Not long after the sun had begun to decline from its meridian, two men entered, whom she recognized as among the individuals that had seized and conveyed her to Salamis. As they looked carefully all around the cave, Eudora held her breath, and her heart throbbed violently. Perceiving no one, they knelt for a moment before the altars, and hastily retreated, with indications of fear; for the accusations of guilty minds were added to the usual terrors of this subterranean abode of the gods.
The day was fading into twilight, when a feeble old man came, with a garland on his head, and invoked the blessing of Phœbus. He was accompanied by a boy, who laid his offering of flowers and fruit on the altar of Pan, with an expression of countenance that showed how much he was alarmed by the presence of that fear-inspiring deity.
After they had withdrawn, no other footsteps approached the sacred place. Anxiety of mind and bodily weariness more than once tempted Eudora to go out and mingle with the throng continually passing through the city. But the idea that Geta might arrive, and be perplexed by her absence, combined with the fear of lurking spies, kept her motionless, until the obscurity of the grotto gave indication that the shadows of twilight were deepening.
During the day, she had observed near the trophy a heap of withered laurel branches and wreaths, with which the altar and statue of Phœbus had been at various times adorned. Overcome with fatigue, and desirous to change a position, which from its uniformity had become extremely painful, she resolved to lie down upon the rugged rock, with the sacred garlands for a pillow. She shuddered to remember the lizards and other reptiles she had seen crawling, through the day; but the universal fear of entering Creüsa’s grotto after night-fall promised safety from human intrusion; and the desolate maiden laid herself down to repose in such a state of mind that she would have welcomed a poisonous reptile, if it brought the slumbers of death. It seemed to her that she was utterly solitary and friendless; persecuted by men, and forsaken by the gods.
By degrees, all sounds died away, save the melancholy hooting of owls, mingled occasionally with the distant barking and howling of dogs. Alone, in stillness and total darkness, memory revealed herself with wonderful power. The scenes of her childhood; the chamber in which she had slept; figures she had embroidered and forgotten; tunes that had been silent for years; thoughts and feelings long buried; Philæmon’s smile; the serene countenance of Philothea; the death-bed of Phidias; and a thousand other images of the past, came before her with all the vividness of present reality. Exhausted in mind and body, she could not long endure this tide of recollection. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively, as she murmured, “Oh, Philothea! why didst thou leave me? My guide, my only friend! Oh, where art thou!”
A gentle strain of music, scarcely audible, seemed to make reply. Eudora raised her head to listen— and lo! the whole grotto was filled with light; so brilliant that every feather in the arrow of Phœbus might be counted, and the gilded horns and star of Pan were radiant as the sun.
Her first thought was that she had slept until noon. She rubbed her eyes, and glanced at the pedestal of a statue, on which she distinctly read the inscription: “Here Miltiades placed me, Pan, the goat-footed god of Arcadia, who warred with the Athenians against the Medes.”
Frightened at the possibility of having overslept herself, she started up, and was about to seek the shelter of the trophy, when Paralus and Philothea stood before her! They were clothed in bright garments, with garlands on their heads. His arm was about her waist, and hers rested on his shoulder. There was a holy beauty in their smile, from which a protecting influence seemed to emanate that banished mortal fear.
In sweet, low tones, they both said, as if with one voice: “Seek Artaphernes, the Persian.”
“Dearest Philothea, I scarcely know his countenance,” replied the maiden.
Again the bright vision repeated, “Seek Artaphernes, nothing doubting.”
The sounds ceased; the light began to fade; it grew more and more dim, till all was total darkness.
For a long time, Eudora remained intensely wakeful, but inspired with a new feeling of confidence and hope, that rendered her oblivious of all earthly cares. Whence it came she neither knew nor asked; for such states preclude all inquiry concerning their own nature and origin.
After awhile, she fell into a tranquil slumber, in which she dreamed of torrents crossed in safety, and of rugged, thorny paths, that ended in blooming gardens. She was awakened by the sound of a troubled, timid voice, saying, “Eudora! Eudora!”
She listened a moment, and answered, “Is it you, Mibra?”
