ivy,
laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere.
The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash
of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar. Deep now and
sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she
stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom
seemed to hold her fast. No noblewoman might thrust herself boldly under
the public eye--save at a sacred festival--no, not when the centre of the
gladness was her husband.

"He comes!" So she cried to her mother; so cried every one. Around the
turn in the olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect,
and at his side another. Marching before the chariot were Themistocles,
Democrates, Simonides; behind followed every Athenian who had visited the
Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed with flowers; flowers
hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The victor
stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his godlike form. An
unhealed scar marred his forehead--Lycon's handiwork; but who thought of
that, when above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two
processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The
champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed
questioning, seeking some one who was not there.

"Io! Glaucon!" The Eleusinian youths broke from their ranks and fell upon
the chariot. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the
car onward. The pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his
fellow. Then after them sped the maidens. They ringed the chariot round
with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved, they accompanied it with
a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet--not Simonides,
not Pindar, but some humbler bard--had invoked his muse for the grand
occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing.

"Io! Io, paean! the parsley-wreathed victor hail!
Io! Io, paean! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!
He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,
Before all the myriad's ken.
He has met the swift, has proved swifter!
The strong, has proved stronger again!
Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,
To Athens, and all Athens' men!
Meet, run to meet him,
The nimblest are not too fleet.
Greet him, with raptures greet him,
With songs and with twinkling feet.