The heaven to which Prometheus and Elenko had ascended was situated in a sequestered valley of Laconia.  A single winding path led into the glen, which was inhabited only by a few hunters and shepherds, who still observed the rites of the ancient faith; and sometimes, deeming but to show kindness to a mortal, refreshed or sheltered a forlorn and hungry Deity.  Saving at the entrance the vale was walled round by steep cliffs, for the most part waving with trees, but here and there revealing the naked crag.  It was traversed by a silvery stream, in its windings enclosing Prometheus’s and Elenko’s cottage, almost as in an island.  The cot, buried in laurel and myrtle, had a garden where fig and mulberry, grape and almond, ripened in their season.  A few goats browsed on the long grass, and yielded their milk to the household.  Bread and wine, and flesh when needed, were easily procured from the neighbours.  Beyond necessary furniture, the cottage contained little but precious scrolls, obtained by Elenko from Athens and the newly founded city of Constantine.  In these, under her guidance, Prometheus read of matters that never, while he dwelt on Olympus, entered the imagination of any God.

It is a chief happiness of lovers that each possesses treasures wholly their own, which they may yet make fully the possession of the other.  These treasures are of divers kinds, beauty, affection, memory, hope.  But never were such treasures of knowledge shared between lovers as between Prometheus and Elenko.  Each possessed immeasurable stores, hitherto inaccessible to the other.  How trifling seemed the mythical lore which Elenko had gleaned as the minister of Phoebus to that now imparted by Prometheus!  The Titan had seen all, and been a part of all that he had seen.  He had bowed beneath the sceptre of Uranus, he had witnessed his fall, and marked the ocean crimson with his blood.  He remembered hoary Saturn a brisk active Deity, pushing his way to the throne of Heaven, and devouring in a trice the stone that now resists his fangs for millenniums.  He had heard the shields of the Corybantes clash around the infant Zeus; he described to Elenko how one day the sea had frothed and boiled, and undraped Aphrodite had ascended from it in the presence of the gazing and applauding amphitheatre of cloud-cushioned gods.  He could depict the personal appearance of Cybele, and sketch the character of Enceladus.  He had instructed Zeus, as Chiron had instructed Achilles; he remembered Poseidon afraid of the water, and Pluto of the dark.  He called to mind and expounded ancient oracles heretofore unintelligible:  he had himself been told, and had disbelieved, that the happiest day of his own life would be that on which he should feel himself divested of immortality.  Of the younger gods and their doings he knew but little; he inquired with interest whether Bacchus had returned in safety from his Indian expedition, and whether Proserpine had a family of divine imps.