“For that charming suggestion,” cried Helena, rising to her feet, “I will give you a rose, Andros!”
“I will treasure it as my life,” he replied in a low, passionate voice, as she fastened the flower in his embroidered jacket.
“What about my rose, Helena?” asked Maurice, who viewed this proceeding with silent rage.
“Here is one for you,” answered Helena quickly; “both roses are red, so you can’t complain I don’t treat you fairly.”
“Perhaps you had better make the roses white, in order to mean silence,” said Caliphronas, pale with anger as he saw Maurice receive a flower; “the red rose means love, you know.”
“Sisterly love,” retorted Helena, looking at him with an undeniable frown.
Caliphronas, with a sudden outburst of rage, tore the flower from his breast, flung it on the pavement, and walked out of the court without a word. Helena in astonishment turned to Maurice, only to find that he also had vanished, but, with more self-restraint than the Greek, had taken his rose with him. Only Justinian was left, and he, looking sadly at his daughter, placed his hand reproachfully on her shoulder.
“My child,” he said reprovingly, “do not make ill blood between these two men by your woman’s wiles. Ate flung the apple of discord on the table of the gods, but it would have done no harm but for woman’s jealousy. Your name is Helena: you are, I doubt not, as fair as she of Troy, so beware lest your beauty be as fatal to Melnos as it was to Ilium.”
Clash of cymbals, beat of drum, O’er the mountain peaks we come, Far from parchèd Hindostan To these laughing realms of Pan. Nymphs and satyrs reel about, Frenzied in the frenzied rout, Crowned with ivy, fir, and vine, Leading on the god of wine. Far and near, and near and far, Flock ye to his conquering car; Lo! he comes in merry mood, O’er the hills and thro’ the wood, While the startled Dryads see From their trees our revelry; As we shout so loud and free, Io Bacche! Evohë!
“We celebrate the _fête_ of St. Dionysius to-day,” said Justinian, as they stood, in the early morning, on the platform of the Acropolis, awaiting the arrival of the Bacchanalian band from below.
“St. Dionysius!” repeated Maurice, with emphasis. “I thought the gentleman of that name was an Olympian!”