Byssa stepped farther from under the rush canopy and shaded her eyes with her hands. On the right the view was closed by Mt. Lycabettus, whose twin peaks looked almost like one; on the left the gaze rested on dark Parnes, whose strangely-formed side-spur, Harma, the chariot, was distinctly visible from the Cychreans’ cliff.
For a long time Byssa saw nothing, then she accidentally noticed, much nearer than she had expected, a white spot among some trees.
“There he is! There he is!” she cried joyously, clapping her hands. “Tratta, rejoice! I see a light spot out there—his white horse.”
In a mountainous country like Attica even the plains are uneven, and a rise of the ground concealed her view of the approaching steed.
At last the light spot appeared again—this time considerably nearer. Then several moments passed, during which it seemed to grow larger.
Byssa strained her sight to the utmost, her bosom heaving with anxious suspense. Suddenly she turned very pale and throwing herself upon Tratta’s breast, faltered in a low voice:
“Something terrible has happened. The horse is alone—riderless.”
Almost at the same instant she released herself from the slave’s embrace and went to the very verge of the cliff. From thence, at a long distance behind the horse, she descried a group of people slowly advancing. Several men who looked like black specks seemed to be carrying another, and several more followed.
At this sight Byssa uttered a loud shriek and clenched both hands in her hair. But Tratta held her back.
“Be calm, child,” she said with all the authority of age. “First learn what has happened. You can find plenty of time to mourn.”