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We left. We trod the elegant paths through the cultivated landscape, which now seemed more like prison corridors. Euanthē was pale, and had said nothing. Nor had I. But when we began to go down the path, she suddenly burst into tears. She sat on the ground, and said, between sobs, ‘I’m so sorry, Master. I know I did the wrong things and said the wrong things. But in my heart they seemed right at the time. I don’t know what to think.’
I said: ‘Euanthē, I do not praise your behaviour at all, and it may not have been wise or well-informed. It was impulsive. But still you were good and honest and straightforward. I myself would have been much more diplomatic and indirect in trying to test what the Philippidæ might do or be doing. Perhaps what you did was best, and shows us more.’
Euanthē’s sobs subsided, and we continued our downward trek. As we went, Euanthē gave me a little sideways smile, almost mischievously, though her expression was grave, and there were still tears in her eyes. I wondered whether they were tears about her own behaviour, or tears for injustice in the world. Probably both.
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