A young slave with a bright face entered and, folding her arms across her breast, bowed before him.
Hipyllos hastily advanced to meet her.
“In the name of the gods, what has happened?” he asked.
“This letter will tell you,” replied Doris—for it was she—and handed him two wax-tablets folded together.
Hipyllos broke the ribbon that confined them, opened the tablets, and read the lines traced upon the wax. They ran as follows:
“Clytie, Xenocles’ daughter, greets Hipyllos, Chaeretades’ son.
“It is necessary, doubly necessary, for me to write, first for the sake of the matter itself and secondly because a higher power has counselled me to do so. But I shall make the message short—for it concerns a misfortune. Know that my father, urged by that man, has hastened my marriage, and the wedding will take place in five days. Woe is me, funeral flambeaux would be more welcome than those bridal torches. Yet how is escape possible? Can a daughter contend against her father? Can a wife oppose her husband? My mother kisses me and weeps with me, but says she dares not do that. You, oh Hipyllos, are the only person with whom I can seek refuge. What you will do, I know not. But I turn to you as an ill-treated slave flies to the altar. Your vow that day, in my mother’s hearing, was no promise written in water. I read sincerity and truth in your face, and since that hour I have considered you the master of my life. You will not yield. In the midst of my grief I have but one joy—that you cannot see me. My cheeks are crimson with shame, and my eyes are full of tears. This letter, the first and last, I still write as a maiden.”
While reading these lines the most varied feelings assailed Hipyllos; he felt both grieved and charmed. He again glanced over the letter, and the superscription awakened a feeling of delight. The young girl, educated under her mother’s eye, was honesty itself—it had not once occurred to her to write anonymously. She did not utter a single unkind word about Acestor, the source of her trouble; she merely alluded to him as “that man.” And how touching was her confidence! She did not know what he would do, yet she appealed to him as the only person with whom she could find refuge. And the last warning that there was only a short time for action she expressed in the words “I write this still as a maiden.”
There was something so womanly in the letter that Hipyllos felt his heart swell with pride and happiness. It seemed as though some part of the lovely girl’s personality clung to the wax tablets and the delicate lines traced upon them, and again he vowed to win her, cost what it might.
Hipyllos glanced from the letter to the slave.
She was a blooming girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, rather tall than short, with a brown skin and curling black hair. Her dress was a white linen robe, confined under the youthful bosom by a girdle striped with blue and yellow.