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 “Oh, in the old days I was rather a celebrity in the islands,—a kind
of insular Lord Byron,—and of course had my followers. When I
settled here, I made all my followers come also, and admitted none
but young men. They brought their sweethearts and wives, so
gradually the community grew up here. Recruits come from time to
time, but I admit none but those who are physically perfect and
passably moral. We now number, with women and children, two
hundred souls, and you will not find a deformed or lame person
among the lot.”
“Then you have no old people?”
“Oh yes. I am old myself, and many of my followers are of the
same age. We were all young men in those days of colonization, but
now age has come upon us, as you see. Some of my old comrades
have died, but many are well and hearty, thanks to the salubrity of
this climate. They are the sages of the village.”
“Local rulers, I suppose?”
“No,” retorted Justinian, with fiery earnestness; “there is only one
ruler in Melnos—myself.”
They were now walking down the principal street of the village, a
broad thoroughfare, running between two rows of red limestone
houses, from the foot of the grand staircase to the blue lake, the
distance in all being about a quarter of a mile. On each side,
between the pathways and the road itself, ran two lines of elm trees,
the foliage of which formed a pleasant shade, while the houses, built
in a tropical fashion, with wide verandas, were gay with flowers.
Helena had evidently inoculated her father’s subjects with a love for
flowers, as on every side the eye was dazzled with a profusion of
bright tints. At the lower end of the street was a wide semicircle,
facing the lake, and planted with lines of beech, elm, and plane
trees, while in the middle of this pleasantness stood a tall pedestal
of white marble, bearing a huge bronze Zeus, seated half-draped,
with thunderbolt and eagle beside him. Indeed, the statues of gods
and goddesses were so frequent, that Maurice began to think his
eccentric host, in order to complete his revival of ancient Athens,
had re-established the hierarchy of Olympus, with himself as
Pontifex Maximus. Evidently his face betrayed his thoughts, for,
seeing his eyes fixed on the garlands decorating the base of the
statue, the King laughed in an amused manner.
“No, no, Mr. Roylands, we are not pagans, in spite of the presence
of the gods,” he said, with a smile. “All my people belong to the
Orthodox Church, and we have a priest, a sacred building, and
everything necessary for such religion.”
“Are you also of the Greek Church?”
“No, I am no renegade,” replied Justinian haughtily; “but, at the
same time, I am not what you would call a Christian.”
“But I trust your religious principles are not those of Caliphronas?”
“No; I believe in working for the good of others, as you can see.
Morally speaking, I am what you call an agnostic, though truly I
believe in a supreme power. I erect my altar to τὸν ἄγναστον Θεόν,
Mr. Roylands, and strive to propitiate him by helping my fellow-
creatures.”
The conversation now becoming rather delicate in its trenching on
religious beliefs, Maurice turned it dexterously by remarking on the
number of mulberry trees.
“Those are for the silkworms,” explained Justinian, striking the
trunk of one of these trees with his staff; “we export a great number
of cocoons, and do a large trade with the mainland. We also weave
silks for ourselves; the factory is to the right.”
There were a great number of people in the streets, all in a similar
dress to their own—that is, the men, for the women were mostly
arrayed in the graceful Greek dress of the Cretans, which consisted
of full white trousers reaching to the ankle, brightly colored tunics,
embroidered jackets, gaudy handkerchiefs twisted round the head,
and long white veils, though the latter were but assumed for festive
occasions. Both men and women were very fine-looking, with oval
faces, olive skins, somewhat pointed chins, and aquiline noses, and
their gait was remarkably graceful, with the stately bearing of a free
race. The adults all saluted Justinian respectfully, and he
acknowledged their greetings with haughty condescension, although
he unbent somewhat towards the children, who crowded round him
with cries of “Kalli imera Kyrion!”
 “You are as populous as a hive of bees,” said Maurice, as they
walked down to the lake; “soon the island will be too small.”
“Not for many years I hope and trust,” answered Justinian, casting
a look round at the now sunny sides of the mountain, which
encircled them like a cup. “There is plenty of room yet; for my
colony, in spite of its forty years, is only yet in its infancy. Lots of
room yonder for dwellings; the soil is fertile, and affords plenty of
food, and as to necessaries from the outside world, we export olives,
cocoons, silks, wine, and dittany, receiving in return what we require
from more advanced civilization.”
“Dittany! what is that?”
“I am afraid you don’t know your Virgil, Mr. Roylands. Dittany is an
herb of rare medicinal power, which is found in Crete, and also in
Melnos. It is excellent for illness of all kinds, especially fevers, and is
as valued now as it was in the days of Pliny. Plenty of it up in the
mountain yonder, as the goats are very fond of it.”
“Have you goats?”
“Of course! and also sheep, though I am afraid the goats are the
more numerous. Indeed, I have imported here some of the rare
Cretan breed—a kind of ibex, which grows to a great size. These, of
course, I will not allow to be killed; but for food we have plenty of
the smaller wild goats, such as exist in many places in Greece,
particularly on the summits of Olympus. You probably forget we had
goat’s flesh for supper last night.”
“And the lake, sir?”
“Artificial purely.”
“Sea-water?”
“Oh dear no. The level of this valley is considerably above that of
the sea. I should be sorry were it otherwise, as, were it lower, we
might run a chance of being swamped by the influx of waters. I am
sure Alcibiades and his friends would be delighted to drown us like
rats if they could. This lake comes from the snows yonder.”
“The snows?”
