She repeatedly called the girl’s name before reaching the marble bench, but always in vain.

When she had at last reached the myrtle grove, which had concealed the lovers from her eyes, she could not help beholding the unwelcome sight.

Xanthe was resting her head on Phaon’s breast, while he bent down and kissed her eyes, her mouth, and at last—­who ever did such things in her young days?—­even her delicate little nose.

For several minutes Semestre’s tongue seemed paralyzed, but at last she raised both arms, and a cry of mingled indignation and anguish escaped her lips.

Xanthe started up in terror, but Phaon remained sitting on the marble bench, held the young girl’s hand in his own, and looked no more surprised than if some fruit had dropped from the tree beside him.

The youth’s composure increased the old woman’s fury, and her lips were just parting to utter a torrent of angry words, when Jason stepped as lightly as a boy between her and the betrothed lovers, cast a delighted glance at his favorites, and bowing with comic dignity to Semestre cried, laughing: 

“The two will be husband and wife, my old friend, and ought to ask your blessing, unless you wickedly intend to violate a solemn vow.”

“I will—­I will!  When did I—­” shrieked the house-keeper.

“Didn’t you,” interrupted Jason, raising his voice—­“didn’t you vow this morning that you would prepare Phaon’s wedding-feast with your own hands as soon as you yourself offered a sacrifice to the Cyprian goddess to induce her to unite their hearts?”

“And I’ll stick to it, so surely as the gracious goddess—­”

“I hold you to your promise!” exclaimed Jason.  “Your sucking-pig has just been offered to Aphrodite.  The priest gladly accepted it and slaughtered it before my eyes, imploring the goddess with me, to fill Xanthe’s heart with love for Phaon.”

The house-keeper clenched her hands, approached Jason, and so plainly showed her intention of attacking him that the steward, who had assailed many a wild-boar, retreated—­by no means fearlessly.

She forced him back to the marble bench, screaming: 

“So that’s why the priest found no word of praise for my beautiful pig!  You’re a thief, a cheat!  You took my dear little pig, which all the other gods might envy the mother of Eros, put in its place a wretched animal just like yourself, and falsely said it came from me.  Oh, I see through the whole game!  That fine Mopsus was your accomplice; but so true as I—­”

“Mopsus has entered our service,” replied Jason, laughing; “and, if our Phaon’s bride will permit, he wants to wed the dark-haired Dorippe.  Henceforth our property is yours.”

“And ours yours,” replied Xanthe—­“Be good-natured, Semestre; I will marry no man but Phaon, and shall soon win my father over to our side, rely upon that.”

The house-keeper was probably forced to believe these very resolute words, for, like a vanquished but skilful general, she began to think of covering her retreat, saying: