Agile as monkeys, the slave girls darted about her, pelting each other with blossoms and uttering peals of shrill laughter. Their short white tunics made their swarthy skins darker by contrast.
The garden was set in a tiny meadow beside the river Cephissus. It was shut in on both sides by groves of olive and fig trees, against whose dark foliage gleamed the marble front of the house to which it belonged. The sunlight swept the smooth emerald of the turf, touched the brilliant hues of the flowers, and flashed back from the rippling river beyond.
"Oh, mistress, there's a beautiful butterfly! Oh, please, may I catch him?" cried one of the little girls.
"Hush, chatterbox," said Artemisia; "come and help me here."
"Ouch, that awful thorn! Look, mistress, how my finger bleeds," the other girl said, holding up her small brown hand.
"Will you never end your nonsense?" the young woman asked in affected despair. "See, Proxena, we have not half finished."
"Don't be angry with us, mistress; see who's coming!" Proxena cried, taking her wounded finger from her mouth and pointing with it toward the house.
Clearchus must have ridden fast to arrive so soon after leaving his friends. Artemisia, hastily plucking a half-blown rose, went forward to meet him, while the little slave girls remained behind, peeping slyly with sidelong glances and whispering to each other while they pretended to busy themselves with their work.
"Greeting, Artemisia, my Life!" Clearchus said, taking her hands in his.
"Greeting, Clearchus; I am glad to see thee," she replied.