“He went up to meet some fellows in Virgin Street. I’ve no doubt they are in the Oraia Hellas,” answered Aristides.
“Besotting himself with his abominable raki—the brute!—Annunziata is well?” Selaka queried, sharply.
“Did you ever know her ill? Kyria Helena is up at Xinara. Nothing has happened since you left except the occasional backslidings of Paleocapa, who at times cannot be kept from his raki and was no less than thrice dead drunk. Oh, yes, Demetrius’ wife is dead, and Michael the carpenter is going to be married to make up for the deficiency,” Aristides chirped on, as heedless as a blackbird.
“Will you give us peace, you chattering fool,” thundered Pericles with an outburst of wholesome rage.
The sharp perfumes of the thyme and pines were wafted on the cool breezes of an April evening, as the little cortège of mules, guided by Aristides, wound slowly up the marble-stepped and rocky way, and Inarime drew in the air with quivering nostrils and parted lips. It was the air of home she breathed, fresh, untainted, smelling of upper hills and far off-seas, not that of a dusty city cheapened by the presence of all-pervading man. Thankfully she acknowledged the quiet of the land, the view unbroken by moving object. Here, at least, might one live unshamed, if even the heart were cut in twain. Upon the projecting point of the Castro, hung one first pale star, steadfast and patient like the light of a soul. Thus patiently and steadfastly should the star of love shine for her, its flame softly and uncomplainingly cherished by her. She would not again quit the shelter of her own grey Castro that looked so desolately upon these valleys, like the ghost of other centuries lured to the scene of its departed splendours. Her spirit sprang towards it with a throb of solemn joy. Dear sight! she could have clung to its burnt flanks and wept among its thymy crevices.
Night was flying over the heavens as they rounded the little path under it that leads into Xinara. The wind blew chill and balmy, and chased skurrying clouds across the peeping stars, like shadows flailed by the invisible powers to dim their mild radiance. Inarime shivered a little, and turned anxiously to her father.
“Pull up your coat-collar, father,” she entreated.
Demetrius and Johannis were smoking at the shop door when the expected procession passed through the village street. Michael was sitting in his betrothed one’s kitchen, staring at her silently, and profusely expectorating, which was his way of courting. All the villagers that dwelt on high, leant over their rickety wooden balconies, sniffing the evening air and talking in a subdued tone, and those below lounged against door-jambs, or over garden walls.
“Καγ ἑὁπἑρα,” waved upon many voices to Pericles and Inarime, and more royal “Ζἡσω” to the King of Tenos.