“Who has disturbed this world of peace?” he asked, and a frown grew on his face.
“Strangers,” the girl answered, turning a little away, while the old man caught at the word and echoed it in fear and anger, while his hand went to the hilt of his knife.
“Strangers?”
“There was one here but now,” Perpetua answered, “a fugitive from the city, whose coming troubled me. He said the world was as wicked as a sick dream, and my heart grew cold in the sunshine.”
The lines on Theron’s face deepened dangerously. “Had I been by I would have twitched his tongue out,” he said, fiercely. Perpetua pressed her hand upon his lips.
“No, father, you could not have touched him, for he was deformed and twisted—a hideous, helpless thing.”
Theron stamped his foot upon the ground. “I set my heel upon a scorpion!” he cried. Perpetua shook her head.
“I am sorry for the things that are made to bite and sting. Let us think no more of it. Tell me of the Golden Age, father, when heroes roamed through the world, beautiful youths with eyes like mountain lakes.”
Theron turned moodily from his daughter, and, going to the edge of the hill, looked down upon the distant city.