“O Gorgo!  Can it really be years since we parted?”

“Yes, indeed,” she said.  “Anxious, busy, struggling years!”

“But to-day we celebrate the festival of Peace,” he exclaimed fervently.  “I have learnt to leave every man to go his own way so long as I am allowed to go mine.  The old strife is buried; take me as I am and I, for my part, will think only of the noble and beautiful traits in which your nature is so rich.  The fruit of all wholesome strife must be peace; let us pluck that fruit, Gorgo, and enjoy it together.  Ah! as I stand here and gaze out over the gardens and the lake, hearing the hammers of the shipwrights, and rejoicing in your presence, I feel as though our childhood might begin all over again—­only better, fuller and more beautiful!”

“If only my brothers were here!”

“I saw them.”

“Oh! where?”

“At Thessalonica, well and happy—­I have letters for you from them.”

“Letters!” cried Gorgo, drawing away her hand.  “Well, you are a tardy messenger!  Our houses are within a stone’s throw, and yet in a whole day, from noon till noon, so old a friend could not find a few minutes to deliver the letters entrusted to him, or to call upon such near neighbors . . .”

“First there were my parents,” interrupted the young soldier.  “And then the tyrant military duty, which kept me on the stretch from yesterday afternoon till an hour or two since.  Romanus robbed me even of my sleep, and kept me in attendance till the morn had set.  However, I lost but little by that, for I could not have closed my eyes till they had beheld you!  This morning again I was on duty, and rarely have I ridden to the front with such reluctance.  After that I was delayed by various details; even on my way here—­but for that I cannot be sorry for it gave me this chance of finding you alone.  All I ask now is that we may remain so, for such a moment is not likely to be repeated.—­There, I heard a door . . .”

“Come into the garden,” cried Gorgo, signing to him to follow her.  “My heart is as full as yours.  Down by the tank under the old sycamores—­we shall be quietest there.”

Under the dense shade of the centenarian trees was a rough-hewn bench that they themselves had made years before; there Gorgo seated herself, but her companion remained standing.

“Yes!” he exclaimed.  “Here—­here you must hear me!  Here where we have been so happy together!”

“So happy!” she echoed softly,

“And now,” he went on, “we are together once more.  My heart beats wildly, Gorgo; it is well that this breastplate holds it fast, for I feel as though it would burst with hope and thankfulness.”

“Thankfulness?” said Gorgo, looking down.