At the same moment steps were heard outside. Clytie’s mother returned and, sending Doris away, seated herself on the edge of the couch and drew the young girl down beside her. This was the last evening the daughter would spend at home. Maira tenderly stroked Clytie’s hair, clasped her hands in her own, and talked a long time to her in a whisper. When they at last parted it was reluctantly, after many an embrace and caress, and the eyes of both were wet with tears.
Clytie felt a twinge of remorse, but it did not change her resolve.
Tearing a strip of papyrus from Hipyllos’ letter, she wrote the following lines:
“Dear Mother!
“Forgive me, I must fly—I abhor that man. But do not fear! I shall seek a safe place, where no harm will befall me. Doris goes with me. In a few days, when the danger is over, I will come back. Farewell, dear mother, blessings on you for your love! I leave my father’s house a virgin, and as a virgin I shall return.”
When Clytie had fastened the strip of papyrus with a pin to the pillow, she gathered together the few articles of clothing she would need for a short absence. Doris now came stealing in; she had been listening outside the chamber. Xenocles and his wife were not yet asleep, but were talking to each other; she had heard them utter the word “bride-man.”
XVII.
An hour later Doris again glided through the open hall of the women’s apartment, called the prostas, to the chamber occupied by Clytie’s parents. She listened, but heard nothing; the conversation seemed to have ceased. The room was one of the few apartments in a Greek house that could be closed by a door. Fortunately this door was ajar, but to slip in Doris was obliged to push it farther open. Scarcely had she touched it when she was startled by a loud, distinct creaking. She felt her cheeks grow bloodless, but she must go in. With the utmost caution she again took hold of the door, and this time it opened noiselessly. Silently as a shadow she stole bare-footed into the room. A sultry, heavy atmosphere greeted her. She heard the breathing of the sleepers, but there was no other sound. From the peristyle the faint light of the night-heavens shone through the open doorway. Doris saw the bed indistinctly; something light trailed on the floor beside it—doubtless a woman’s long robes hanging from a chain. She cautiously groped her way forward, fearing to knock against something and make a noise. There was a strange feeling of insecurity about her, and her feet seemed as heavy as lead. With dilated eyes she saw, or fancied that she saw, two human figures stretched upon the bed. Advancing a few steps nearer she felt paralyzed with terror and on the point of falling. One of the figures sat upright in the bed and turned its face towards her. She could not see the eyes, but was aware that the person saw her distinctly.
“Is it you, Doris? What do you want?” a voice said, interrupting the silence.
Doris knew the tones, though amid the darkness and stillness of the night they seemed to have a ghostly sound. It was Maira who spoke.
The mother was so engrossed by the thought of her daughter’s wedding, that she had not been greatly startled by seeing Doris glide in. The voice merely sounded a little surprised.