"How beautiful thou art and how fortunate am I, my darling," the young man said radiantly. "Dost thou love me, Artemisia?"
"Thou knowest well that I do, Clearchus," she answered reproachfully. "Why dost thou ask?"
"For the joy of hearing thee say it once more," he said, laughing. "There is nothing the Gods can give that could be sweeter or more precious to me, and to add the last touch to my happiness, Chares and Leonidas came this morning and have promised to stay until our wedding."
They had been strolling toward the grove at the edge of the meadow, where a bench of carved stone, overhung with trailing vines, was set in the shade in such a position as to permit its occupants to look out over the garden and the river. They sat down side by side and Clearchus slipped his arm about Artemisia's waist. Evidently, with the subtle sense of a lover, he detected a lack of responsiveness, for he bent forward and gazed anxiously into her face. He saw that it was troubled.
"What is the matter, my dearest?" he asked in sudden alarm.
She hesitated for a moment. "Oh, Clearchus, I fear that we are too happy," she said at last in reply.
"Why do you say that?" he asked, drawing her closer to him. "Why should any of the Gods wish us harm? We have not failed in paying them honor, and we have transgressed in nothing."
Artemisia hid her face in her hands and her head drooped against his shoulder. He held her still closer and kissed the soft coils of her hair, awaiting an explanation.
"What is it, Artemisia?" he asked quietly. "You are tired and nervous and overwrought, and some foolish fancy has crept into your heart to trouble you. Tell me, my dearest; thou canst have no sorrow that is not mine as well as thine."
"Clearchus, my husband," she said, without moving from her position or lifting her face, "thou art strong and I am but a weak girl. Whatever may come, I shall always be thankful that thou didst love me. I am thine—heart and mind, body and spirit, here and in the hereafter—forever."