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I tell you, it's trouble wasted, for she's dressing her hair to receive our guest from Messina; and, if she were standing where those cabbage-leaves be, she wouldn't contradict me if I were to repeat what you heard from my lips this morning at sunrise. Our girl will never become Phaon's wife until I myself offer a sacrifice to Aphrodite, that she may fill Xanthe's heart with love for him."
"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!
I tell you, it's trouble wasted, for she's dressing her hair to receive our guest from Messina; and, if she were standing where those cabbage-leaves be, she wouldn't contradict me if I were to repeat what you heard from my lips this morning at sunrise. Our girl will never become Phaon's wife until I myself offer a sacrifice to Aphrodite, that she may fill Xanthe's heart with love for him."
She no longer thought of the harm a piece of news might do her empty stomach, and, while mentally seeing the flutter of a matron's beautiful blue garment and the flash of Xanthe's rich dowry, eagerly asked the welcome messenger: "Does she speak the truth? And what is this about the robes?"
Protarch himself had gone to Messina, with his own and her father's oil. To age is allotted the alms of reverence, to youth the gift of love, and, of the three men who lived in the house on Xanthe's right-hand, only one could lay claim to such a gift, and he had an unusually good right to do so.
Ismene had a daughter herself just Xanthe's age, so it must probably have been true. Then why, in the name of all the gods, was Xanthe sad? Is any cause required to explain it? Must a maiden have met with misfortune, to make her feel a longing to weep? Certainly not. Nay, the gayest rattle-brain is the least likely to escape such a desire.
Lysander, Xanthe's father, had been helped out of the house into the sunlight, and, seated in his arm-chair of polished olive-wood, was gazing at the show. As soon as he saw his daughter, he beckoned to her, and stroking her hair, while she pressed her lips to his forehead, said: "An amusing sight! The two hens obey the little man as if they were dutiful children.
Lysander, Xanthe's father, had been helped out of the house into the sunlight, and, seated in his arm-chair of polished olive- wood, was gazing at the show. As soon as he saw his daughter, he beckoned to her, and stroking her hair, while she pressed her lips to his forehead, said: "An amusing sight! The two hens obey the little man as if they were dutiful children.
Every reddish pebble, every smooth bit of snowy quartz, every point and furrow and stripe on the pretty shells on its sandy bottom, was as distinctly visible as if held before the eyes on the palm of the hand, and yet the water was so deep that the gold circlet sparkling above the elbow on Xanthe's round arm, nay, even the gems confining her peplum on the shoulder, would have been wet had she tried to touch the bottom of the basin with the tips of her fingers.
Ismene had a daughter herself just Xanthe's age, so it must probably have been true. Then why, in the name of all the gods, was Xanthe sad? Is any cause required to explain it? Must a maiden have met with misfortune, to make her feel a longing to weep? Certainly not. Nay, the gayest rattle-brain is the least likely to escape such a desire.
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