The altar was reached and the altar was left by way of the main court with the colonnade around it, and all about, in the sun and in the shade, reclining or seated or standing, the many who would consult the servants of Æsculapius. Here were men and here were women, and the patients were attended by friends and kindred or by slaves. By all save the too much suffering the train of Myrina was watched across and across the temple court. Especially did Athenian wives and daughters watch the courtesan, watch with a keen and jealous look!
Myrina, going homeward, drew her train with her. It was then that she marked the light upon Mount Lycabettus. At her own portico she sent away the following. No, none might enter! She was not to-night for wine and song and flowers. The slaves bore her litter through the doors; the doorkeeper brought clangorously to the leaves, dropped in place the iron bars. Those who had convoyed her home fell back, turned in the narrow street, and went off with grumbling, laughter, and singing. “Nowadays, nowadays, only Glaucon lives in the world!”
In her chamber, when the lights had been brought, Myrina said to the old woman, Phrygia, her nurse: “Athenians should teach their wives better manners! I feel as if I had been bathed in vinegar!”
“They are jealous, and they would be scornful,” said Phrygia, fastening the sandal.
“Poor, dull, wing-clipped, house-kept wrens and sparrows!”
“You are proud and would be scornful!” said Phrygia.
“Is it not something to be not as they are?”
“A many women are slaves and poor,” said old Phrygia. “And another many are these wives of free Hellenes, liking not bright birds loose in the barnyard, while they have a chain at the foot! And another many are the courtesans. But these struggle among themselves, and if their beauty goes not even their wit can save them.”
“Mother Demeter! How many have beauty and wit?”
“Lo, you, now,” said old Phrygia, “how the bright bird sings! Where the dark is for so many, can you hold the light?”