Church, Alfred J. – The Crown of Pine

“Good Heavens, my darling! what is the meaning of this?” she gasped out. “You are not really changed, are you?”

Stories of change from youth to maiden and maiden to youth were among the legends told in Greek cottages of old days, and Manto had not failed to hear them.

“Changed!” cried Cleonice. “Certainly not. I am still your dear daughter, as you are still my dear mother.”

“But what does all this mean—this riding coat and breeches? You make a very good looking young man, I must allow, my dear child; but still I like you better as you really are.”

“In a moment, dearest mother,” said Cleonice. She was burning with impatience to do her errand, but she knew also that the subject must not be too abruptly introduced. “All in good time, mother,” she said; “but just tell me all about yourself and everybody. How is father?” Father was Manto’s husband, and she was always especially pleased when her foster-child called him by this name. “And Theon?” Theon, [251] it should be said, was the foster-brother, who was then serving in the body guard of Herod Agrippa.

Her questions duly answered, she went on to give news of Tecmessa, and her baby, the finest baby, she said, in Corinth. It was not difficult, as may be readily understood, to bring in the name of Eubulus. Theon in former days had won a boys’ race at the Isthmus and another at Nemea, and Manto, besides the common interest which all Greeks felt in the great national games, was always keen to hear about them. Cleonice was strictly guarded in her praises of the young man, but she enlarged on the incident that had brought them together. Manto listened with rapt attention to the story of how her darling had been rescued from the imminent danger of drowning, grew pale with horror at the description, artfully prolonged and heightened in fact by the narrator, of the peril—“My clothes had kept me up so far, but I was just beginning to sink,” she said—and was ready to do anything for the young hero who had come to the rescue at exactly the right moment. Now was the time, the girl felt, for introducing the business on which she had come. “And now,” she went on, “the robbers have caught him. They sent a false message that his father was dying and wanted to see him. They have him [252] somewhere here, and they will not let him go till the race is over. It will break his heart to lose it—perhaps they will kill him.”

“And you have come to rescue him? Oh, you brave child!”

This was quite true, but somehow, stated in this abrupt way, it struck the girl with confusion, especially when Manto looked at her with a penetrating glance. She coloured up to the roots of her hair.

“My father,” she began—then she remembered that her father knew nothing of what she was doing. “Well,” she stammered, “I could not help being interested, and trying to do something. All Corinth, you know, is wild about him.”

“Yes, dear,” said Manto, “and you love him,” going to the point with the directness of her class.

“Certainly not,” cried Cleonice with another furious blush. “He hasn’t said a word about love to me.”

“That’ll come in good time, my dear,” said Manto, and she evidently considered the matter as good as settled. “But now what is it that you want me to do?”

“To set him free,” replied the girl.

Manto’s face fell. That was a very difficult and risky business, and she did not see how she was to [253] set about it. Just at this moment the husband returned. He was carrying a basket, and was evidently in a great hurry.

“Give me a snack just to go on with,” he said to his wife. “I have some business to do at the camp, and must do it at once. They”—he did not specify any further who was meant by the “they”—“have taken some one on the road, and I have been getting something for him from the inn. He seems to be a person of some importance, for he can’t do, it seems, with common fare. I have got a roast fowl and a flask of Chian here for him, and I must take them to him, for he will be wanting his meal.”

“Yes, father,” said Manto, “but here is the dear child from Corinth, who wants to speak to you.”

“The dear child from Corinth,” repeated the man in amazement. “What do you mean?”

“Surely,” said Cleonice, “you haven’t forgotten me, though I must allow that I am not dressed as usual.”

There was no time to lose, and the story was told again. The shepherd, for this was the man’s occupation, was not less taken aback than his wife had been.

“Set him free!” he exclaimed, when he saw what he was asked to do. “Set him free! [254] But what are Manto and I to do afterwards, for we shall certainly not be able to stay here any longer?”

“I have thought of that, dear father,” said Cleonice. “That can easily be settled, if you are willing. My father has a farm about to become empty just now on the Sicyon road. He will put you into that, and you will be twice as comfortable as you are here, and nothing disagreeable to do.”

“Well,” said the shepherd, “I don’t want a reward. I am ready to do anything in my power for you, my dear child; but one has to look ahead a bit. But now let us consider what is to be done.”

This was not difficult to see. The prisoner was in charge of two of the band. These would have to be disposed of in some way, and the readiest and safest way was to drug their drink. The shepherd, who had served the robbers for some years, was implicitly trusted. All his interests were supposed to be identical with theirs; it was the accepted rule that he had a share in the ransom of a prisoner, and no one so much as imagined that he would ever have an interest in setting a prisoner free.

“By good luck,” he said, “I bought a couple of flasks. It would save me a journey, I thought to [255] myself, to get it at once, and now the second will come in handy.”

“But how about the drug?” said Manto.

“Oh!” replied the shepherd, “I have something here that will do perfectly well. It is something that I give the sheep now and then when they have the colic. I’ll warrant that it does the business, and in pretty quick time, too. But now I must be off.”

Everything went well. Eubulus, who had a happy, faculty of getting on in every company, and making the best of every situation, was already on friendly terms with his guards. When the shepherd made his appearance with the fowl and the flask of Chian, he at once proposed to the men that they should pledge him in the wine. This he did out of simple bonhomie, but it worked into his deliverer’s hands with admirable effect.

“Will you have it neat or mixed?” asked the shepherd. The men would have preferred the drink without water; but prudence prevailed.

“Well,” said one of them, “for my part I think that water somewhat spoils the taste. But we have to be careful. Supposing that we should fall asleep? There would be a pretty to do?”

The shepherd retired to the kitchen of the hut to mix the bowl, and had, of course, an admirable [256] opportunity of putting in the narcotic. When he returned with the doctored wine, he was thinking how he could manage to warn the young man against the beverage, and was not a little perplexed by the problem to be solved. Eubulus relieved him quite unintentionally. “For myself,” he said, “I prefer water. I am in training, and wine does not suit me.”

“The better for us,” whispered one of the guards to the other, “though we must really be careful.”

“Then, gentlemen,” said the shepherd, “I will wish you good-night. I must be off home, where my wife is waiting supper for me.”

EUBOLUS IN THE HANDS OF THE BRIGANDS.

He left the hut, but, of course, only to wait outside for so long as might be necessary before the drug did its work. It was amusing, or would have been amusing, to one not directly interested in the matter, to note the working out of the plan. The talk of the two men grew louder, then there was an attempt at singing, and in a few minutes absolute silence. The shepherd looked in, and saw that both the men were stretched on the floor, snoring loudly enough, it might have been said, to bring the house down. On this he slipped in, cut the string by which the prisoner’s ankles were tied together, and the rope—by which he was bound to a staple in the wall [257] and whispered in his ear—he might have shouted the words for all power of hearing that was left to the guards—“Come along, sir, now is your time,” and he led the way to the cottage.