“Oh, blessed be the sound of your voice,” replied the peasant. “Where are you? Let me take your hand; for I am afraid, in this awful place.”
“Don’t be frightened, my good Mibra. I have had joyful visions here,” rejoined the maiden. She reached out her arms as she spoke, and perceived that her companion trembled exceedingly. “May the gods protect us!” whispered she; “but it is a fearful thing to come here in the night-time. All the gold of CrœCrœsus would not have tempted me, if Geta had not charged me to do it, to save you from starving.”
“You are indeed kind friends,” said Eudora; “and the only ones I have left in this world. If ever I get safely back to Elis, you shall be to me as brother and sister.”
“Ah, dear lady,” replied the peasant, “you have ever been a good friend to us;—and there is one that sleeps, who never spoke an ungentle word to any of us. When her strength was almost gone, she bade me love Eudora, even as I had loved her; and the gods know that for her sake Mibra would have died. Phœbus protect me! but this is an awful place to speak of those who sleep. It must be near the dawn; but it is fearfully dark here. Where is your hand? I have brought some bread and figs, and this little arabyllus of water mixed with Lesbian wine. Eat; for you must be almost famished.”
Eudora took the refreshment, but ere she tasted it, inquired, “Why did not Geta come, as he promised?”
Mibra began to weep.
“Has evil befallen him?” said Eudora, in tones of alarm.
The afflicted wife sobbed out, “Poor Geta! Poor, dear Geta! I dreaded to come into this cavern; but then I thought if I died, it would be well if we could but die together.”
“Do tell me what has happened,” said Eudora: “Am I doomed to bring trouble upon all who love me? Tell me, I entreat you.”
Mibra, weeping as she spoke, then proceeded to say that Alcibiades had discovered Eudora’s escape immediately after his return from the feast of Artaphernes. He was in a perfect storm of passion, and threatened every one of the servants with severe punishment, to extort confession. The steward received a few keen lashes, notwithstanding his protestations of innocence. But he threatened to appeal to the magistrates for another master; and Alcibiades, unwilling to lose the services of this bold and artful slave, restrained his anger, even when it was at its greatest height.
To appease his master’s displeasure, the treacherous fellow aknowledged that Geta had been seen near the walls, and that his boat had been lying at the Triton’s Cove.
In consequence of this information, men were instantly ordered in pursuit, with orders to lie in wait for the fugitives, if they could not be overtaken before morning. When Geta left Creüsa’s Grotto, he was seized before he reached the house of Clinias.
Mibra knew nothing of these proceedings, but had remained anxiously waiting till the day was half spent. Then she learned that Alcibiades had claimed Eudora and Geta as his slaves, by virtue of a debt due to him from Phidias for a large quantity of ivory; and notwithstanding the efforts of Clinias in their favor, the Court of Forty Four, in the borough of Alcibiades, decided that he had a right to retain them, until the debt was paid, or until the heir appeared to show cause why it should not be paid.
“The gods have blessed Clinias with abundant wealth,” said Eudora; “Did he offer nothing to save the innocent?”
“Dear lady,” replied Mibra, “Alcibiades demands such an immense
sum for the ivory, that he says he might as well undertake to build the wall of Hipparchus, as to pay it. But I have not told you the most cruel part of the story. Geta has been tied to a ladder, and shockingly whipped, to make him tell where you were concealed. He said he would not do it if he died. I believe they had the will to kill him; but one of the young slaves, whose modesty Alcibiades had insulted, was resolved to make complaint to the magistrates, and demand another master. She helped Geta to escape; they have both taken refuge in the Temple of Theseus. Geta dared trust no one but me to carry a message to Clinias. I told him he supped with Pericles tonight; and he would not suffer me to go there, lest Alcibiades should be among the guests.”
“I am glad he gave you that advice,” said Eudora; for though Pericles might be willing to serve me, for Philothea’s sake, I fear if he once learned the secret, it would soon be in Aspasia’s keeping.”
