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"Mopsus has entered our service," replied Jason, laughing; "and, if our Phaon's bride will permit, he wants to wed the dark-haired Dorippe. Henceforth our property is yours." "And ours yours," replied Xanthe "Be good-natured, Semestre; I will marry no man but Phaon, and shall soon win my father over to our side, rely upon that."
The antique weapon was held by stout thongs to the wall; she plucked it from its fastenings with the strength of a Titaness. The rusty blade resisted an instant; she dragged it forth. Then out on to the terrace. Really only a moment had elapsed since she left it. One of the slaves was lying dead, or stunned, prone on the turf. Phaon was writhing and howling beside him, nursing a broken jaw.
"One can sleep after sunrise." "How tired you must be!" "I'll make up my sleep when my father returns." "They say he is seeking the rich Mentor's only daughter for your wife." "Not with my will, certainly." "Phaon!" "I am glad you will give me your hand again." "You dear, good, kind fellow, how shall I thank you?" "Anything but that!
Xanthe laughed merrily, turned her back on the children, and went slowly down into the valley. During her walk all sorts of little incidents flashed through her mind with the speed of lightning; memories of the days when she herself was a little girl and Phaon had played with her daily, as the curly-headed Syrus now did with the herdsman's daughter.
At the last words Xanthe's eyes filled with tears, and Phaon noticed it with astonishment. He gazed at her sadly and beseechingly, and then fixed his eyes on the ground. At last he began to suspect the cause of her anger, and asked, smiling: "You probably mean that I riot all night?" "Yes!" cried Xanthe; she withdrew her hand for the second time, and half turned away.
"Only some of it, and that in a satire which I propose to aim at you." "I tremble!" "With delight, it is to be hoped; my poem will embalm your memory for posterity." "That is true, and the more spiteful your verses, the more certainly will future generations believe that Verus was the Phaon of Balbilla's Sappho, and that love scorned filled the fair singer with bitterness."
"After having for some years exchanged sonnets, under the names of Laura and Petrarch, and elegies under those of Sappho and Phaon; the lover, to whom all this had been mere sport, the gratification of vanity, and the recreation of an idle hour grew weary. Younger and fairer he another saw. He drew off. Her verses were left unanswered, her reproaches unpitied. Laura wept, and Sappho raved in vain.
One, referred to in the Parian marble and by Ovid, is her flight from Mytilene to Sicily, between 604 and 592, to escape from some unknown danger. The other is the well-known story that, being in love with Phaon, and finding her love unrequited, she cast herself from the Leucadian rock. This rock is a promontory on the island of Leucas, upon which was a temple to Apollo.
"It's a punishment of the Gods," said the wife of Phaon. "You should not have let Daphne run the streets like a boy. It's against nature. No decent Athenian girl would be allowed to. I never put my nose out of my Mother's house exeept on the days of women's festivals until I was married." "But, my dear," said Phaon mildly, "you forget the Spartans are different."
Xanthe, too, is fond of figs, and, if Leonax shares his father's taste, how will the sweet fruit of your favorite trees fare, if Hymen unites them in marriage? Phaon doesn't care for sweet things. But seriously: though his father may seek twenty brides for him, he himself wants no one but Xanthe. And can you deny that he is a handsome, powerful fellow?"
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