ed ones were
roused again by the voice of their unknown friend.

"Come down to the shore," he cried; "I have returned to you with gifts;
my heart yearns to the child; she is gentle, and her eyes are like those
of the stag when the hunters surround him. Take my flasks of oil and
wine, and these cakes of barley and wheat. I bring you nets, and cords
also, which we fishermen know how to use. May the gods, whom you
despise, protect you!"

Late into the night the Greeks remained upon the border of the sea,
wondering at their strange fate. To the idle the day is never
sufficiently long,--the night also is wasted in words.

CHAPTER II.

The days which the exiles passed in solitude were not unhappy. The child
Evadne pruned the large-leaved vines, and gave the rugged cheeks of
certain melons to the sun. The continual hope of departure rendered all
privations supportable.

Was it hope, or was it fear, that stirred their bosoms when at last a
sail appeared not distant? They hoped that its white wings might turn
seaward!

"Mother," cried the shepherd, "no seaman willingly approaches this
shore, for the white waves warn him how the rocks He beneath the water.
Even walls and roofs of houses are seen, or guessed at, ingulfed
formerly by the sea; and the tale of that disaster, as told us by the
fisherman, is doubtless known to mariners, who, fearing Apollo, dare not
land upon this island. While, on the other hand, we have heard how
pirates, and even poor wayfaring folk, are so ill-received in the bay,
that from them, though they be not far off, we yet look for no
assistance. Let us, then, be content, and cease to seek after our fate,
which doubtless is never at rest from seeking after us. And let us not
be in haste to enter again into a ship, (so fearful and unnatural a
thing for those born to walk upon the land,) nor yet to beg our way
along painful and unknown roads, in search of men of a new religion and
a different language from that of Greeks. Neither, dear wife, if we must
suffer it, let us dread slavery too much. Life is long enough for those
who die young, and too long for the aged. One year let us patiently
give, more especially if it be unavoidable to give it. Vex me with no
more lamentations; some unforeseen accident may relieve us from our
misfortunes."

Eleusa, the good old wife, ever obedient to the husband of her youth,
talked no more of departure, nor yet complained of their miserable
lodgings in the ruined