"And yet thou hast never loved me," said Cleonice; and there was
something soft and tender in the tone of her voice, and the rough
Spartan was again subdued.

"I never loved thee! What, then, is love? Is not thine image always
before me?--amidst schemes, amidst perils of which thy very dreams
have never presented equal perplexity or phantoms so uncertain, I am
occupied but with thee. Surely, as upon the hyacinth is written the
exclamation of woe, so on this heart is graven thy name. Cleonice, you
who know not what it is to love, you affect to deny or to question
mine."

"And what," said Cleonice, blushing deeply, and with tears in her
eyes, "what result can come from such a love? You may not wed with
the stranger. And yet, Pausanias, yet you know that all other love
dishonours the virgin even of Byzantium. You are silent; you turn
away. Ah, do not let them wrong you. My father fears your power. If
you love me you are powerless; your power has passed to me. Is it not
so? I, a weak girl, can rule, command, irritate, mock you, if I will.
You may fly me, but not control."

"Do not tempt me too far, Cleonice," said the Spartan, with a faint
smile.

"Nay, I will be merciful henceforth, and you, Pausanias, come here
no more. Awake to the true sense of what is due to your divine
ancestry--your great name. Is it not told of you that, after the
fall of Mardonius, you nobly dismissed to her country, unscathed and
honoured, the captive Coan lady?[23] Will you reverse at Byzantium
the fame acquired at Plataea? Pausanias, spare us; appeal not to my