“And that would be all the same as telling Alcibiades himself,” rejoined Mibra. “But I must tell you that I did not know of poor Geta’s sufferings until many hours after they happened. Since he went to Salamis in search of you, I have not seen him until late this evening. He is afraid to leave the altar lest he should fall into the hands of his enemies; and that is the reason he sent me to bring you food. He expects to be a slave again; but having been abused by Alcibiades, he claims the privilege of the law to be transferred to another master.”
Eudora wept bitterly to think she had no power to rescue her faithful attendant from a condition he dreaded worse than death.
Mibra endeavored, in her own artless way, to soothe the distress her words had excited. “In all Geta’s troubles, he thinks more of you than he does of himself.” said she. “He bade me convey you to the house of a wise woman from Thessalia, who lives near the Sacred Gate; for he says she can tell us what it is best to do. She has learned of magicians in foreign lands. They say she can compound potions that will turn hatred into love; and that the power of her enchantments is so great, she can draw the moon down from the sky.”
“Nevertheless, I shall not seek her counsel,” replied the maiden; “for I have heard a better oracle.”
When she had given an account of the vision in the cave, the peasant asked, in a low and trembling voice, “Did it not make you afraid?”
“Not in the least,” answered Eudora; “and therefore I am doubtful whether it were a vision or a dream. I spoke to Philothea just as I used to do; without remembering that she had died. She left me more composed and happy than I have been for many days. Even if it were a vision, I do not marvel that the spirit of one so pure and peaceful should be less terrific than the ghost of Medea or Clytemnestra.”
“And the light shone all at once!” exclaimed Mibra, eagerly. “Trust to it, dear lady—trust to it. A sudden brightness hath ever been a happy omen.”
Two baskets, filled with Copaic eels and anchovies, had been deposited near the mouth of the cavern; and with the first blush of morning, the fugitives offered prayers to Phœbus and Pan, and went forth with the baskets on their heads, as if they sought the market. Eudora, in her haste, would have stepped across the springs that bubbled from the rocks; but Mibra held her back, saying, “Did you never hear that these brooks are Creüsa’s tears? When the unhappy daughter of Erectheus left her infant in this cave to perish, she wept as she departed; and Phœbus, her immortal lover, changed her tears to rills. For this reason, the water has ever been salt to the taste. It is a bad omen to wet the foot in these springs.”
Thus warned, Eudora turned aside, and took a more circuitous path.
It happened, fortunately, that the residence of Artaphernes stood behind the temple of Asclepius, at a short distance from Creüsa’s Grotto; and they felt assured that no one would think of searching for them within the dwelling of the Persian stranger. They arrived at the gate, without question or hindrance; but found it fastened. To their anxious minds, the time they were obliged to wait seemed like an age; but at last the gate was opened, and they preferred a humble request to see Artaphernes. Eudora, being weary of her load, stooped to place the basket of fish on a bench, and her veil accidentally dropped. The porter touched her under the chin, and said, with a rude laugh, “Do you suppose, my pretty dolphin, that Artaphernes buys his own dinner?”
Eudora’s eyes flashed fire at this familiarity; but checking her natural impetuosity, she replied, “It was not concerning the fish that I wished to speak to your master. We have business of importance.”
The servant gave a significant glance, more insulting than his former freedom. “Oh, yes, business of importance, no doubt,” said he; “but do you suppose, my little Nereid, that the servant of the Great King is himself a vender of fish, that he should leave his couch at an hour so early as this?”
Eudora slipped a ring from her finger, and putting it in his hand, said, in a confidential tone, “I am not a fishwoman. I am here in disguise. Go to your master, and conjure him, if he ever had a daughter that he loved, to hear the petition of an orphan, who is in great distress.”
The man’s deportment immediately changed; and as he walked away, he muttered to himself, “She don’t look nor speak like one brought up at the gates; that’s certain.”
Eudora and Mibra remained in the court for a long time, but with far less impatience than they had waited at the gate. At length the servant returned, saying his master was now ready to see them. Eudora followed, in extreme agitation, with her veil folded closely about her; and when they were ushered into the presence of Artaphernes, the embarrassment of her situation deprived her of the power of utterance. With much kindness of voice and manner, the venerable stranger said: “My servant told me that one of you was an orphan, and had somewhat to ask of me.”
