Something in her words, or voice, seemed to excite surprise, mingled with deeper feelings; and the old man's countenance grew more troubled, as she continued: "Perhaps you may recollect a maiden that sung at Aspasia's house, to whom you afterwards sent a veil of shining texture?"
"Ah, yes," he replied, with a deep sigh: "I do recollect it. They told me she was Eudora, the daughter of Phidias."
"I am Eudora, the adopted daughter of Phidias," rejoined the maiden. "My benefactor is dead, and I am friendless."
"Who were your parents?" inquired the Persian.
"I never knew them," she replied. "I was stolen from the Ionian coast by Greek pirates. I was a mere infant when Phidias bought me."
In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, Artaphernes asked, "Were you then named Eudora?"
The maiden's heart began to flutter with a new and strange hope, as she replied, "No one knew my name. In my childish prattle, I called myself Baby Minta."
The old man started from his seat—his colour went and came—and every joint trembled. He seemed to make a strong effort to check some sudden impulse. After collecting himself for a moment, he said, "Maiden, you have the voice of one I dearly loved; and it has stirred the deepest fountains of my heart. I pray you, let me see your countenance."
As Eudora threw off the veil, her long glossy hair fell profusely over her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful face was flushed with eager expectation.
The venerable Persian gazed at her for an instant, and then clasped her to his bosom. The tears fell fast, as he exclaimed, "Artaminta! My daughter! My daughter! Image of thy blessed mother! I have sought for thee throughout the world, and at last I believed thee dead. My only child! My long-lost, my precious one! May the blessing of Oromasdes be upon thee."