“I was outwitted; but, what I vowed in a moment of weakness.  I have now sworn again.  I am only sorry for your poor father, who needed a trustworthy son, and the good Leonax—­”

At this moment, as if he had heard his name and obediently appeared at her call, the son of Alciphron, of Messina, appeared with Phaon’s father, Protarch, from the shadow of the myrtle-grove.

He was a gay, handsome youth, richly and carefully dressed.  After many a pressure of the hand and cordial words of welcome, Phaon took the young girl’s hand and led her to the new-comers, saying: 

“Give me Xanthe for a wife, my father.  We have grown up together like the ivy and wild vine on the wall, and cannot part.”

“No certainly not,” added Xanthe, blushing and nestling closely to her lover’s side, as she gazed beseechingly first at her uncle, and then at the young visitor from Messina.

“Children, children!” cried Protarch, “you spoil my best plans.  I had destined Agariste, the rich Mentor’s only child, for you, foolish boy, and already had come to terms with the old miser.  But who can say I will, or this and that shall happen to-morrow?  You are very sweet and charming my girl, and I don’t say that I shouldn’t be glad, but—­mighty Zeus! what will my brother Alciphron say—­and you, Leonax?”

“I?” asked the young man, smiling.  “I came here like a dutiful son, but I confess I rejoice over what has happened, for now my parents will hardly say ‘No’ a second time, when I beg them to give me Codrus’s daughter, Ismene, for my wife.”

“And there stands a maiden who seems to like to hear such uncivil words better than Helen loved Paris’s flattering speeches!” exclaimed Phaon’s father, first kissing his future daughter’s cheek and then his son’s forehead.

“But now let us go to father,” pleaded Xanthe.

“Only one moment,” replied Protarch, “to look after the boxes the people are bringing.—­Take care of the large chest with the Phoenician dishes and matron’s robes, my lads.”

During the first moments of the welcome, Semestre had approached her darling’s son, told him who she was, received his father’s messages of remembrance, kissed his hand, and stroked his arm.

His declaration that he wished another maiden than Xanthe for his wife soothed her not a little, and when she now heard of matrons’ dresses, and not merely one robe, her eyes sparkled joyously, and, fixing them on the ground, she asked: 

“Is there a blue one among them?  I’m particularly fond of blue.”

“I’ve selected a blue one, too,” replied Protarch.  “I’ll explain for what purpose up yonder.  Now we’ll go and greet my brother.”

Xanthe, hand in hand with her lover, hurried on in advance of the procession, lovingly prepared her father for what had happened, told him how much injustice he, old Semestre, and she herself had done poor Phaon, led the youth to him, and, deeply agitated, sank on her knees before him as he laid her hand in her playfellow’s, exclaiming in a trembling voice: