RGIVE HELEN sat on a bench of sun-warmed marble, beneath a leafy arbor, thick-starred with small spicy roses, dim even in the white-hot glare of noon. Argive Helen's hands were locked on her lovely knee, her deer-head was flung high, her eyes were dark with anger, her lips were edged with scorn. Sadly at variance she was with the young May world around her! The more sad, this, because Troy town still drowsed in peace: a mocking peace, only too soon to be broken. For, just one year gone, Paris, son of Priam, had snatched fair Helen from King Menelaus, and had carried her across the sea, and set her on the high seat in his father's palace. Even now the Greeks were arming for revengeful onslaught. But, to-day, the hapless city knew naught of its doom. Hence, it lay tranquil, dreaming in the sun. And only Helen, All-Fairest, was stirred, and as a fountain troubled.

"Barely a year since Paris swore to cleave to me forever. And to-daythis!"

Alas! to-day's grievance was nothing new. Merely another quarrel. For a month gone they had chafed and bickered. Monotonous, these quarrels. And

-unendurable.

Helen's cheek of almond-bloom burned hot, her sandalled foot tapped the earth. All Paris's fault. These wrangles were always his fault. Of all the fractious, wayward mortals! "All men are like that-although Menelaus wasn't nearly so trying. Poor Menelaus, he was always so busy-fighting back the barbarians that menaced our bounds, and putting down revolts inside the kingdom, and tacking up traitors' heads on the city gates, to discourage disaffection. Perhaps that's why he

never had time nor energy to quarrel with me. Yet-that's not fair. Menelaus had a charming disposition. And he was always around when I wanted him. Till that last careless voyage, of course. While Paris! Well, the Gray Sorcerer's Gadfly has of a surety stung him. That's all I can say."

The scene of the morning drifted before her eyes. A sinister cloud against that crystal dawn: ill-matched, forsooth, against their own young beauty, their fair splendor.

"I'm going to Ethiopia. With eight ships. Lycaon and Polydorus will be my chief captains. We'll hunt tigers and elephants, and parley with the savage tribes, and barter swords and purple cloths for gold and skins and ivory."

"Going to Ethiopia! How perfectly absurd! Why, Paris, it's half a world away.

Pirates haunt its black coasts. Bearded sea-monsters lurk below its cliffs. Sirens will lure your ships upon the reefs, fierce water-demons will tear the sweet flesh from your bones—"

"Nonsense, Helen. Who's been telling you such old-wives' tales? To Ethiopia I go. Leodamas the Sidonian, master of all sea-lore, is our pilot. Eight ships, as I told you. Picked crews and able fighters, all."

"But-the sea-rovers! What chance have common sailors against those cruel outlaws? Tell me that!"

"True, we may have a few brushes with pirates." Paris's eyes sparkled. "That will only add zest. And, once landed, the coast tribes, who are eaters of human flesh, and adepts at the spear, may give us a little excitement." Paris's lordly head reared; his chest expanded slightly. "Farther south, we must cut our way through the Enchanted Forest, which girdles the rich interior in a great pestilent ring. Further, within this

"In pity's name, wilt cease to call up horrors!" Helen thrust back her golden goblet with some vim. "Haven't I already told you

"Beyond the forest," Paris went on, bland as the jar of honey of Hymettus at his elbow, "there lies a stretch of desert, where no tribes abide. Nor can any living creature be found there. For that it hath no water, and is burnt as bare as the Rock of Salamis. Howbeit, we do carry sufficient filled goatskins, we can hope to traverse it-by seven days' hard riding, if the gods are kind. At last across its seared and deathly bounds, we will reach the grand plateau, our goal. There, unless the travellers' mouths are crammed with lies, we shall find noble hunting. Deer, wild boar, lions-"

"You'll find no noble hunting, if I have anything to say. And I think I have." Helen stood up. In her straight robe of ivory, gold-broidered, like saffron clouds above Mount Ida's snows, she was of a beauty to snatch a man's heart from his breast. But little beauty, alas! was in her blazing eyes, her stinging tongue. "You know well that, sooner or later, the Greek warriors, led by Menelaus, will come to search for me. You know that Father Priam dreads their onslaught every hour."

"Oh, come, Helen. Aren't you pulling rather a long bow?"

