on, arising with a gesture of ill
humor. "You have frightened Rhanto by your unexpected presence."

Then he added maliciously, "Rhanto is your slave. I am well aware of
that. And I also know that you are the master of the pottery where I
work. You have risen much since that morning when we met you on the
highway of the Serpent. You have dominion over Sonnica the rich. Love
has made her your slave."

"I am not master of anyone," said the Greek simply. "I am your friend,
and I do not forget that the first bread I ate in this city I received
from your hands."

Erotion seemed to gain confidence at these words.

"What are you looking at, Athenian? That clay? How you must laugh at me!
I am convinced that I am worthless as an artist. Yet there are moments
when I feel myself capable of a great work; I conceive it; I see it in
my mind as clearly as if I had it erected before me; but when I put my
hands to the clay I realize my lack of skill, and I am ready to weep.
Ah! if only I could have gone to Greece!"

His words sounded like a lament; he stared angrily at the pile of clay
which had crudely begun to assume the outlines of Rhanto's form.

"If you only knew how I had to urge her before she would consent to show
the divine nudity of her body. Do not think it strange. She comes of a
race of barbarians. She fears the club of her grandfather, the chief
shepherd, that would fall upon her body if he should discover her as you
did a few minutes ago. I explained to her about our sculptors, before
whom the most famous hetaerae contended for the honor of disrobing; and
the certainty that her mistress, Sonnica, had done the same in Athens
was the only thing that decided her. But how can one copy her divine
body? How imbue molded clay with the life which throbs beneath her
skin?"

In his despair he threatened the clay figurine as if he would crush it
under his feet. Then he took courage, and said resolutely:

"But I will be stronger than my untrained hands. I will work years and
years if necessary, until I see the divine form of my Rhanto reproduced
in all its beauty. I will not return to the pottery, although the old
archer may kill me with blows. I began my statuette hoping that it might
figure in the Panathenaic procession. Rhanto would carry it on her head,
and the multitude would crowd around to see it. I only hope for a moment
of inspiration, a fortunate moment. Who knows if to-morrow the muses may
not breathe upon me, and