And a great pain passed over the face of Chios, and he pressed his head between his hands as if to hide from his gaze some hideous vision. Then, suddenly recovering, he said:
'Hast thou that song written in words? If so, sell it to me.'
'I have it,' replied the minstrel; and, taking from his bosom some time-worn parchments, selected one. 'This is it; thou art welcome—thou shalt not purchase. The parchment is naught to me; the words are written on my heart. This copy shall be thine.'
Chios took it, and saw the song was written on the back of an old Celtic manuscript. He cared not for these unknown characters. What he wanted was the song only, and for that he would not take a thousand drachmas.
Pressing some golden pieces into the hands of the minstrel, he said:
'Come to-morrow and sing to me. We are friends. Go now to thine home, for the chill evening air is wedding the night, and thou mayest take hurt.'
When Chios was alone the torrent of his mind was unloosed.
He lit the silver lamp, threw himself on his couch, drew out the parchment, gazed long and intently on it, read it again and again—
'Princess, priestess, both was she,'
until his eyes were suffused with tears, and, overcome with his feelings, he fell asleep.