Hermione stood; only her eyes followed the litter. Its curtains were flung back; she saw some one within, lying on purple cushions. She saw the features, beautiful as Pentelic marble and as pale. She cared not for the people. She cared not that Phœnix, frighted by the shouting, had begun to wail. The statue in the litter moved, rose on one elbow.
“Ah, dearest and best,”—his voice had the old-time ring, his head the old-time poise,—“you need not fear to call me husband now!”
“Glaucon,” she cried. “I am not fit to be your wife. I am not fit to kiss your feet.”
* * * * * * *
They set the litter down. Even little Simonides, though a king among the curious, found the Acropolis peculiarly worthy of his study. Enough that Hermione’s hands were pressing her husband, and these two cared not whether a thousand watched or only Helios on high. Penelope was greeting the returning Odysseus:—
“Welcome even as to shipmen
On the swelling, raging sea;
When Poseidon flings the whirlwind,
When a thousand blasts roam free,
Then at last the land appeareth;—