But all men seemed banished from her presence. Every one knew that Lyrcus’ jealousy was easily inflamed, and however great the charm Byssa exercised, fear of the fierce warrior was more potent still.
Byssa’s thoughts did not seem to be absorbed in her work. Each moment she glanced up from her weaving.
The Attic plain lay outspread before her in the sunlight. Here were no waving grain-fields, no luxuriant vineyards; the layer of soil that covered the rocks was so thin that the scanty crop of grass could only feed a few goats. Here and there appeared a few gnarled olive-trees, whose green-grey foliage glistened with a silvery lustre, and wherever there was a patch of moisture the earth was covered with a speckled carpet of crocus, hyacinth, and narcissus blossoms.
Finding the plain always empty and desolate, the young wife at last let her hands fall and, sighing deeply, turned towards the slave.
“How long he stays!” she exclaimed, breaking the silence.
“Lyrcus is strong and well armed,” replied the slave as she heaped more wood on the fire. “The Pelasgians fear him worse than death. He will return unhurt.”
Byssa worked on silently; but she was not at ease and looked up from her weaving still more frequently than before.
“Why,” cried the slave suddenly, “there they are. Look at Bremon.”[B] The bull-dog had risen on its hind legs and was leaning forward so that the chain was stretched tight; snuffing the wind and growling impatiently it wagged its tail with all its might.
[B] Growler.