No; the light dances between the shadows like children at play. Let
them remain.'

'Very well, Chios. Thou art an obliging man. I will do my best to remain
as steady as Olympus. May I converse?'

'Freely, if thou pleasest.'

After the sitting was completed, she felt that she had never spent a
happier day, and said:

'When may I come again?'

'To-morrow, at the same hour. I will paint thee whilst in such merry
mood. Good-bye, Nika; greetings to thy mother.'

The next day, and from time to time, she came to Chios, until the
painting was well-nigh finished.

One evil day she came and reclined upon her accustomed couch. Chios was
absent. After a while she arose, and moved around the room. Behind a
curtain of splendid tapestry, half hid, she saw a picture o'er which was
thrown a screen of yellow silk. She would see the painting on the hidden
panel; she would lift the veil--see the goddess. What fun she would have
with Chios! Perchance 'twas some Ionian beauty or Carian girl who had
smitten him suddenly. Should she risk it? Yes--no--perhaps he might come
swiftly and be annoyed. So she moved away--stood still for a moment.

'See it I must. If caught, I will laugh away his censure--shine out on
him in all my splendour and burn up his reproof.'

So she stepped forward and raised the yellow silk concealing the picture
of Saronia as High Priestess of Diana, and as that dark, mysterious face
met her gaze, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell to the ground.
Chios heard it, and rushed within. Seeing the curtain disturbed, he took
in the whole position, and, darting forward, found Nika lying
unconscious. He raised her and laid her on the couch. Her flowing hair
had burst its bands and fallen over her shoulders. He tried to rouse
her, called her name, and said: 'Chios is here, Nika, awake!' But she
lay as one who was dead.

What could be done? Her bosom heaved--she was not dead--she would come
to again. He could not leave her for assistance, for if she awoke and
found herself alone, she might die. He knelt by her side, and chafed her
hands; but it was of no avail. Just then a thought came into his mind.
He would paint her as she slumbered in that death-like swoon. He seized
his brushes, and quickly wrought a picture--sketchy, but true--and when
it was drawn he called it 'Death.' Then came signs of awakening. Tears
flowed from the half-opened eyes, and rushes of colour, like the morning
sunrise, stole over her cheeks. The