To descend softly, so as not to alarm her—to glide to her side as gently as the rugged pathway would allow, was the next idea, and this Lotis accomplished, though with some difficulty; she stood beside her former friend, unseen, unheard. Chione's distraction was too intense, her reverie too deep; her eyes were turned upward, tearless from the very depth of her emotion, and her hollow voice sounded at intervals but these sad words:
"My God! to know thee only by my loss! My God! can it be possible? My God! may I never, never love thee again? Thou first, thou fairest, thou only love!"
The despair of these accents, the deadly pallor of Chione's cheeks, the attitude, the site, the recollection of the past, struck a pang through the frame of Lotis; her tongue seemed to cling to the roof of her mouth; in her excitement she could but advance one step, lay her trembling hand on her friend's shoulder, and utter one word, "Chione!"
The lady started, and gazed earnestly at the form before her. It was some minutes before she spoke; when she did so, the tone of her voice was very low and soft; she simply said, "And what brings Lotis to the ruins of Tiryns?"
"To see the famed philosopher of the east. Three weeks have I been in the city, awaiting an introduction. This morning I followed the litter, that I might at least see the celebrated lady who has made all Nauplia ring with her name."
"And you are punished for your curiosity by finding only Chione."
"I should have been yet more earnest, had I known it was Chione I was seeking. Your disappearance made a great sensation among your friends, and none missed you more than myself. You had bidden me hope, after that day at the temple, that our intercourse was to be renewed, but my hope was cheated. Why did you leave without telling me you were going?"
"I did not know it myself. My mistress disposed of me to a friend of hers at Corinth. I was taken away in the night."
"And how came you with Magas again?"
"I led a dreary life at Corinth. The people I was with were good enough, but unlettered, and the woman was entirely given to housekeeping. She put a distaff into my hands, and thought badly of me that I would not spin from morning to night. I could not; my heart had been devoted to philosophy, to poetry, to art; this drudgery revolted me, though, as I said, the people were good, and of the true religion."