It seemed more difficult for the quiet Helena to accommodate herself to this solitude than for her gayer-natured sister. Plainly as she showed her love for Barine, she often lapsed into reverie, and every evening she went to the southern side of the cliff and gazed towards the city, where her grandparents doubtless sorely missed her, spite of the careful attention bestowed upon them in Gorgias’s house.
Eight days had passed since her arrival, and life in this wilderness seemed more distasteful than on the first and the second; the longing for her grandparents, too, appeared to increase; for that day she had gone to the shore, even under the burning rays of the noonday sun, to gaze towards the city.
How dearly she loved the old people!
But Dion’s conjecture that the tears sparkling in Helena’s eyes when she entered their room at dusk were connected with another resident of the capital, spite of his wife’s indignant denial, appeared to be correct; for, a short time after, clear voices were heard in front of the-house, and when a deep, hearty laugh rang out, Dion started up, exclaiming, “Gorgias never laughs in that way, except when he has had some unusual piece of good fortune!”
He hurried out as he spoke, and gazed around; but, notwithstanding the bright moonlight, he could see nothing except Father Pyrrhus on his way back to the anchorage.
But Dion’s ears were keen, and he fancied he heard subdued voices on the other side of the dwelling. He followed the sound without delay and, when he turned the corner of the building, stopped short in astonishment, exclaiming as a low cry rose close before him:
“Good-evening, Gorgias! I’ll see you later. I won’t interrupt you.”
A few rapid steps took him back to Barine, and as he whispered, “I saw Helena out in the moonlight, soothing her longing for her grandparents in Gorgias’s arms,” she clapped her hands and said, smiling:
“That’s the way one loses good manners in this solitude. To disturb the first meeting of a pair of lovers! But Gorgias treated us in the same way in Alexandria, so he is now paid in his own coin.”
The architect soon entered the room, with Helena leaning on his arm. Hour by hour he had missed her more and more painfully, and on the eighth day found it impossible to endure life’s burden longer without her. He now protested that he could approach her mother and grandparents as a suitor with a clear conscience; for on the third day after Helena’s departure the relation between him and the Queen had changed. In Cleopatra’s presence the image of the granddaughter of Didymus became even more vivid than that of the peerless sovereign had formerly been in Helena’s. Outside of the pages of poetry he had never experienced longing like that which had tortured him during the past few days.