“Precisely. I have had a reservoir constructed far below the snow-
line, and a shoot into it from the summit of the mountain. At certain
intervals I send men up, who detach great masses of snow and send
them down the shoot into the reservoir. There the heat of the sun
soon melts them to water, and from thence the water is taken down
to the lake.”
“But water always rises to its own level.”
“Hence you think my valley should be an entire lake; but there is
no danger of such a catastrophe happening, as my reservoir is filled
in a purely artificial manner, and I take care to keep it within bounds.
The pipes also down to this lake are contrived so as to regulate the
influx of water, therefore there is no fear of a flood. Now you must
come and see the theatre.”
“The theatre! Have you playwrights and actors here?”
“Our playwrights date from old Hellenic days, and are called
Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; the actors are my Greeks.
Sometimes Crispin writes us a play bearing on local events, which he
satirizes after the style of Aristophanic comedy—at least he did so
when he lived here, but since his departure we have fallen back on
Hellas for our plays.”
“How often do you give performances?”
“Only once a year, at the vintage feast. Oh, we follow old customs
closely here, and I hope to show you a veritable Dionysiade before
you leave us. We have a three days’ festival of simple mirth, without
any of the coarse elements which were introduced by the later
Hellenes. The first day we have the vintage festival, the second our
plays, and on the third there are Olympian games.”
“With what prizes?”
“As of yore, the laurel wreath. I am particularly anxious to keep up
these games, as it makes my Greeks athletes, and hardens them by
muscular exercises, else in this lotus-eating valley they would be apt
to become indolent, and then where would Melnos be without brave
men to defend her?”
“You are a perfect Spartan!”
“I believe in the Spartan training to a great extent, but I do not
think the body should be trained exclusively and the mind neglected;
therefore I have the tragedies performed which were unknown to
Sparta. The Spartans were a fine nation of materialists.”
 “You are right!” said Maurice earnestly; “one should never let the
material nature overpower the spiritual.”
“You speak warmly.”
“As I was taught. My mother was a religious woman, and trained
me carefully. One cannot rid one’s self of youthful teachings; we may
forget them for a time, but they always force themselves before the
mind sooner or later.”
“Not always. I also was taught as you, but forty years of solitude—
comparative solitude—and pondering have turned me into what I am
—an agnostic. So your mother was a good woman? is she alive?”
“No; she died many years ago.”
“And your father?”
“Is also dead. I am an orphan. No relations in the world—at least,
none I care about.”
Justinian gazed at the young man as if he would read his very
soul, then, turning away with a half-suppressed sigh, entered the
theatre.
It was modelled on that of Athens,—a large semicircle hewn out of
the volcanic rock, with seats of the red limestone so frequent in
Melnos. The stage faced the mountain, and had an altar beautifully
sculptured in front of it, and life-sized statues of Dionysius and
Phœbus on either side.
“This is our Temple of Thespis,” said Justinian, as they stood in the
centre of the semicircle, which was at a moderate distance from the
stage. “You see it is not very large, and suitable to the size of the
island and the number of population; so, as the actors can easily be
seen, we need neither cothurnus nor mask. Our plays, I am afraid,
are not so gigantic as those of ancient Hellas; but there is one
advantage, the face is seen, and the Greeks are wonderfully
expressive in revealing their feelings by the countenance.”
“All Melnos seems to be built of this red stone.”
“Yes; I get it from the cliffs of the island. The tint is pleasing, and
warms up the landscape. I am sorry we cannot see the ocean from
the theatre, as I am very fond of the sea; but, shut in by this circle
of mountains, of course that is impossible. Now we must go and see
the silk factory.”
 After they had gone through this thoroughly,—for Justinian
insisted upon Maurice taking notice of every detail,—the King
showed him some hot springs just outside the village, which bubbled
up from the earth, amid rugged blocks of black lava, streaked
fantastically with sulphur.
“These springs are full of medicinal properties, which are useful
for the cure of many diseases,” he said, as they watched the light
clouds of steam rising; “but we of Melnos are so healthy, that we
rarely use them. Plenty of work, plenty of physical exercise, careful
attention to births, and fresh air and water in abundance, keep the
whole population in splendid health. It is a case of quality, not
quantity.”
“Have you any poets, painters, sculptors?”
“Not yet. True, sometimes rude songs are made, and rude pictures
painted, but I am afraid centuries of slavery have crushed all the
creative power out of the Hellenic race. However, they are free here,
and have a city of refuge in this island; so, in the future, who knows
but what Melnos may become a second Attica, and have her Plato,
her Sophocles, her Phidias!”
“It will take years to develop all that genius,” said Maurice, as they
once more began to climb up the staircase.
“I am afraid so. And I dread who may come after me. I am old,
and cannot live long; so when I die, unless my successor is actuated
by the same desire to found a miniature Attica, as I have been, he
may turn this place into a nest of robbers, in which case, I am
afraid, King George’s Government would interfere, and the
aspirations of Melnos to revive Hellenic culture would be at an end.”
“Who is to be your successor?”
“That I do not know. True, I have a daughter, but it needs a man
to manage my Greeks. I took Crispin and Andros, in order to train
them up as my heirs, but Crispin has become wealthy, and prefers to
live in England; while Andros, or, as he now calls himself,
Caliphronas, is nothing but a scamp. If he succeeded me, all my
work would go for nothing. He would be a tyrant, a robber, a selfish
seeker after pleasure, who would destroy the simplicity of Melnos,
break all my laws, and transform it into a nest of criminals.”
 “Surely you have some clever men among your people?”
