ble to outwit Hermes in
subtlety. Agias had found out when Pratinas was likely to be away from
home--and that worthy Hellene, be it said, never declined an
invitation to dine with a friend--and Agias timed his visits
accordingly. He taught Artemisia to play the cithera and to sing, and
she made such rapid progress under his tutoring that the unconscious
Pratinas commended her efforts to acquire the accomplishments he
wished. And Agias was never so happy as when those bright eyes were
hanging on his lips or that merry tongue was chattering a thousand
pointless remarks or jests.

Yes, Agias found himself in a condition when he could well ask to have
no change. The possibility that Pratinas would come home, and put an
end to the romance once and for all, was just great enough to give the
affair the zest of a dangerous adventure. Despite Sesostris's warnings
that Artemisia might at any time be sold away by her pseudo-uncle,
Agias could not discover that that danger was imminent enough to need
frustration. He was content to live himself and to let Artemisia live,
basking in the stolen sunshine of the hour, and to let the thought of
the approaching shadows fade out of his mind.

Another person who saw the sunshine rather brighter than before was
Pisander. That excellent philosopher had received his share of the
gratitude Drusus had bestowed on his deliverers. But he was still in
the service of Valeria, for Drusus saw that he had admirable
opportunities for catching the stray bits of political gossip that
inevitably intermixed themselves with the conversation of Valeria and
her circle. Pisander had continued to read Plato to his mistress, and
to groan silently at her frivolity; albeit, he did not groan so
hopelessly as before, because he had good money in his pouch and knew
where to procure more when he needed it.

So Agias enjoyed himself. He was a youth; a Pagan youth; and in his
short life he had seen many a scene of wickedness and shame. Yet there
was nothing unholy in the affection which he found was daily growing
stronger and stronger for Artemisia. She was a pure, innocent flower,
that by the very whiteness of her simple sweet presence drove away
anything that "defiled or made a lie." Agias did not worship her; she
was too winning; too cunning and pretty to attract the least
reverence; but in her company the young Greek was insensibly raised
pinnacles above the murky moral atmosphere in which most men and
youths of