. The wild thyme and its fellows grow not upon this breezy
crag, ever washed by the salt sea foam; but, stay, Endora--I know thy
name. I would speak with thee. Once when I was a slave thou wert good to
me, and told me my star was rising full of splendour. How didst thou
know?'

'Noble lady, I spoke not of my own knowledge, but as the spirit prompted
me.'

'Again, when thou helped me to escape my persecutors, what impelled
thee?'

'The knowledge I was aiding one beloved of Hecate! 'Twas not love--love
in me is dead, dead and scentless. The curse--the curse! and it will
weigh me down for ever.'

'Art sure of this?'

'Yes, Lady Saronia, I am sure I am accursed of Hecate. In me it takes
the form of a dead love with hatred raging through my soul. In others
love is rampant and reason dead. Such is the case with one I know. Her
curse is to love madly without an echo of love to answer.'

'What was thy crime, Endora?'

'That which neither god nor man can forgive.'

'Tell me.'

'I dare not.'

'I command thee!'

'No, no; leave me quiet! I have lived in Ephesus these many years. No
one knows me, where I came from, what my crime. Bid me leap into the
great depths below and gurgle out my life beneath the waters, out of
human sight--anything--anything, but grant me silence!'

'I will not! Speak truthfully! The High Priestess of Hecate commands
thee.'

The woman's face grew pale as death.

'Wilt thou bury my secret in thy heart, and close thy lips for ever on
it?'

'Be quick, say on! First, who art thou?'

'The mother of Chios!'

'_Thou!_'

'Yes, I am.'

'What art thou?'

'I was a priestess at Delos, where Apollo and Diana came forth--a
priestess of the Oracle. Broke my vows; wed; fell to what thou seest me:
a priestess of high degree acting--acting the part of a hag. I was
doomed to death. The people think me dead, but I live, deserted by the
one who caused my fall. I live, thirsting for revenge--I, Endora the
witch, eking a crust of bread by fortune-telling and love philtres,
bearing the load of Hecate's curse. I they call Endora am no other than
Myrtile of Delos! Now, noble Saronia, thou knowest how love is dead, and
I the accursed. Oftentimes I come here and gaze across the AEgean Sea
towards the far-off sunny isle of Delos, where it lies like a jewel in
the sea--Delos, where the laurel trembled at the coming of the unseen
gods, where temples, amphitheatres, and colonnades crowned every crest,
and fil