“Clever to serve, but bad to rule. None of them have the
administrative power required for even so small a community as this.
No; to succeed me, I must have an Englishman. We are a
dominating race, fit to rule; and a glance round the world will show
you our colonizing capabilities. By a cool head and a firm hand, I
have transformed a barren island into a centre of prosperity; and if
my successors only follow my policy, in a few hundred years, this
little unknown island may become the centre of a great intellectual
power. The Athenians, you know, were small in number, yet see the
intellectual effect they produced in the world’s history. These Greeks
of mine are descendants of the ancient Hellenes, and the spark of
genius, nearly trampled out by centuries of Turkish misrule, is still
within them. Place a plant in the dark, and it grows not; give it
plenty of air and sunlight, and first the green leaves appear, then the
bud, lastly the flower. These are my green leaves, which I have
placed in the light; and let them be tended and looked after, who
knows but what a glorious flower may be produced.”
“It is a splendid—dream!”
“A dream which may yet turn out truth,” answered Justinian, with
energy. “See how well I have prepared the ground. My people here
are physically perfect; their morality is much above what is to be
found in the islands of the Ægean. I have taught them to love work
and loathe idleness. The island they dwell in contains all the
beauties of nature in a small space. ‘Infinite riches in a little room,’
to quote Marlowe. They are starting fairly under my guidance, and
they will develop, as their prototypes of Athens, into a keen,
cultured, intellectual race, who may give this modern world as
splendid gifts of genius as did their fathers of old. But the plant
needs fostering, and I, the gardener, alas! am growing old; so when
I die, who will attend to this delicate flower of artificiality. What I
want is to find a successor who will do as I have done.”
“He will be difficult to find.”
“I fear so; unless”—
Here Justinian paused abruptly, and walked rapidly along the
mulberry avenue, in which they were now. Maurice waited to hear
him speak, but he said nothing until he stood under the graceful
Corinthian capitals of the temple pillars, when he suddenly came to
a full stop, and looked at Maurice keenly.
“Mr. Roylands, do you know what I think?”
“No, sir.”
“That it would be an excellent thing for you to give up your
country-gentleman life in England, and come here.”
“But for what reason?”
“To be my successor.”
Maurice stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment, but in
another moment Justinian vanished.
 CHAPTER XX.
A DIFFICULT QUESTION.

If you this question strange decide,

This way, that way, at your pleasure,
It surely cannot be denied,
If you this question strange decide,
That Fate’s prerogative’s defied,
And thus may grudge your self-won treasure,
If you this question strange decide,
This way, that way, at your pleasure.

Certainly Maurice felt in a somewhat embarrassing position, on

hearing of Justinian’s offer to instal him as future King of Melnos,
and he hardly knew what decision to make in the matter. At present
the affair was so unexpected and bewildering that he hardly grasped
the fact of its reality, and remained where he was, leaning against a
pillar, wondering if he was asleep or awake. He had come to an
unknown island of the Ægean Sea, and therein had beheld a
miniature civilization of a most unique character, which in itself by its
very fancifulness was enough to unsettle his calm reasoning powers,
when lo! the man who had created this vision of dead classicism
proposed to bestow it on him as a gift. There was something
singularly tempting in this offer, especially to a man of Roylands’
artistic temperament; for here, in this sea-girt island, he could lead a
life of dreamy seclusion, and work at his art amid these rejuvenated
Hellenic times, which breathed all the serenity and calm necessary to
foster the craving soul of genius. In the riotous modern world of
England he had often felt like an alien, and his work, imbued with
modernisms, seemed feeble and meretricious after those
masterpieces of Greek art which still remain to remind us of the
supremacy of Attic sculptors in delineating the human figure.
Devoted to his art, had Maurice been asked by some fairy to name
his desire, he would certainly have demanded to be placed in
kindred circumstances, calm, untroubled, serene, to those masterly
Athenian creators who adorned the Parthenon with god-like forms.
Lo! without the intervention of an unseen power, his wish had been
unexpectedly gratified, yet, now that the boon long dreamed of was
gratified, he hesitated as to the advisability of accepting it.
It was difficult for him to make up his mind, from the very contrast
of the two existences which lay before him, either of which he could
begin from that moment, by a mere acceptance of the one or the
other. On the one hand was the turbulent nineteenth century, full of
invention, discovery, feverishness, anguish, ambition, like a terrible
yet fascinating dream, which involved the straining of every nerve to
attain a thankless end; and on the other hand were years of
quietness, of dwelling in a modern paradise under a serene sky, with
all the incentives to awaken and foster his artistic soul, a
reconstruction of that calm Attic existence which seemed so far off
and mist-like beyond the stormy waters of mediævalism and modern
restlessness. Maurice, always impressionable to his surroundings,
felt as did the Ulyssean sailors in the lotus-land, when they were
loath to leave the drowsy island for fruitless toilings on the main; he
thought this serene existence of Melnos, unvexed by the tumults of
nations, was perfect: yet the ambitious spirit of the nineteenth-
century interest in his being called out to him to come forward and
take his place in the fierce fight for fame, for gold, for bread, which
vexed the world of to-day. Peace or war—for social war it was in this
modern struggle for existence—he did not know which to choose,
and, leaning against that relic of the old classic times, when earth
was young, fresh, and joyous, he dreamily pondered over the choice
offered to him.
