“But see! yon calves devour
     The olive branches.  Pelt them off I pray.

“Confound the calves!  ‘St—! you white-skin thief—­away!’ Thanks, no more at present.  Doubtless it sounds very fine in Greek, because then, I could not possibly understand that it is the melody and the rhythmic dance of bleating calves, and capering goats.  Here come the stragglers laden with plunder.  Oh, papa!  Do give me those exquisite acacia clusters.”

“My dear, I have ordered luncheon spread down there, in that strange garden.  It is the queerest place imaginable; and looking up, the effect is quite indescribable.”

“Have you had the skulls polished for drinking cups, and printed the menus on cross-bones?  What shocking taste to add insult to injury by spreading all our wealth of canned dainties on the very stones where sit the ghosts of those who perished from hunger and thirst!  Eminently Dantesque, but the sacrilege appalls Leo.  She would sooner attend an oyster supper, or a clam-bake in the Catacombs, or—­” bowing to a young Englishman standing near, “lead a German in the Poets’ corner of Westminster Abbey.  My dear girl, under which flag do you fight?  Athenian, Roman, Carthagenian, Syracusan?

“The child of a man who fell in defence of his own fireside, could scarcely fail to sympathize with the holy cause of the invaded; yet here, in view of the horrors inflicted upon the captives, one almost leans to Athens.  It seems to me the most enduring monument of Syracusan glory survives in the eloquent protest of Nicolaus against her cruelty; especially when we recollect that it came from one who, of all others, had most to forgive.  Old, decrepit, unable to walk, the venerable sorrow-laden man whose only children, two sons, had died fighting to save Syracuse—­was carried on a litter into the midst of the shouting thousands, who were drunk with the wine of victory.  ’Behold an unhappy father, who has most cause to detest the Athenians, the authors of this war, the murderers of my children!  But I am less sensible of my private afflictions than of the honor of my country, when I see it ready to expose itself to eternal infamy by violating the law of nations, and dishonoring our victory by barbarous cruelty.  What!  Will you tarnish your glory, and have all the world say that a nation who first dedicated a temple in their city, to Clemency, found none in yours?  Triumphs and victories do not give immortal glory to a city; but the use of moderation in the greatest prosperity, the exercise of mercy toward a vanquished enemy, the fear of offending the gods by a haughty and insolent pride.’  What a theme for Dore or Munkacsy?”

“Thank you ever so much, Miss Gordon, for brushing away the library dust from that historic cameo.  I had so utterly forgotten it lay in the musty tomes, that it has all the charm of a curio.”  Mr. Cutting took off his hat, and bowed.