He could now distinguish her light foot-fall—­now she was divided from him by a young acacia-shrub which hid her from his gaze-now she set down two water-jars on the ground—­now she briskly lifted the bucket and filled the vessel she held in her left hand—­now she looked towards the eastern horizon, where the dim light of dawn grew broader and brighter, and Lysias thought he recognized Irene—­and now—­Praised be the gods! he was sure; before him stood the younger and not the elder sister; the very maiden whom he sought.

Still half concealed by the acacia-shrub, and in a soft voice so as not to alarm her, he called Irene’s name, and the poor child’s blood froze with terror, for never before had she been startled by a man here, and at this hour.  She stood as if rooted to the spot, and, trembling with fright, she pressed the cold, wet, golden jar, sacred to the god, closely to her bosom.

Lysias repeated her name, a little louder than before, and went on, but in a subdued voice: 

“Do not be frightened, Irene; I am Lysias, the Corinthian—­your friend, whose pomegranate-blossom you wore yesterday, and who spoke to you after the procession.  Let me bid you good morning!”

At these words the girl let her hand fall by her side, still holding the jar, and pressing her right hand to her heart, she exclaimed, drawing a deep breath: 

“How dreadfully you frightened me!  I thought some wandering soul was calling me that had not yet returned to the nether world, for it is not till the sun rises that spirits are scared away.”

“But it cannot scare men of flesh and blood whose purpose is good.  I, you may believe me, would willingly stay with you, till Helios departs again, if you would permit me.”

“I can neither permit nor forbid you anything,” answered Irene.  “But, how came you here at this hour?”

“In a chariot,” replied Lysias smiling.

“That is nonsense—­I want to know what you came to the Well of the Sun for at such an hour.”

“I What but for you yourself?  You told me yesterday that you were glad to sleep, and so am I; still, to see you once more, I have been only to glad to shorten my night’s rest considerably.”

“But, how did you know?”

“You yourself told me yesterday at what time you were allowed to leave the temple.”

“Did I tell you?  Great Serapis! how light it is already.  I shall be punished if the water-jar is not standing on the altar by sunrise, and there is Klea’s too to be filled.”

“I will fill it for you directly—­there—­that is done; and now I will carry them both for you to the end of the grove, if you will promise me to return soon, for I have many things to ask you.”

“Go on—­only go on,” said the girl; “I know very little; but ask away, though you will not find much to be made of any answers that I can give.”

“Oh! yes, indeed, I shall—­for instance, if I asked you to tell me all about your parents.  My friend Publius, whom you know, and I also have heard how cruelly and unjustly they were punished, and we would gladly do much to procure their release.”