ix on any time at which he
was to take possession of the poor girl?"

"No," replied the still amazed Pisander. "I did not hear the whole
conversation. There was something about 'a very few days,' and then
Pratinas began to condole with Calatinus over being beaten for the
tribunate after having spent so much money for the canvass. But why
are you so stirred up? As Plato very admirably observes in his
'Philebus'--"

"The Furies seize upon your 'Philebus'!" thundered Agias. "Keep quiet,
if you've nothing good to tell! Oh, Agias, Agias! where are your wits,
where is your cunning? What in the world can I do?"

And so he poured out his distress and anger. But, after all, there was
nothing to be done that night. Pisander, who at last began to realize
the dilemma of his friend, ventured on a sort of sympathy which was
worse than no sympathy at all, for philosophical platitudes are ever
the worst of consolations. Agias invited the good man to spend the
night with him, and not risk a second time the robbers of the streets.
The young Greek himself finally went to bed, with no definite purpose
in his mind except to rescue Artemisia, at any and every hazard, from
falling into the clutches of Calatinus, who was perhaps the one man in
the world Agias detested the most heartily.

II

Early in the morning Agias was awake. He had slept very little. The
face of Artemisia was ever before him, and he saw it bathed in tears,
and clouded with anguish and terror. But, early as he arose, it was
none too early. Dromo, one of his slaves, came to announce to his
dread lord that an aged Ethiop was waiting to see him, and Agias did
not need to be told that this was Sesostris.

That faithful servant of an unworthy master was indeed in a pitiable
condition. His ordinarily neat and clean dress was crumpled and
disarranged, as though he had not changed it during the night, but had
rather been tossing and wakeful. His eyes were swollen, and tears were
trickling down his cheeks. His voice had sunk to a husky choking, and
when he stood before Agias he was unable to get out a word, but, after
a few vain attempts which ended in prolonged sniffles, thrust into his
young friend's hand a tablet.

It was in Greek, in the childish, awkward hand of Artemisia, and ran
as follows:--

"Artemisia to her dear, dear Agias. I never wrote a letter before, and
you must excuse the blunders in this. I don't know how to begin to
tell you the dreadful thing that m