"What else? From whom save thee, since I closed my father's eyes, have I
heard the tongue of Homer and Plato?"

"Who is Homer? Who is Plato?"

The maiden regarded him with a look of the deepest astonishment.

"Surely," she said, "thy gift has been bestowed upon thee to little
purpose. Say not, at least, that thou usest the speech of the Gods to
blaspheme them. Thou art surely yet a votary of Zeus?"

"I a votary of Zeus!" exclaimed the stranger. "By these fetters, no!" And,
weak as he was, the forest rang with his disdainful laughter.

"Farewell," said the maiden, as with dilating form and kindling eye she
gathered up her robes. "I parley with thee no more. Thou art tenfold more
detestable than the howling mob down yonder, intent on rapine and
destruction. They know no better, and can no other. But thou, apt in
speaking the sacred tongue yet brutally ignorant of its treasures, knowing
the father of the Gods only to revile him! Let me pass."

The stranger, if willing to hinder her, seemed little able. His eyes
closed, his limbs relaxed, and without a cry he sank senseless on the
sward.

In an instant the maiden was kneeling by his side. Hastily undoing a basket
she carried on her arm, she drew forth a leather flask, and, supporting
the sunken head with one hand, poured a stream of wine through the lips
with the other. As the gurgling purple coursed down his throat the sufferer