Had Keats, that born Greek, been offered the chance of dwelling
in this Hellenic Elysium, how eagerly would he have accepted, and
revelled in the serenity of the life, like one of his own young deities,
who live so joyously in his delicate verse. Perhaps Heine, longing for
the infinite charm of the antique on his mattress-grave in the Rue
d’Amsterdam, might have accepted with joy this opportunity to dwell
in the placid Greek world he loved so well, and of which he sang so
mournfully, so exquisitely. But no!—Heine, bitter, dual soul as he
was, had too much of Judaism in his soul to accept gladly a serene
existence, unflavored by that bitter irony, those pen and ink wars,
those modern sophistries in which his spirit delighted. Keats—yes!
for he was a born Hellene. Heine—no! for the genius of the Jew
fought ever with the genius of the Greek to master his soul, and his
irony, his orientalism, his Shiraz roses, and blue Ganges, would have
rendered him restless even under the changeless blue of the Attic
skies, amid the divine beauty of serene Hellenic art.
Maurice was neither Keats nor Heine, yet partook of the nature of
both. He was not a genius, having just escaped the fatal gift of
artistic supremacy, still, he had a strong craving for the beautiful, a
wish to create, a desire to know; but in his soul the blind craving of
Keats for Beauty and Truth was marred by that fatal scepticism
which blighted the genius of Heine. He had the faith of the one, the
doubt of the other, and, drawn strongly either way by these
opposing forces, paused irresolutely between the two. First he would
accept and live the old Hellenic life, then he would refuse, lest such
life should lack the sharp, salt flavor of modern existence. An ass
between two bundles of hay was Maurice, but, unlike that animal, he
knew that each bundle contained what the other lacked, and, greedy
of both, doubtful of both, afraid of both, he was quite unable to
make up his extremely unstable mind.
A man in such an embarrassing position always makes up his
otherwise wavering mind to one thing, and that is, to ask advice,
though in nine cases out of ten he never means to take it when
given. Maurice was not sure if he would accept advice, yet
nevertheless went to seek Crispin, in order to lay the matter before
him, and ask what he thought was the best course for him to
pursue. Crispin was wise, Crispin was friendly, and, moreover, had
tried both the ancient and the modern modes of existence, as his
youth had been spent in Melnos, his early manhood in civilized
Europe; so surely Crispin, with a knowledge of both sides of the
question, was the best to decide for the one or the other.
All the morning Crispin had been hard at work on a formidable-
looking epistle to Eunice, in which he told all his perils and
adventures, the departure from Southampton, the voyage down the
Mediterranean, the wreck of The Eunice, and their safe arrival at
Melnos. In addition to this narrative, worthy of Marco Polo at his
best, he related the comforts in which he and Maurice were now
dwelling, in order to set the mind of that gentleman’s friends at rest;
but, with considerable craft, the wily poet did not put in any words
of loverly affection, as he knew well the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton would
read the letter before giving it to her submissive daughter.
In order to circumvent his future mother-in-law, Crispin intended
to write a separate letter to Eunice, full of his passion, and then slip
it into an epistle by Maurice, whom he intended to get to write to
the Rector. Mr. Carriston was a friend to the lovers, and would
doubtless be able to deliver the letter unseen by the dragon; thus
Mrs. Dengelton would be thwarted should she try to destroy Eunice’s
affection for the poet by keeping back his letters.
Near Crispin sat Gurt, at the open window, chewing the quid of
reflection, and looking excessively dismal, as he found this semi-
classical existence somewhat dull, and moreover, true seaman as he
was, viewed a prolonged sojourn on land with much disgust. He
brightened up, however, when Maurice came in, and twisted his
forelock in approved forecastle fashion with a scrape of his foot.
“Which I ses t’ this ’ere gent,” growled Gurt in his raucous voice,
“‘w’ere is he?’ meanin’ you, sir, and Mr. Crispin ses he, ‘Oh, he’s gone
down t’ valley,’ so ses I, ‘He’ll see the crew,’ and ses he, ‘It’s werry
likely.’“
“I’m very sorry, Gurt,” said Maurice in some dismay, “but the fact
is, I’ve been exploring the village with Justinian, and quite forgot to
see after our mariners.”
“I wish you had done so, Maurice,” said Crispin in a vexed tone,
looking up from his writing; “the poor fellows will think we have
forgotten all about them.”
 “Oh, we will go down this afternoon,” replied Maurice hastily. “I’ve
no doubt they are all right down there. Lots of food and liquor and
pretty girls! eh, Gurt?”
Crispin laughed and stroked his chin thoughtfully, while a gleam of
humor shone in the solitary eye of the mariner.
“I seed,” said Gurt, addressing no one in particular, “as light a little
craft as I ever clapped eyes on, gents. Her deck lights raked me fore
and aft, they did.”
“Justinian will rake you fore and aft,” observed Crispin dryly,
“especially if you make eyes at his womankind. This is a virtuous
island, Gurt.”
“Well, sir, I ain’t a-goin’ agin’ it, sir,” growled Gurt reproachfully. “I
care nothin’ for the petticoats. I don’t. Now if it was Dick, now”—
here the old sinner cast up his eyes, as if unable to guess at Dick’s
enormities.
“Oh, that is the smart young boatswain,” said Maurice quickly. “I’m
glad he is all right. Why don’t you go down and see him, Gurt?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, gents both, but I dunno the bearin’s of this
’ere island.”
“Go along the mulberry avenue,” said Crispin, as Gurt waited for
an explanation, “and when you come to a flight of steps near the
tunnel, go down them. When you’re in the village, you’ll soon find
out your comrades, and tell them Mr. Roylands and myself will come
down to see them this afternoon.”
