The woman's face grew pale as death.
'Wilt thou bury my secret in thy heart, and close thy lips for ever on it?'
'Be quick, say on! First, who art thou?'
'The mother of Chios!'
'Thou!'
'Yes, I am.'
'What art thou?'
'I was a priestess at Delos, where Apollo and Diana came forth—a priestess of the Oracle. Broke my vows; wed; fell to what thou seest me: a priestess of high degree acting—acting the part of a hag. I was doomed to death. The people think me dead, but I live, deserted by the one who caused my fall. I live, thirsting for revenge—I, Endora the witch, eking a crust of bread by fortune-telling and love philtres, bearing the load of Hecate's curse. I they call Endora am no other than Myrtile of Delos! Now, noble Saronia, thou knowest how love is dead, and I the accursed. Oftentimes I come here and gaze across the Ægean Sea towards the far-off sunny isle of Delos, where it lies like a jewel in the sea—Delos, where the laurel trembled at the coming of the unseen gods, where temples, amphitheatres, and colonnades crowned every crest, and filled the vales of the lovely home of Latona.'
For a moment, as Saronia thought of her own mother, a shudder passed. 'Twas but a moment, and the priestess looked as calm as summer eve.
'Hast thou ever told the story to another?'