When these two reached the foot of the tumulus they stood still and stared upwards.  The dog uttered a short gruff bark, looked at the boy, wagged a fat tail, barked again, abruptly depressed the fore part of its body till its chin was against the ground between its paws, then jumped into the air with a sudden demeanor of ludicrously young, and rather uncouth, waggishness, which made Dion laugh.

The small boy replied with a smile almost as sturdy as his legs, which he now permitted to convey him with decisive firmness through the wild aloes and oleanders to the summit of the tumulus.  He stood before Dion, holding his crooked staff tightly in his right hand, but his large dark eyes were directed upwards.  Evidently his attention was not to be given to Dion.  His dog, on the contrary, after a stare and two muffled attempts at a menacing bark, came to make friends with Dion in a way devoid of all dignity, full of curves, wrigglings, tail waggings and grins which exposed rows of smiling teeth.

“Dion!” came Rosamund’s voice from above.

“Yes?”

“Do show him the way up.  He wants to come up.”

Dion got up, took the little Greek’s hand firmly, led him to the foot of the ladder, and pointed to Rosamund who leaned from her brushwood chamber and held out inviting hands, smiling, and looking at the child with shining eyes.  He understood that he was very much wanted, gravely placed his staff on the ground, laid hold of the ladder, and slowly clambered up, with the skirts of his coat sticking out behind him.  His dog set up a loud barking, scrambled at the ladder, and made desperate efforts to follow him.

“Help him up, Dion!” came the commanding voice from above.

Dion seized the curly coat of the dog—­picked up handfuls of dog.  There was a struggle.  The dog made fierce motions as if swimming, and whined in a thin and desperate soprano.  Its body heaved upwards, its forepaws clutched the edge of the brushwood floor, and it arrived.

“Bravo!” cried Rosamund, as she proceeded to settle down with her guests.  “But why don’t I know Greek?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dion murmured, standing with his hands on the ladder.  “You know their language.”

Rosamund was sitting now, half-curled up, with her back against the brushwood wall.  Her light sun-helmet lay on the floor.  In her ruffled hair were caught two or three thin brown leaves, their brittle edges curled inwards.  The little boy, slightly smiling, yet essentially serious, as are children tested by a great new experience, squatted close to her and facing her, with one leg under him, the other leg stretched out confidentially, as much as to say, “Here it is!” The dog lay close by panting, smiling, showing as much tongue and teeth as was caninely possible in the ardor of feeling tremendously uplifted, important, one of the very few.

And Rosamund proceeded to entertain her guests.