“Right y’ are, sir,” answered the seaman, going to the door with
another nautical salutation. “I don’t want Dick a-comin’ up here to
cast anchor aside my little craft.”
“You’ve begun early, Gurt,” observed Maurice, taking a seat. “What
is the name of your little craft?”
“Zoe, sir; she’s maid to Miss Helena.”
“Well, you can go away with a contented heart, Gurt,” said Crispin,
laughing. “Dick won’t see her if he comes here in your absence.
She’s gone up the mountain with her mistress.”
“Right y’ are, sir,” said Gurt again, all of him except his head
behind the curtains of the doorway. “I don’t trust Dick. He’s a fly-
away chap, gents both, and a deal sight too handsome for my idea,
sirs.”
The head vanished, and Crispin laughed uproariously.
“That mahogany image is jealous, Maurice,” he said, throwing
himself back in his chair. “Behold the power of love! Why, Zoe
wouldn’t look at him; and if that good-looking young bo’swain comes
on the scene, I’m afraid old Cyclops’ chance will be but a poor one.”
“Zoe’s gone up the mountain with Helena?”
“Yes; on some flower-gathering expedition. They have been
absent some hours, so Caliphronas has gone to look for them.”
“Confound his impudence!”
“Why, you are as jealous of the mistress as Cyclops is of the maid!
However, you need not be afraid, for Helena hates our Greek friend,
and I shrewdly suspect she has taken an uncommon liking to you.”
“Nonsense!”
“It’s a fact, I assure you. Love in her eyes sits playing, so if you
love her, and she loves you, no power can cut your love in two.”
“Except Caliphronas.”
“Yes, he is rather in the way; but I’ve no doubt Justinian will settle
him. By the way, where is Justinian?”
“He left me at the steps, after making me a most extraordinary
proposal.”
“Indeed! and this proposal?”
“I’ll tell you all about it shortly. What are you doing?”
“Writing to Eunice. This,” laying his hand on the letter, “is a proper
epistle which might be published to all the world, and is prepared
especially for the pacification of my dear mother-in-law that is to be.
I, however, want you to write to our mutual friend, Mr. Carriston,
and enclose a note of mine meant for the eyes of Eunice alone. The
Rector is our friend, and will manage to give it to her unknown to
Mrs. Dengelton.”
“Oh, I will write with the greatest of pleasure, and enclose your
letter. Besides, I wish to ask the Rector’s advice on a very important
matter.”
“I can guess what that important matter is,” said Crispin gayly;
“but why not ask my advice?”
 “I am going to, in a few minutes. By the way, to revert to the
letters, how are you going to get them posted?”
“Oh, Justinian has a felucca laden with currants, silks, and what
not, going to Syra to-morrow,—Syra, you know, is the great
mercantile station of the Cyclades,—and these letters will go in
charge of the skipper. From Syra they will easily go to England by
the French packet, via Marseilles.”
“Have you any other letters to write—I mean about the
shipwreck?”
“Of course; I have written to my solicitors, telling them all about
the wreck, and instructing them to see the insurance people; but I
suppose nothing can be done till I go back to town myself, and take
all the survivors with me. They, I suppose, will have to give all kinds
of evidence about the smash-up of The Eunice before the insurance
money will be paid.”
“What about Martin’s relations and the dead sailors’?”
“I am writing about that also. By the way, Maurice, we must get
Justinian this afternoon to take his men and go down to the sea-
shore to look after the bodies of those poor fellows. It seems
horribly heartless of us talking and laughing like we did last night,
when so many human beings have lost their lives.”
“It does rather, Crispin; but if we had mourned it would not have
made much difference. Hang it! that sounds rather cruel. Crispin, I
am afraid a semi-barbaric life is making me heartless.”
The poet said nothing, but, with a sad expression on his face,
stared at the table. It did seem heartless for them both to be light-
hearted and merry when Martin and the majority of his brave crew
had gone to the bottom; but there was some excuse, for they
themselves had narrowly escaped a similar fate, and that in itself
was enough to make them buoyant. After all, the dead are dead,
and crying will not bring them back; but both the Englishmen
determined to search for the bodies that very afternoon, and give
them Christian burial, which was the only thing they could really do
for their lost comrades.
“What about those sailors?” asked Maurice, suddenly looking up.
 “Oh, they must remain here until we can find some chance of
sending them to Syra. In fact, I’m not sure if I won’t tell my agents
to send me out another yacht to replace The Eunice, and then they
can all ship on board of her.”
“You extravagant fellow; another yacht! Even twelve thousand a
year will not stand such reckless use of money.”
“Oh, I won’t lose anything,” replied Crispin cheerfully. “I am not
too much of a poet to neglect business, and The Eunice was heavily
insured. When the money is paid by the underwriters, as it must be
on my return to England, it will go a long way towards the purchase
of another boat.”
“So much for the buying; but can you trust your agents to get you
a yacht as good as the one you have lost?”
“Perhaps not in an ordinary case, but fortunately the twin ship to
The Eunice is in the market, and resembles her in all respects. That
was a few months ago, so if she is still to be had, I will instruct
Danton & Slabe to purchase her on my behalf, and send her to the
Piræus. Then, when we are tired of Melnos, we can cross over to the
mainland, and have a cruise up the Black Sea before returning to
England.”
“That does not sound as if you were anxious to see Eunice,” said
Maurice dryly.
“I will be very glad to see Eunice again,” answered Crispin,
reddening slightly; “but the fact is, I have a small scheme in my
head to get Eunice and her mother, in company with Mr. Carriston,
to come out to Athens in my new yacht.”
