“I received my first repulse from the prefect,” he began, and as he spoke, his arms, on whose graceful use the Greeks so strongly insisted, flew up in the air as though by their own impulse rather than by the speaker’s will.

“Titianus affects the philosopher, because when he was young—­long ago, that is very certain—­his feet trod the Stoa.”

“Your master, Xanthos, said that he was a very sound philosopher,” Melissa put in.

“Such praise is to be had cheap,” said Philip, by the most influential man in the town.  But his methods are old-fashioned.  He crawls after Zeno; he submits to authority, and requires more independent spirits to do the same.  To him the divinity is the Great First Cause.  In this world of ours he can discern the working of a purposeful will, and confuses his mind with windy, worn-out ideals.  Virtue, he says—­but to what end repeat such stale old stuff?”

“We have no time for it,” said Melissa, who saw that Philip was on the point of losing himself in a philosophical dissertation, for he had begun to enjoy the sound of his own voice, which was, in fact, unusually musical.

“Why not?” he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, and with a bitter smile.  “When he has shot away all his arrows, the bowman may rest; and, as you will soon hear, our quiver is empty—­as empty as this cup which I have drained.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Melissa, eagerly.  “If this first attempt has failed, that is the very reason for planning another.  I, too, can use figures of speech.  The archer who is really eager to hit the object on which he has spent his arrows, does not retire from the fight, but fetches more; and if he can find none, he fights with his bow, or falls on the enemy with stones, fists, and teeth.”

Philip looked at her in astonishment, and exclaimed in pleased surprise, without any of the supercilious scorn which he commonly infused into his tone when addressing his humble sister: 

“Listen to our little girl!  Where did those gentle eyes get that determined flash?  From misfortune—­from misfortune!  They rob the gentle dove of her young—­I mean her splendid Alexander—­and lo, she becomes a valiant falcon!  I expected to find you a heart-broken lamb, over your tear-stained stitching, and behold it is you who try to fire me.  Well, then, tell me what arrows we have left, when you have heard me out.  But, before I proceed, is Argutis at home again?  No?  He must go across again, to take various things to Alexander—­linen, garments, and the like.  I met Glaukias the sculptor, and he begged me not to forget it; for he knows where the lad is hidden, and was on the point of going over to see him.  The man had made himself perfectly unrecognizable.  He is a true friend, if such a thing there be!  And how grieved he was to hear of my father’s ill fortune!  I believe he is envious of Diodoros.”

Melissa shook a finger at him; but she turned pale, and curiously inquired whether her brother had remembered to warn Glaukias on no account to tell Alexander that it was in his power to release his father.