name?—the runner: and the Greeks fought in a field of it."
"Good, good!" she cried, in unconcealed astonishment. "I never expected you to. But you won't answer the second right. What is the happiest kind of death?"
His honest brown. face clouded. Here, he thought, the poison of her father's spirit worked in her. Yet her bright eyes showed only interest in the game.
"Of course you can't. I 'll give you another clue," said this Ariadne. "The second answer is in the same story, and it is n't about fighting the Persians. Now what is it?"
"What is the happiest kind"—he reflected. This time he really gave thought to the question. "Why," he said at last, with conviction, "the way this same fellow in the poem died, running into Athens with the news of victory, among them all—still young"—
The slim white-gowned figure almost danced in the patch of fennel. "You 're wonderful!" she cried, clapping her hands. "That was it—