“But with what idea?”
“Well,” said Crispin, looking down, “the fact is, Maurice, I do not
trust your aunt.”
“As to that, I don’t blame you,” answered that lady’s affectionate
nephew quietly.
“If she sees a better match for Eunice than I am,” resumed Crispin
calmly, “she will force the poor child into a marriage, and give me
the go-by. Mind you, Maurice, I love Eunice dearly, and in my eyes
she is nearly perfect, but I cannot conceal from myself that she has
a somewhat weak nature, and is dominated by her terrible mother.
Once she is my wife, and away from that influence, she will learn to
be more self-reliant, and less biassed by other people. Now, I see
perfectly well that there is going to be trouble here about
Caliphronas.”
“I agree with you there. Caliphronas evidently wants to marry
Helena, who does not like him; and, moreover, Justinian refuses to
favor the marriage in any marked degree, so Caliphronas is just the
kind of sneaking scamp to go over to Alcibiades, and, if possible,
make trouble.”
“If that is the case, we are here for some time, and as I see you
take the same view of it as I do, you must perceive that we are here
for some months. If, then, I am away from England all that time,
Mrs. Dengelton will certainly try to persuade Eunice that I will not
come back, and marry her to some one else. However, if I can get
Eunice out here, I think I can trump Mrs. Dengelton’s best trick. Do
you think, if I instruct my agents about the yacht, and write to Mrs.
Dengelton and the Rector, that they will come out to Athens?”
“As to that, I am not sure,” replied Maurice slowly, “but I trust so,
with all my heart, as I wish to ask the Rector’s advice.”
“So you mentioned before, and promised to ask mine. I will be
delighted to give it to you, so tell me what is the matter. Helena?”
“Partly.”
“Hum! Caliphronas?”
“Partly.”
“Ho, ho! and Justinian?”
“Yes.”
“A very pretty trinity,” said Crispin, lighting a cigarette. “Well,
what’s to do?”
Maurice tilted his chair back against the wall, and followed
Crispin’s example with regard to tobacco, and prepared for a long
talk on—to him—a serious subject, viz. the settlement of his future
life in one way or the other.
“First of all,” said Maurice slowly, “I have been all over the village
with Justinian, and I cannot tell you how amazed I am. That such a
community, that such great works, should owe their origin to one
man, is, I think, a miracle. This dream of Justinian’s regarding a new
Hellas may or may not come to pass, but he has certainly laid the
foundations of a small independent state in a wonderfully judicious
manner. What his real name is, I, of course, do not know, but the
one he has taken certainly suits him admirably; he is a Justinian—a
born law-giver, and his system meets all the requirements of this
simple community. As he says himself, so long as he is at the helm,
things will go on all right, but should he die—which at his age is not
unlikely—the success or failure of this infant intellectual state
depends on his successor. A wise, clear-headed man will carry out
the scheme to a successful issue; but a hot-tempered, selfish ruler
would doom the whole thing to destruction. Justinian told me that
he had brought up both you and Caliphronas as his successors; but
as to yourself, you went in search of fame and love in England, and
severed yourself entirely from his island community.”
“I did not know Justinian desired me to succeed him,” said Crispin
in a tone of wonderment; “but even had I known, I hardly think
things would have gone differently. I am a poet, not a ruler; and
Napoleons are made of stronger stuff than mere bards piping their
idle song, and letting the world go by. No; Justinian never hinted at
such a thing; and I always thought that he favored Caliphronas as
the heir to his island throne.”
“Caliphronas!” echoed Maurice in a tone of deep disdain. “No;
Justinian is too keen a judge of character to mistake our Greek
goose for a swan. He told me himself that he does not trust
Caliphronas, and more than suspects him of having an
understanding with that rascal Alcibiades regarding the capture of
Melnos.”
“The deuce!”
“Yes; you may well be astonished; but, from what I have seen of
Caliphronas, I believe it is quite likely to happen, the more so as this
handsome Greek’s vanity will receive a severe blow when he is
refused—as he certainly will be—by Helena. Well, you can see that
Justinian will not have Caliphronas to succeed him on his island
throne, so, you two candidates for the purple being thus disposed
of”—
“Yes?” asked Crispin curiously, as Roylands hesitated.
 “He wants me to ascend the throne when vacant.”
“You?”
“Myself! Are you not astonished?”
Crispin twirled his cigarette in his fingers, looked thoughtfully at
the red tip as if consulting it as an oracle, and then made slow reply.
“Yes, and no. Justinian evidently sees in you a clear-headed man,
who would carry out his scheme if you honorably promised to do so.
He is English, you are English, and he trusts none but his own
countrymen, so I cannot say that his offer to make you his successor
startles me very much.”
“But, my dear Crispin, granted I have these capabilities you so
kindly gift me with, of which I am doubtful, Justinian has only known
me two days, and a clever man as he is could scarcely come to a
conclusion so quickly.”
“Justinian is a good judge of character, and can tell the nature of a
man in five minutes, where you or I would take five years in the
search. Besides,” added the poet, with an imperceptible smile, “he
may have another and stronger reason.”
“You mean Helena, I suppose?”
Now Crispin did not mean Helena at all; but as what he did allude
to was not his own secret, he let Maurice believe that his supposition
regarding Helena was the right one.
“Well, yes; I suppose Helena is a reason.”
“Do you think he would let me marry her?” asked Maurice
breathlessly.
