke with longer intervals, and a faint light, like the opening of morning, gleamed over the western heavens. At length the sun cleared his barrier of clouds. He stood on the verge of the waves, and shot his level rays over the blazing Salamis and the glistening earth. The sage stood with his young friend in silent admiration, when the eye of the latter was attracted by a horseman, who came full gallop over the plain, directly towards them. The object of his attention had nearly reached the river, when he perceived the rider to be a female. The swift feet of the steed now touched the opposite brink. “Great Jove! she will not attempt the passage!” exclaimed the youth, as he sprung towards the river. “Stop! stop!” he cried. She checked the rein, but too late. The animal, accustomed to the passage, and blinded by speed, plunged into the flood. Theon tore his robe from his shoulders, and was about to make the plunge on his side, when he was grasped by Epicurus.
“Be not rash. The horse is strong, and the rider skilful.” The voice that uttered these words was calm and distinct, but its wonted music was changed into the deep tone of suppressed horror. Even at that moment, the accent struck Theon’s ear.
“Do you know her? Is she your friend? Is she dear to you? If so—,” he made another effort to throw himself forward, but was still restrained by Epicurus. He looked into the philosopher’s face. There was no motion in it, save a quivering round the mouth, while the eyes were fixed in aching gaze on the struggling animal. He breasted the water midway, when seemingly frightened at the rapidity of the current, he tried to turn. The rider saw the danger, she curbed the rein, she tried with voice and effort to urge him to the conflict. Theon looked again at the sage. He saw he had loosened his mantle, and was prepared to try the flood. “I conjure you, by the gods!” said the youth, “what is my life to yours?” He grasped the sage in his turn. “Let me save her! I will save her—I swear it!” They both struggled a moment for the leap. “I swear,” continued Theon, with furious energy, “that if you go, I will follow.” He made another effort, and dashed from the hold of Epicurus into the river. Naturally strong, he was doubly so at this moment. He felt not fear, he saw not danger. In a moment he was in the centre of the current—another stroke, and he had seized the mane of the steed. But the terrified animal even then gave way to the stream. The rider still struggled for her seat. But her strength fast failed, she stretched out her hand with a feeble cry of despair. Theon shot forward yet swifter than the tide; he drove with a shock against the horse, and caught with one arm the expiring girl. Then, half yielding to the current, he parted with the other the roaring waters, and with effort almost superhuman grappled with their fury. Panting, choking, bewildered, yet never relaxing, he reached, but he knew not how, the land. When he recovered recollection he found himself lying on a couch, in the arms of Epicurus. “Where am I,” he said, “and where is the lovely girl?”
“Safe, safe, as her generous deliverer. Oh! my son! now indeed my son, when I owe to thee my Hedeia.”
“Was it your adopted child, then?” cried the youth, with a shout of delirious joy, as he threw himself on the breast of the sage. “But tell me,” he said, rising and looking round on Metrodorus, who, with two other scholars, stood beside the couch, “how came I here?”
“I believe,” said Metrodorus, “the Master swam to your aid—at least, we found him lifting you and Hedeia from the water.”
“I watched your strength, my son, and reserved mine till it should fail; when I observed it to do so, I came to your assistance. Now, compose yourself awhile, and I will go and put myself into a dry tunic.”
CHAPTER XII.
Theon, rising recruited from the warm bath, and his limbs being well rubbed with ointments, joined the party at supper in health and spirits. It consisted of the Master, Leontium, Metrodorus, and two other scholars, whose persons were new to him. There was something in the gentle manners of one, not unmixed with a little awkwardness, the grave repose of his features, the abstract thought that lined his forehead, and fixed his mild eye, that led him to guess it was Polyœnus. The other, whose gait had the dignity of manhood, and the polish of art; whose face, without being handsome, had that beauty which refined sentiment and a well stored mind always throw more or less into the features; whose whole appearance showed at once the fine scholar and the amiable man, fixed instantly Theon’s attention and curiosity. All received the youth with congratulations, and Metrodorus, as he held him in his embrace, jokingly upbraided him as a greedy and barbarous invader, who was carrying off, in his single person, the whole love and honor of the Garden. “But yet,” he added, “have a care; for I doubt you have secured the envy also.”