"A long bow, indeed! When our spies tell that all Lacedæmon is one frenzy of toil! All gravers of spears, makers of armor, work night and day. From every harbor rises the clash of hammers. Swifter than magic do the Greeks build their black ships. The clang of the forge resounds in twilight villages. At night, by pitch-pine fires, the smiths thunder on the brazen shields."

"Ah, folly! Three years of blight and famine have drawn the Spartan belt too tight for warfare. Menelaus and his men

hold me back?"

"After this fashion. Go, if you will. But think not to return, and find me, meek-browed, awaiting you! When you have had your fill of adventure, then come back-to an empty cage, ashes on a forgotten hearth!"

Now, since time immemorial, there arrives a certain crisis in such disputes. Reaching this extremity, any human husband will do one of two things. Either he will seize his heart's treasure by her white shoulders and shake some sense into her, or he will leave the room. as befitted a prince and a gentleman, set his teeth, balled his fists, and started for the door. He would have given his immortal soul, had he known that he possessed one, for the chance to kick the cat.

Paris,

Paris gave that heap one baleful glance. It was not what his rage desired, but it would serve. Twoscore brittle papyrus scrolls, scattered by a vigorous foot, would make quite a mess to pick up.

Unhappily, the servant who had brought the scrolls was a tidy Achæan, and he had propped the heap neatly with an inscribed clay tablet. A heavy and a solid clay tablet.

With a stifled howl and one explosive monosyllable, Paris left the room. One might almost say that he shot from the room. Helen, utterly uncomprehending, drew herself to her glorious height, gazed after him with darkling eyes.

"Insolent, to dare question my right! And why, forsooth, have a wife's rights, if you cannot enforce? Why rule, the princess of your day, if you cannot make your own lover feel the curb?"

So had she spoken; so, wrathfully, did she vow again to her own self, as she sat beneath the roses, small hands clinched, her fair breast heaving. Yet with her anger mingled a strange bewilderment. Paris was talking nonsense. Hadn't he risked his life, risked more than life, to snatch her away from Menelaus? How could he so quickly weary of her face?

"Only a year to-morrow! He can't be wishful of escape! Yet to hear him prate of pirates and of savages, to see that hungry gleam of adventure light his eyes- But he won't go! He shall not! Yet

Upon her stormy musings there broke a sound: two voices mingled. A girl's, all breezy laughter, a boy's, defiant and grim. She glanced down the path. Half hid by the rose-wall, they stood. A very small, sparkling, apple-cheeked girl, in hand-maid garb of coarse gray wool and withe sandals; beside her-very close beside her the boy; a big, sulky, twofisted youngster of nineteen, wearing

"One of the crew of a Phoenician merchantman," thought Helen idly. "The girl is Phylo, Hecuba's little maid from Tyre. How deft she twirls the distaff in those small brown hands! Is it that she twirls the heart of that big bumptious lout with each swift fling? And what is that song she sings?"

Cool and serene above the boy's cross grumble, the small maid's voice fluted, clear:

"Turn thy wheel, O Potter wise.
Turn thy seasons, golden skies.
Swerve thy tides, O Wine-dark Sea,
Guide my true-love far from me."

"Aw, you

know I didn't mean it that way." The boy's voice, worried and fretful, broke on her sunny chant.

"You didn't mean what, which way?" sweet-throated as April larks, she questioned back.

"What you're singing."

Phylo considered this, brows bent, her child-face innocent, perplexed.

"What has my idle song to do with you, Clytus? Or with your voyages, either?"

Clytus scowled, reddened.

"You know well enough. Of course you don't care a straw whether I sail away to the far dangerous Western seas or not. But you might be mannerly enough to wish I'd stay at home."

"Oh." Phylo shone on him, sweetly. Too sweetly. "But you have always longed, above all things, to go forth and see all the wonders of strange worlds. Why should I cross your sovereign will?"

Helen listened shamelessly. The worry in her lovely eyes veered to misty laughter.

"More is here than meets the eye. Glad I am that I chose this hidden bench!"

"Nor will you miss me. Not for one hour."

"Why, Clytus, dear! Of course I'll miss you. Dreadfully. Think how good you have ever been to me! The fillet of silver that you made for my birthday gift; the white fox-skins you tanned for me to wear against the cold; the great piece of honeycomb, wrapped in vine