“I am certain he would,” answered Crispin, looking straight at his
companion; “quite positive. But you—what about yourself?”
“I love her dearly.”
“Two days’ acquaintance—you love her dearly! Is that not rather
sharp work?”
“Two days!” echoed Maurice contemptuously. “I have known her
longer than that. I fell in love with her portrait, as you know, and
resolved, if she had the qualities I thought she had from her face, I
would marry her. From what I have seen of her, I am certain she has
those qualities, and would make me a good wife, provided always
she consents to marry me. Beautiful, pure, charming, simplicity
itself; oh, my friend, she is indeed a prize I may think myself lucky in
winning!”
“When a man is in love,” said Crispin intensively, “it is no use
reasoning with him; and, as regards Helena, I quite approve of all
you say. She will make you an admirable wife; but, think to yourself,
how will this uncultured, simple girl look beside the cultured ladies of
England?”
“That is the very point about which I desire to ask your and the
Rector’s advice,” said Maurice eagerly. “Will I marry Helena, and
accept the post of governing this island? or will I marry Helena, and
go back to Roylands?”
“In any case, I see it is ‘marry Helena,’” rejoined his companion
dryly; “but really I hardly know what to say. Life here is charming
and indolent. You like charm and indolence, so why not stay here?
On the other hand, you have your ancestral acres, your position in
the world, to think of, and if you value these more than a life in this
delightful Castle of Indolence—well, go back.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I have given you my advice, and, as is usual in such cases,
you will not take it.”
“It is such a difficult question.”
“Granted! but you will have to decide one way or the other shortly.
One thing is certain, that it would be beneficial to your art.”
“That is true enough.”
“After all,” said Crispin seductively, “what better life can you
desire? A ready-made kingdom, small and compact—a delightful
climate—obedient subjects—a lotus-eating existence—and Helena!”
“It is delightful—but duty?”
“Oh!” cried Crispin, shrugging his shoulders, “of course, if you are
going to invoke that bogie, I have nothing further to say. Ask the
Rector.”
“What do you think he will say?”
Crispin burst out laughing, and, sauntering to the window, threw
his burnt-out cigarette into the green grass beyond.
“Did ever any one hear such a man? My dear fellow, I cannot tell
you what the Rector will say. He is an ardent Hellenist, with his
Aristophanic studies, and may say, ‘Stay, by all means!’ On the other
hand, he is an English Church clergyman, with strong opinions as to
the absenteeism of landlords, and the duties they owe their tenants,
in which case he will certainly make you come back. But in either
event you will have your dear Helena.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Crispin. If I refuse Justinian’s request, he
may refuse me Helena.”
“Certainly; that is not impossible,” replied Crispin, returning to his
writing. “However, I will write to my agents about the yacht, to Mrs.
Dengelton and the Rector about their joining us at Athens. At my
invitation the Rector may not come, at yours he will.”
“Why?”
“Because you, my dear, simple old Maurice, are the apple of his
eye; and if you write him on the question of your staying here, he
will certainly hurry out at once, so as to see for himself how matters
stand, and advise you for the best.”
“Will you write as you intend? and I will also send a letter to
Carriston.”
“Don’t forget to enclose mine,” said Crispin warningly. “Remember
you are to that extent responsible for my wooing with Eunice. Will
you write your letter now?”
A delicious burst of girlish laughter sounded from the court.
“Helena!” cried Maurice, rising up so quickly as to upset his chair.
“Go away! go away!” said Crispin resignedly; “no chance of your
writing now with that sound in your ears. But, as the boat does not
go till to-morrow, you can have a holiday with Helena this afternoon;
therefore, go away.”
“Caliphronas is with her,” said Maurice, hesitating.
“And has been all the morning. Faint heart never won fair lady, so
if you don’t oust your rival, I am afraid she will be married by him
under your nose.”
“I’m hanged if she will!” cried Maurice angrily.
There was a second burst of laughter, upon which Crispin, with
raised eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, pointed to the door, and
resumed his writing.
 Maurice paused irresolutely, looked at the poet, and then darted
out of the door like a swallow, to find Helena standing alone in the
court, with her arms full of flowers.
“I have been flower-hunting on the mountains,” said Helena
graciously; “and this wild rose is for you.”
 CHAPTER XXI.
CAPTAIN ALCIBIADES.

Sir! there are three degrees of robbery,

With different names, but meanings similar:
For he who does his thievish work himself
Is but a common foot-pad! quite unfit
To mix in gentlemen’s society.
A bandit, brigand, robber chief, is he
Who has a dozen men or so to rule,
And steals your daughter, burns your tenement,
Or holds you prisoner till a ransom’s paid.
But he who, having armies at command,
Robs brother monarchs of their territories,
Is called a conqueror, because he thieves
Upon a large and comprehensive scale.
Thief, brigand, conqueror! believe me, sir,
The size o’ the theft is all the difference;
For, call them what you please, they’re criminals.

Justinian, having ascertained all particulars about the wreck of The

Eunice the previous day, had sent a number of men to look after the
bodies of those unfortunates who had been cast up on the beach of
Melnos, and now, in company with the three young men, and the
surviving sailors, went to the sea-shore in order to give the corpses
decent burial. Conducted by a body of his Greeks, bearing torches,
he went down through the tunnel, and speedily arrived at the outer
entrance, from which a sandy beach sloped down to the harbor. Not
that it was exactly a harbor, but Justinian had aided Nature to form
one, by erecting a breakwater from the end of a jutting promontory,
which breakwater, built of huge undressed stones, ran out in a curve
into the tideless sea, and thus embraced a calm pool of water, which
sufficiently protected ships at anchorage. Beyond, the ocean at times
was rough enough, and at stormy seasons dashed its white waves
over the rocky mole, but within that charmed circle there was no
danger, and the smallest boat was as safe there as it would have
been on the serene waters of a mountain lake. This was the work of
the English engineer who had planned and carried out the piercing
of the tunnel, and Maurice could not withhold his admiration at the
perfection of the whole scheme, for without this breakwater it would
have been impossible for any sized craft to cast anchor off the
craggy coast of the island.