Eudora replied: “O Persian stranger, I am indeed a lonely orphan, in the power of mine enemies; and I have been warned by a vision to come hither for assistance.”
Something in her words, or voice, seemed to excite surprise, mingled with deeper feelings; and the old man’s countenance grew more troubled, as she continued: “Perhaps you may recollect a maiden that sung at Aspasia’s house, to whom you afterwards sent a veil of shining texture?”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, with a deep sigh: “I do recollect it. They told me she was Eudora, the daughter of Phidias.”
“I am Eudora, the adopted daughter of Phidias,” rejoined the maiden. “My benefactor is dead, and I am friendless.”
“Who were your parents?” inquired the Persian.
“I never knew them,” she replied. “I was stolen from the Ionian coast by Greek pirates. I was a mere infant when Phidias bought me.”
In a voice almost suffocated with emotion, Artaphernes asked, “Were you then named Eudora?”
The maiden’s heart began to flutter with a new and and strange hope, as she replied, “No one knew my name. In my childish prattle, I called myself Baby Minta.”
The old man started from his seat—his color went and came—and every joint trembled. He seemed to make a strong effort to check some sudden impulse. After collecting himself for a moment, he said, “Maiden, you have the voice of one I dearly loved; and it has stirred the deepest fountains of my heart. I pray you, let me see your countenance.”
As Eudora threw off the veil, her long glossy hair fell profusely over her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful face was flushed with eager expectation.
The venerable Persian gazed at her for an instant, and then clasped her to his bosom. The tears fell fast, as he exclaimed, “Artaminta! My daughter! My daughter! Image of thy blessed mother! I have sought for thee throughout the world, and at last I believed thee dead. My only child! My long-lost, my precious one! May the blessing of Oromasdes be upon thee.”
CHAPTER XIX
Whate’er thou givest, generous let it be.
Euripides
When it was rumored that Artaphernes had ransomed Eudora and Geta, by offering the entire sum demanded for the ivory, many a jest circulated in the agoras at the expense of the old man who
had given such an enormous price for a handsome slave; but when it became known, that he had, in some wonderful and mysterious manner, discovered a long-lost daughter, the tide of public feeling was changed.
Alcibiades at once remitted his claim, which in fact never had any foundation in justice; he having accepted two statues in payment for the ivory, previous to the death of Phidias. He likewise formally asked Eudora in marriage; humbly apologizing for the outrage he had committed, and urging the vehemence of his love as an extenuation of the fault.
Artaphernes had power to dispose of his daughter without even making any inquiry concerning the state of her affections; but the circumstances of his past life induced him to forbear the exercise of his power.
“My dear child,” said he, “it was my own misfortune to suffer by an ill-assorted marriage. In early youth, my parents united me with Artaynta, a Persian lady, whose affections had been secretly bestowed upon a near kinsman. Her parents knew of this fact, but mine were ignorant of it. It ended in wretchedness and disgrace. To avoid the awful consequences of guilt, she and her lover eloped to some distant land, where I never attempted to follow them.
Sometime after, the Great King was graciously pleased to appoint me Governor of the sea-coast in Asia Minor. I removed to Ephesus, where I saw and loved your blessed mother, the beautiful Antiope, daughter of Diophanes, priest of Zeus. I saw her accidentally at a fountain, and watched her unobserved while she bathed the feet of her little sister. Though younger than myself, she reciprocated the love she had inspired. Her father consented to our union; and for a few years I enjoyed as great happiness as Oromasdes ever bestows on mortals. You were our only child; named Artaminta, in remembrance of my mother. You were scarcely two years old, when you and your nurse suddenly disappeared. As several other women and children were lost at the same time, we supposed that you were stolen by pirates. All efforts to ascertain your fate proved utterly fruitless. As moon after moon passed away, bringing no tidings of our lost treasure, Antiope grew more and more hopeless. She was a gentle, tender-hearted being, that complained little and suffered much. At last, she died broken-hearted.”
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