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When she had at last reached the myrtle grove, which had concealed the lovers from her eyes, she could not help beholding the unwelcome sight. Xanthe was resting her head on Phaon's breast, while he bent down and kissed her eyes, her mouth, and at last who ever did such things in her young days? even her delicate little nose.
Then the old woman described what occurred at such banquets, and when she mentioned the painted flute-players, with whom the dissipated city youths squandered their fathers' money, and the old house-keeper called attention to the fact that Phaon already wandered about as stupidly and sleepily as if he were a docile pupil of the notorious Hermias, Xanthe fairly hated her, and almost forgot the respect she owed to her gray hair, and told her to her face she was a liar and slanderer.
"Then you'll be in the right place," cried Jason, "but you're not yet turning it for Leonax's wedding-feast." "And I promise you I'll prepare the roast for Phaon's," retorted Semestre, "but not until the sacrifice of an animal I'm fattening myself induces the foam-born goddess to kindle in Xanthe's heart sweet love for Leonax." "Xanthe, Xanthe!" called Semestre, a short time after. "Xanthe!
"And dare you boast of it?" asked Xanthe, with glowing cheeks. "I am not your mother, and you must do as you choose, but if you think I belonged to you because we played with each other as children, and I was not unwilling to give you my hand in the dance, you are mistaken. I care for, no man who turns day into night and night into day."
She now thought of these and many similar acts, and that he had never promised her anything, only placed the finished article before her as a matter of course. It had never entered his mind to ask compensation for his gifts or thanks for his acts, like curly-headed Syrus. Silently he rendered her service after service; but, unfortunately, at this hour Xanthe was not disposed to acknowledge it.
Forbidden things are charming, yet Xanthe rarely looked into this liquid mirror, though she might have enjoyed gazing at it frequently, for her figure was tall and slender as the trunk of a cypress, her thick fair hair glittered like gold, the oval of her face was exquisitely rounded, long lashes shaded the large blue eyes that could conceal no emotion which stirred her soul, and when she was alone seemed to ask: "What have the gods allotted for my future?"
"Then I give them to a peasant, on whose land they lay eggs, eat and die. The right farmer for your hens lives in Agrigentum." Lysander shrugged his shoulders; and, as, leaning on his daughter, he tottered slowly forward, almost falling on the threshold, Xanthe took a silent vow to give him a son on whom he could firmly depend a stalwart, reliable man.
"And that is ?" "Weariness. Thousands are worse, and few better, than your cousin; yes, the maiden he chooses for his wife may rejoice." Xanthe blushed, and the dwarf, as he entered the gate, asked: "Is Leonax wooing his little cousin?" "Perhaps." "But the little cousin has some one else in her mind." "Who told you so?" "My hens."
The snow-white bird, with the yellow head, scratched seventeen times before Xanthe, and, on reaching Mopsus, twenty-three times, which was perfectly correct. "Now tell us this honorable lady's age too," said the conjurer to the hen.
"The weather is delightful, there was a light breeze from the north during the night, so it may happen that the ship from Messina will arrive before noon." "Then let me go down." "Go and watch for the sails. If you see ours, hurry back and tell Chloris to call me, for I must go to the temple of Cypris." "You?" asked Xanthe, laughing.
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