voices are heard, and anon the trembling tones of a woman. Pushing
their way through the concourse, two officers drag a shrinking
girl, with dark, frightened eyes, to the feet of Pericles. "This
woman," they cry, "knows the sculptor; we are sure of this; but
she will not tell his name."

Neither threats nor pleading can unlock the lips of the brave
girl. Not even when informed that the penalty of her conduct was
death would she divulge her secret. "The law," says Pericles, "is
imperative. Take the maid to the dungeon."

Creon, who, with his sister, had been among the first to find his
way to the Agora that morning, rushed forward, and, flinging
himself at the ruler's feet, cried "O Pericles! forgive and save
the maid. She is my sister. I am the culprit. The group is the
work of my hands, the hands of a slave."

An intense silence fell upon the multitude, and then went up a
mighty shout,--"To the dungeon, to the dungeon with the slave."

"As I live, no!" said Pericles, rising. "Not to the dungeon, but
to my side bring the youth. The highest purpose of the law should
be the development of the beautiful. The gods decide by that group
that there is something higher in Greece than an unjust law. To
the sculptor who fashioned it give the victor's crown."

And then, amid the applause of all the people, Aspasia placed the
crown of olives on the youth's brow, and tenderly kissed the
devoted sister who had been the right hand of genius.