“Who art thou?” he exclaimed.

“Gods!  Thou speakest Greek!”

“What else should I speak?”

“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 opened his eyes, and thanked her silently with a smile of exquisite sweetness.  Removing the large leaves which shaded the contents of the basket, she disclosed ripe figs and pomegranates, honeycomb and snow-white curd, lying close to each other in tempting array.  The stranger took of each alternately, and the basket was well-nigh emptied ere his appetite seemed assuaged.

The observant maiden, meanwhile, felt her mood strangely altered.

“So have I imaged Ulysses to myself,” she thought as she gazed on the stranger’s goodly form, full of vigour, though not without traces of age, the massive brow, the kindly mouth, the expression of far-seeing wisdom.  “Such a man ignorant of letters, and a contemner of Zeus!”

The stranger’s eloquent thanks roused her from a reverie.  The Greek tongue fell upon her ear like the sweetest music, and she grieved when its flow was interrupted by a question addressed directly to herself.

“Can a God feel hunger and thirst?”

“Surely no,” she rejoined.

“I should have said the same yesterday,” returned the stranger.

“Wherefore not to-day?”

“Dear maiden,” responded he, with winning voice and manner, “we must know each other better ere my tale can gain credence with thee.  Do thou rather unfold what thine own speech has left dark to me.  Why the language of the Gods, as should seem, is here understood by thee and me alone; what foes Zeus has here other than myself; what is the profane crowd of which thou didst speak; and why, alone and defenceless, thou ascendest this mountain.  Think of me, if thou wilt, as one fallen from the clouds.”