Ledscha nodded silently, and gazing into his face with a searching look asked, “And how long will this season of blossoming last?”

“Several months, girl; three, if not six.”

“And then?”

“Who looks so far into the future?”

She lowered her glance, and, as if yielding to the inevitable, answered:  “What a fool I was!  Who knows what the morrow may bring?  Are we even sure whether, six months hence, we shall not hate, instead of loving, each other?”

She passed her hand across her brow as she spoke, exclaiming:  “You said just now that only the present belonged to man.  Then let us enjoy it as though every moment might be the last.  By the light of the full moon to-night, the happiness which has been predicted to me must begin.  After it, the orb between the horns of Astarte will become smaller; but when it fulls and wanes again, if you keep your promise and return, then, though they may curse and condemn me, I will come to your studio and grant what you ask.  But which of the goddesses do you intend to model from me as a companion statue to the Demeter?”

“This time it can not be one of the immortelles,” he answered hesitatingly, “but a famous woman, an artist who succeeded in a competition in vanquishing even the august Athene.”

“So it is no goddess?” Ledscha asked in a disappointed tone.

“No, child, but the most skilful woman who ever plied the weaver’s shuttle.”

“And her name?”

“Arachne.”

The young girl started, exclaiming contemptuously:  “Arachne?  That is—­ that is what you Greeks call the most repulsive of creatures—­the spider.”

“The most skilful of all creatures, that taught man the noble art of weaving,” he eagerly retorted.

Here he was interrupted; his friend Myrtilus put his fair head into the room, exclaiming:  “Pardon me if I interrupt you—­but we shall not see each other again for some time.  I have important business in the city, and may be detained a long while.  Yet before I go I must perform the commission Daphne gave me for you.  She sends word that she shall expect you without fail at the banquet for the Pelusinian guests.  Your absence, do you hear?—­pardon the interruption, fairest Ledscha—­your absence would seriously anger her.”

“Then I shall be prepared for considerable trouble in appeasing her,” replied Hermon, glancing significantly at the young girl.

Myrtilus crossed the threshold, turned to the Biamite, and said in his quiet, cheerful manner:  “Where beautiful gifts are to be brought to Eros, it beseems the friend to strew with flowers the path of the one who is offering the sacrifices; and you, if everything does not deceive me, would fain choose to-night to serve him with the utmost devotion.  Therefore, I shall need forgiveness from you and the god, if I beseech you to defer the offering, were it only until to-morrow.”