A few moments after, Anthrops, released from his imprisonment, opened the door of the upper room, walked quietly down-stairs, and returned to the city, much to the joy of his friends and relations, who had long mourned him as lost.

About a year after this, Anthrops strolled into the philosopher’s study, to inquire the solution of a certain problem.

“I will refer you,” said his old instructor, “to my accomplished pupil”; then raising his voice,—­“Haguna!”

Anthrops, startled at hearing her name in such a connection, awaited her entrance with anxious curiosity.  She speedily came in obedience to the summons, bowed with an air of grave abstraction to Anthrops, and, seating herself, composedly awaited the commands of her master.  Her former captive asked himself, wondering, if this could be the airy, laughing, winsome maiden with whom in days past he had ridden into the green forest.  The billows of hair had ebbed away; the short, ungraceful, and somewhat thin remnant was meant for use in covering the head, not for luxurious beauty.  All falling laces, all fluttering ribbons, all sparkling jewels were discarded from the severe simplicity of the scholastic gown; and with them had disappeared the glancing ripple that before had sunnily flowed around her, like wavy undulations through a field of corn.  Very clear and still were the violet eyes, but their dewy lustre had long ago dried up.  Like a flowering tree whose blossoms have been prematurely swept off by a cold wind was the maiden, as she sat there, abstractedly drawing geometrical diagrams with her pencil.

“Now, Sir,” said the philosopher, “if you will state your difficulty, I have no doubt my pupil can afford you assistance.”

So saying, he withdrew into a corner, that the discussion might have free scope.

Haguna now looking inquiringly at Anthrops.  He cleared his throat with a somewhat dictatorial “hem!” and began.

“These circumstances, Madam, are really so unusual, that you must excuse me, if I”—­

“Proceed, Sir, to the point.”

“When, avoiding the barbarous edict of Justinian, which condemned to a perpetual silence the philosophic loquacity of the Athenian schools, the second heptacle of wise men undertook a perilous journey to implore the protection of Persia, they undoubtedly must at some stages of their travels have passed the night on the road.  In this case, the method of so passing the time becomes an interesting object of research.  Did the last of the Greeks provide themselves with tents,—­effeminately impede their progress with luggage?  Did they, skirting the north of the Arabian desert, repose under the scattered palm-trees,—­or rather, wandering among the mountains of Assyria, find surer and colder shade?  The importance of this inquiry becomes evident upon reflecting that the characters of the great are revealed by their behavior in the incidental events of their lives.”