Part 8 (1/2)

Here was the demarch(2) of Eleusis, a pompous worthy, who could hardly hold his head erect, thanks to an exceeding heavy myrtle wreath. After him, two by two, the snowy-robed, long-bearded priests of Demeter; behind these the noisy corps of musicians, and then a host of young men and women,-bright of eye, graceful of movement,-twirling long chains of ivy, laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere.

The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar. Deep now and sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom seemed to hold her fast. No n.o.blewoman might thrust herself boldly under the public eye-save at a sacred festival-no, not when the centre of the gladness was her husband.

”He comes!” So she cried to her mother; so cried every one. Around the turn in the olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect, and at his side another. Marching before the chariot were Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides; behind followed every Athenian who had visited the Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed with flowers; flowers hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The victor stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his G.o.dlike form. An unhealed scar marred his forehead-Lycon's handiwork; but who thought of that, when above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed questioning, seeking some one who was not there.

”Io! Glaucon!” The Eleusinian youths broke from their ranks and fell upon the chariot. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the car onward. The pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his fellow. Then after them sped the maidens. They ringed the chariot round with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved, they accompanied it with a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet-not Simonides, not Pindar, but some humbler bard-had invoked his muse for the grand occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing.

”Io! Io, paean! the parsley-wreathed victor hail!

Io! Io, paean! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!

He has triumphed, our own, our beloved, Before all the myriad's ken.

He has met the swift, has proved swifter!

The strong, has proved stronger again!

Now glory to him, to his kinfolk, To Athens, and all Athens' men!

Meet, run to meet him, The nimblest are not too fleet.

Greet him, with raptures greet him, With songs and with twinkling feet.

He approaches,-throw flowers before him.

Throw poppy and lily and rose; Blow faster, gay pipers, faster, Till your mad music throbs and flows, For his glory and ours flies through h.e.l.las, Wherever the Sun-King goes.

Io! Io, paean! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine, Io, paean! haste to crown him with olive, Athena's dark vine.

He is with us, he s.h.i.+nes in his beauty; Oh, joy of his face the first sight; He has shed on us all his bright honour, Let High Zeus shed on him his light, And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress, Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”

Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon's eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor's n.o.ble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmaeonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband's. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.

”The beautiful to the beautiful! The G.o.ds reward well. Here is the fairest crown!”

For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.

Hermippus feasted the whole company,-the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber. ”Nothing to excess”

was the truly h.e.l.lenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it.

His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Botian manner; but the great Copaic eel, ”such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,” made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt.

Hymettus.

Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch.

The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,-having struck a firm friends.h.i.+p with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,-was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.

”You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?” began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.

”It's impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon's victory.”

”I am no singer or harpist,” returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed. ”I only know how to make Athens powerful.”

”Ah! you son of Miltiades,” urged the poet, ”at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”

Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.