"She is a slave, as perhaps you know already."
"She would adorn a diadem," fiercely rejoined Magas.
"I see how it is," softly rejoined the elder man; "beware, my son; set not your heart on one beyond your reach. Gold cannot purchase Chione. You will find others as fair, others who will serve you more readily in that very temple from which Chione has been taken. Pursue not one who belongs to another master."
"Who is her master now?" asked Magas impetuously.
"You must forgive me for not answering you," replied the sage; "in your present humor, it would but bring disorder to the state."
"One word," said Magas, springing forward so as to prevent the old man from departing; "one word Is it yourself?"
"It is not, my son," replied the other gently, as, slightly pushing by the young man, he left him with a passing salute.
Magas remained rooted to the spot, knitting his brows and gnashing his teeth with vexation. "So near the goal of all my hopes, and so suddenly foiled; but I will find her yet; and if gold will buy her, well! if not, why, other means must be tried."
……
It is no longer a grove yielding its pleasant shades in the sunny light of the beautiful climate of Greece; it is no longer the impassioned tone of Magas pouring the honeyed tones of flattering love into her ear; the slave is at the feet of her mistress, in the women's apartment of a small but elegantly adorned dwelling near unto the city, and again she is bathed in tears. Yet the voice in which she is addressed is more sorrowful than angry; the tones are rather those of a grieving mother than of an enraged mistress. But there was a decision, a firmness in the voice that told the lady was not to be trifled with.