id herself behind a rose-bush, hoping to catch sight of
these early guests. In the fear of needlessly distressing her, she had
not been told of the events of the previous evening, and at this
early hour could only expect to see some very intimate friend of her
grandmother's.

Melitta opened the gate and admitted a youth splendidly apparelled, and
with fair curling hair.

It was Bartja, and Sappho was so lost in wonder at his beauty, and the
Persian dress, to her so strange, that she remained motionless in her
hiding-place, her eyes fixed on his face. Just so she had pictured to
herself Apollo with the beautiful locks, guiding the sun-chariot.

As Melitta and the stranger came nearer she thrust her little head
through the roses to hear what the handsome youth was saying so kindly
in his broken Greek.

She heard him ask hurriedly after Croesus and his son; and then, from
Melitta's answer, she gathered all that had passed the evening before,
trembled for Phanes, felt so thankful to the generous Gyges, and again
wondered who this youth in royal apparel could possibly be. Rhodopis had
told her about Cyrus's heroic deeds, the fall of Croesus and the power
and wealth of the Persians, but still she had always fancied them
a wild, uncultivated people. Now, however, her interest in Persia
increased with every look at the handsome Bartja. At last Melitta went
in to wake her grandmother and announce the guest, and Sappho tried
to follow her, but Eros, the foolish boy whose ignorance she had been
mocking a moment before, had other intentions. Her dress caught in the
thorns, and before she could disengage it, the beautiful Bartja was
standing before her, helping her to get free from the treacherous bush.

Sappho could not speak a word even of thanks; she blushed deeply, and
stood smiling and ashamed, with downcast eyes.

Bartja, too, generally so full of fun and spirit, looked down at her
without speaking, the color mounting to his cheeks.

The silence, however, did not last long, for Sappho, recovering from her
fright, burst into a laugh of childish delight at the silent stranger
and the odd scene, and fled towards the house like a timid fawn.

In a moment Bartja was himself again; in two strides he reached
the young girl, quick as thought seized her hand and held it fast,
notwithstanding all her struggles.

"Let me go!" she cried half in earnest and half laughing, raising her
dark eyes appealingly to him.

"Why should I