“Where are they taking that white cow?” asked Ruth, gazing rapturously at the picture they made, with the golden sunlight falling on them, the garlands swinging, the flowers and costumes each brighter than the other.
“To the sacrifice,” replied Sappho.
“Do you mean they are going to kill her?”
“Do they not kill cows in your country?”
“Y-yes—but not all covered up with flowers—not a pet cow like that!”
“The cow given to the gods must be the best and prettiest and gentlest of all, or they would be angry.”
Rose, remembering the Greek stories she had read, suddenly realised that Sappho probably believed in all those wonderfully named personages she usually skipped, and feeling her ignorance, did not pursue the subject further.
A two-wheeled cart drawn by small oxen came up slowly as the girls stood watching the procession turn into the forest. An old man wrapped in a dark cloak walked beside it, leaning on a staff. As he neared them Sappho called out:
“Polemo!”
The old man glanced up, and his wrinkled face broke into a smile. Calling to his oxen, he hurried toward the girls, hobbling along fast enough with the help of his stout stick.