“I have two harbors of this kind,” said Justinian, as they looked at
the small boats, feluccas, and caïques which filled the pool; “one you
see, the other is on the opposite side of the island. As it faces to the
west, of course it suffers more from storms than this one, but I built
it in order to facilitate escape in time of trouble should the tunnel be
taken by assault.”
“I hardly understand.”
“There are only two ways of getting into the interior of Melnos.
The one is by this tunnel, the other is a pass which cuts through the
western side of the mountain where it falls away in a semicircle, as I
showed you. Owing to the height of the peaks around, their
ruggedness, their being covered all the year round with snow, it is
impossible for any outside enemy to climb over them. This tunnel
and the western pass are the only modes of ingress and egress, as I
have explained. Should this tunnel therefore be forced, and we find
ourselves unable to defend the island, all we have to do is to retreat
through the pass I told you of, down to the harbor on the other side,
where there are plenty of boats ready to take us to a place of safety.
Of course I trust in the courage of my Greeks, and the difficulties an
enemy would encounter in capturing the tunnel, so I hardly expect
such a contingency as flight by the western pass would occur; still, it
is always as well to be prepared for emergencies.”
 “You have thought of everything,” said Maurice admiringly.
“Danger sharpens a man’s wits,” replied Justinian coolly; “and
when I first came to Melnos, I was surrounded on all sides by rascals
of the Alcibiades type.”
“Alcibiades is only a smuggler,” observed Caliphronas, who was
listening to this discourse.
“Alcibiades is whatever pays him best,” retorted the king in great
ire; “it is only fear of King George’s Government that keeps him from
hoisting the black flag, and making these islands of the Ægean a
nest of iniquity. I believe you are a filibuster at heart yourself,
Andros.”
The Greek laughed consciously, but did not contradict the old
man.
“I am like Alcibiades, sir,” he said at length, “and go in for what
pays me best—Mr. Maurice there knows my sentiments regarding
life.”
“I do; and very bad sentiments they are!”
“I wonder what you would say to the views of Alcibiades!”
“He may carry his views more into practice than you do,” retorted
Maurice warmly, “but I defy them to be worse.”
Justinian laughed at the blunt way in which Maurice spoke, so
Caliphronas, having his own reasons for keeping a fair face to the
old man, discreetly held his peace, and they all trudged along the
beach, towards the place where the bodies of the ill-fated sailors lay.
The mast of The Eunice was still above water, but the yacht
herself lay far below the blue sea, where she would probably remain
until there remained nothing of her save the engines, which would of
course defy time and the ocean, until between them these mighty
destroyers rusted them to nothing. From the position in which she
lay, and the general calmness of the water, it is probable the yacht
could have been set afloat again; but the Greeks of the Cyclades
have not sufficient energy for such a task, and the underwriters
would no doubt rather pay the insurance money than waste more in
an attempt to raise the wreck from the depths below.
Twelve bodies had been thrown up by the sea, but the rest of the
crew—with the exception of the ten sailors, including Gurt—were
buried deep in the ocean. Far up in a sheltered nook, under the red
cliffs, twelve graves had been dug in the soft sand, and in these
were the ill-fated seamen laid. Martin’s body was not among them,
and it doubtless lay in a sailor’s grave nigh the island, encircled by
sand, seaweed, and many-colored shells. The funeral ceremony did
not take long, but, as Justinian refused the office, Maurice undertook
the task of chaplain, and, with a voice full of emotion, read the
beautiful burial service of the Church of England over the remains of
the dead sailors, which were then covered up, and roughly-made
wooden crosses placed at the head of each humble grave, with the
name of each and date of death carved thereon. All those present
stood bareheaded during the ceremony, even the Melnosians, who
were gentlemen enough not to offend the prejudices of the
strangers wrecked on their rugged shores.
Everything having thus been done, in order to show respect to the
dead, Justinian and his party returned to the entrance of the tunnel,
and Dick, the smart young boatswain before mentioned, attached
himself to Maurice, for whom he had a great admiration. Dick had
received an education much above that of the average British tar,
and Maurice found him a very companionable fellow, but one who
bore a great hatred for Caliphronas, as he seemed to think the lively
Greek was the cause of all the misfortunes which had overtaken The
Eunice.
“A kind of Jonah, sir!” said Dick in a whisper, for Caliphronas was
walking just ahead of them with Justinian; “if we’d a-chucked him
overboard, I don’t believe the boat would have gone ashore.”
“Come, Dick, you cannot say the Count had anything to do with
the storm.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir,” replied Dick doubtfully, “but I don’t
believe in him one bit. Why, sir, he cut that rope on purpose!”
“I know he did!”
“D—n him!” muttered the boatswain in a tone of suppressed rage;
“why don’t you have it out with him, sir?”
“I can’t very well, Dick. Doubtless he cut that rope, as you say, on
purpose; but he was so overcome by terror that he might not have
known what he was doing.”
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