Hardly had he finished, when a gentle knock was heard at the door.
Demetrios opened without haste. The old executioner entered, followed by two helmeted hoplites.
“I bring the little cup,” he said, smiling obsequiously at the royal lover.
Demetrios kept silence.
Chrysis, half beside herself, raised her head. “Come, my girl,” continued the gaoler, “the hour has come. The hemlock is crushed. There is really nothing left but to take it. Do not be afraid. There is no pain.”
Chrysis looked at Demetrios, who did not turn away his eyes.
Still continuing to regard him with her great black eyes that were rimmed with green light, Chrysis stretched out her hand, took the cup, and slowly raised it to her mouth.
She dipped her lips in it. The bitterness of the poison and also the pangs of the poisoning had been tempered with honey and narcotics.
She drank half the contents of the cup, then, whether it was that she had seen this gesture at the Theatre, in the Thyestes of Agathon, or whether it was really the outcome of a spontaneous sentiment, she handed the poison to Demetrios. But the young man waved away this indiscreet suggestion.
Then the Galilæan drank the rest of the beverage even to the green slime at the bottom. An agonising smile overspread her cheeks, a smile in which there was certainly a little contempt.