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      It is necessary, doubly necessary, for me to write, first for the sake of the matter itself and secondly because a higher power has counselled me to do so. But I shall make the message shortfor it concerns a misfortune. Know that my father, urged by that man, has hastened my marriage, and the wedding will take place in five days. Woe is me, funeral flambeaux would be more welcome than those bridal torches. Yet how is escape possible? Can a daughter contend against her father? Can a wife oppose her husband? My mother kisses me and weeps with me, but says she dares not do that. You, oh Hipyllos, are the only person with whom I can seek refuge. What you will do, I know not. But I turn to you as an ill-treated slave flies to the altar. Your vow that day, in my mothers hearing, was no promise written in water. I read sincerity and truth in your face, and since that hour I have considered you the master of my life. You will not yield. In the midst of my grief I have but one joythat you cannot see me. My cheeks are crimson with shame, and my eyes are full of tears. This letter, the first and last, I still write as a maiden."Oh, I know that!" was the cocksure reply as they alighted in Canal Street to take an up-town mule-car.

      The figure had sounded apt to Anna on that Sunday evening when the Doctor employed it; apt enough--until the outburst of that great and dreadful news whose inseparable implications and forebodings robbed her of all sleep that night and made her the first one astir at daybreak. But thenceforward, and now for half a week or more, the aptness seemed quite to have passed. Strange was the theatre whose play was all and only a frightful reality; whose swarming, thundering, smoking stage had its audience, its New Orleans audience, wholly behind it, and whose curtain of distance, however thin, mocked every bodily sense and compelled all to be seen and heard by the soul's eye and ear, with all the joy and woe of its actuality and all its suspense, terror, triumph, heartbreak, and despair.7 Yet, though Lyrcus was so fierce a warrior, Aphrodite had touched his heart and shown that she, as well as Artemis, deserved the name of Heka?rge, the far-shooting. Once, during a short visit to the neighboring settlement, Lyrcus had seen Byssa, the fairest maiden in the cliff-city, drawing water from the well in front of her house, and had instantly been seized with an ardent passion for her. Grasping her firmly by the arm, he gazed intently at her and, when the blushing maiden asked why he held her so roughly, he replied: Never to let you go! Such was the fierce Lyrcus wooing.

      And not without reason, observed Xenocles. What has become of those denounced like Diocleides or the rich metic Teucros?all gone, either fugitives or sentenced to death! Remember the two members of the council, who first sought refuge at the altar of the gods, and afterwardswhen bail had been given for themmounted their horses to leave wives, children and all they possessedglad to escape with only their lives! The gods be praised that it has been more quiet in the city lately.

      Never before were such splendors seen in the land of the Hurons. Crowds gathered from afar, and gazed in awe and admiration at the marvels of the sanctuary. A woman came from a distant town to behold it, and, tremulous between curiosity and fear, thrust her head into the mysterious recess, declaring that she would see it, though the look should cost her life. [4]The next evening, when the husband and wife were supping together, the husband comfortably extended on a couch and the wife sitting humbly on its outer153 edge, Mairanot without a secret tremorventured to mention the subject; but the hot-tempered little man scarcely understood what she was talking about, ere he started up and repulsed her in such a way that she dared not revert to the matter again. Every hope of Mairas assistance was thus cut off, and to speak to her father herself did not even enter the young girls mind. She could do nothing but fix her last faint hope on Hipyllos.

      [12] Le Mercier's long and minute account of the torture of this prisoner is too revolting to be dwelt upon. One of the most atrocious features of the scene was the alternation of raillery and ironical compliment which attended it throughout, as well as the pains taken to preserve life and consciousness in the victim as long as possible. Portions of his flesh were afterwards devoured.

      The war-feast followed, and then all embarked together. Champlain was in a small shallop, carrying, besides himself, eleven men of Pontgrave's party, including his son-in-law Marais and the pilot La Routte. They were armed with the arquebuse,a matchlock or firelock somewhat like the modern carbine, and from its shortness not ill suited for use in the forest. On the twenty-eighth of June they spread their sails and held their course against the current, while around them the river was alive with canoes, and hundreds of naked arms plied the paddle with a steady, measured sweep. They crossed the Lake of St. Peter, threaded the devious channels among its many islands, and reached at last the mouth of the Riviere des Iroquois, since called the Richelien, or the St. John. Here, probably on the site of the town of Sorel, the leisurely warriors encamped for two days, hunted, fished, and took their ease, regaling their allies with venison and wildfowl. They quarrelled, too; three fourths of their number seceded, took to their canoes in dudgeon, and paddled towards their homes, while the rest pursued their course up the broad and placid stream.

      Yet Zeus is the mightiest.[75] Ante, p. 17.


      In his almost deserted house in the street of the Potters not far from the Pnyx, the market, and the Prytaneum he had a strange, dismal room, whose like was not to be found in Athens, and which he jestingly called his Opisthodomus, treasure-chamber. The name was no pious one and showed no deep reverence for the gods; for the real Opisthodomus, the apartment72 where the treasures of the state were kept, was a sacred place behind the Parthenon and was placed under the protection of Athene Polias, the defender of the city. But Callippides only used this title when he was talking to his faithful old Manes, a slave nearly seventy years old who, like the house, had been a legacy to him from his ancestors.


      [Pg 133]"If you want to leave me," continued the mistress, "you need only ask."


      Directly above him on the white wall were two lines of an imperfectly washed inscription.