only say that this man of might loves thee--that he is rich, rich,
rich. Pretty pickings at Plataea; and we have known losses, my child,
sad losses. And if you do not love him, why, you can but smile and
talk as if you did, and when the Spartan goes home, you will lose a
tormenter and gain a dowry."

"My father, for shame!"

"Who talks of shame? You women are always so sharp at finding oracles
in oak leaves, that one don't wonder Apollo makes choice of your sex
for his priests. But listen to me, girl, seriously," and here Diagoras
with a great effort raised himself on his elbow, and lowering his
voice, spoke with evident earnestness. "Pausanias has life and death,
and, what is worse, wealth or poverty in his hands; he can raise or
ruin us with a nod of his head, this black-curled Jupiter. They tell
me that he is fierce, irascible, haughty; and what slighted lover is
not revengeful? For my sake, Cleonice, for your poor father's sake,
show no scorn, no repugnance; be gentle, play with him, draw not down
the thunderbolt, even if you turn from the golden shower."

While Diagoras spoke, the girl listened with downcast eyes and flushed
cheeks, and there was an expression of such shame and sadness on her
countenance, that even the Byzantine, pausing and looking up for a
reply, was startled by it.

"My child," said he, hesitatingly and absorbed, "do not misconceive
me. Cursed be the hour when the Spartan saw thee; but since the Fates
have so served us, let us not make bad worse. I love thee, Cleonice,
more dearly than the apple of my eye; it is for _thee_ I fear, for
thee I speak. Alas! it is not dishonour I recommend, it is force I