IV

The wind was against them, and the men were at the oars. Menelaus sat near the helmsman, and Helen before him, her face bare to the wind. The rowers looked up at her, not as in anger at one who had brought on them war and labour, but curiously at first, then with understanding and awe, as though there were a blessing in the boat. Menelaus watched the change in their gaze, and wondered why he had come to Troy—and remembered why.

Helen shifted her position, for the first time in hours, and looked in his eyes. The oarsmen looked up at him, too; they forgot to row.

“Menelaus,” she said, “you should have offered sacrifices. There is something very strange about this boat.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, “the boat is perhaps the only thing here that is beyond criticism. The wind is unfavourable, but the men row well, except when you distract them.”

“In Troy at this moment, or somewhere along the shore,” she said, “Agamemnon offers up prayers which I dare say will be effective; he will doubtless reach home. Our own prospect seems to me uncertain. You know my point of view—I have no love for adventure unless I know where I’m going.”

“We are going to Sparta,” he said.

“I fear we are not,” said Helen.

“We will hold to the course,” said her husband, “and unless the stars are disarranged in this much troubled world, we shall arrive in Sparta in a week. That will be excellent time, don’t you think?” he asked the helmsman.

“It took us longer to reach Troy on the way out,” said the helmsman.

“When I went to Troy,” said Helen, “it took only three days, but that was an exceptional voyage.”

Thereafter the rowers bent to the oars and the helmsman read the sun and the stars. At first Helen would look at Menelaus from time to time, serene enough, but as though she could say something if it were worth while to do so. After many days she only sat motionless, gazing far ahead across the sea, and the oarsmen kept their patient eyes on her, as though she and they were faithful to something Menelaus could not understand. He passed the time feeling lonely, and wondering whether the water and the food would hold out.

“Ah, there is Sparta at last,” he said.

“I doubt it,” said Helen.

As a matter of fact it was Egypt. Helen walked ashore on the narrow bridge the sailors held for her, as though one always landed in Egypt. The wind died completely. The weary men set up the king’s tent and shelters for themselves, and went to sleep. Menelaus could not remember that he had given orders for disembarking, but he wasn’t sure and didn’t like to ask.

“This famous land is more interesting than I had thought,” said Helen some weeks later. “In my afternoon walks I have met several of the natives, and they seem to have reached here an average of culture somewhat above our best in Sparta, don’t you think?”

“Helen, you exasperate me,” said Menelaus. “I’m not here to tour the country nor to compare civilisations.”

“Of course you aren’t, nor I either,” said Helen, “and when you are ready to sail you have only to tell me. Meanwhile, Polydamna, the wife of that substantial man who sold you the food for our next voyage, is teaching me her skill in herbs and medicines—a good skill to have in any house, and here they all seem to have it. Unless you offer sacrifices in the next few days, I shall learn much of what she knows.”

“I will make no more sacrifices,” said Menelaus. “The wind will rise of itself.”

“Then I shall learn it all before we go,” said Helen.

After a fortnight or thereabouts, she saw him one day coming from the house of Thonis, Polydamna’s husband, with a small lamb under his cloak. While he called the men to a quiet spot and sacrificed the animal, she kept herself discreetly in the tent. Menelaus found her there.

“Be prepared to sail to-morrow,” he said, “in case a wind should rise.”

She was ready, and the wind rose, but it turned out to be only a frail breeze, young and short-lived. As they reached the island of Pharos it died altogether.

“Oh, well,” said Menelaus, “there’s a good harbour here and a spring of fresh water. We’ll put in till the wind freshens, and fill the casks.”

Helen walked ashore on the narrow bridge the men held for her, as though one always landed in Pharos. After twenty days the food gave out, and the men crawled along the stony shore, trying for fish with a little cord and bare hooks. All those days Helen walked, composed and gracious, in the smoothest paths she could find among the rocks, or sat near the brow of one modest cliff, watching the purple waters and the gulls and the far sky-line. Menelaus avoided his men and wandered alone, at the other end of the island from Helen. But she was not surprised, so far as he could see, when he strolled up at last to her position on the cliff.

“I’m thinking of going back to Egypt,” he began. “These men need better food than they can find here, and we could row to Canopus in a day.”

“If you are asking my advice,” said Helen, “I can only follow your own best judgment. As you say, we seem to need food.”

“At times, Helen, you irritate me,” said Menelaus; “any fool would know we must go back to Egypt. I wasn’t asking your advice. In fact, I ought to have gone back long ago.”

He was prepared to tell her why he hadn’t gone back before, but she annoyed him by not asking. He turned and saw three of his men, wan and hungry, and the helmsman with them, waiting, as it seemed, to say something unpleasant.

“Menelaus,” began the helmsman, “we have followed you so long that you must know we are faithful, but we’ve come to ask you now if you’ve lost your wits. Do you enjoy suffering yourself, or do you like to see us suffer? You keep us on this island to starve, while there is food in Egypt, within one day at the oars, if we had our strength. A few hours longer here, and we shall be too feeble to launch the boat. Waiting for a wind, you say. But if it came now, there’s not food enough to keep us till Sparta; we can’t fish as we sail.”

“I forgive your bad manners because of your hunger,” said Menelaus, “but as it usually happens in such cases, your advice comes late and is therefore superfluous. I had already decided to return to Egypt for supplies, and we shall start at once. Get the boat ready … Did I make myself clear? Launch the boat … Oh, you have something more to say?”

“Yes, Menelaus,” replied the helmsman. “When we reach Egypt we shall make proper sacrifices to the gods, that we may return home in safety. We would have sacrificed at Troy, with our fellows, but you commanded us to come away. Now that we have suffered your punishment with you, we will obey you no longer in this matter, but only the gods. Clearly it is the fate of none of us to see our friends again unless we offer hecatombs to the deathless who keep the heavens and the paths of the sea. No doubt we should have perished before this had there not been with us our lady yonder, your wife, to soften the anger of the gods—herself immortal in our eyes, reverent and careful toward those above who give life or withhold it.”

“It might be well,” said Menelaus, “to offer further sacrifices at this time. I had considered that also, but there is nothing here of any value to sacrifice. In Egypt, as you suggest, we can secure rich offerings, and I had already resolved to do so at the earliest convenient moment. You may now launch the boat—unless, of course, there is something further?”

They hastened down to their fellows, and Menelaus turned toward Helen.

“I hope you won’t keep us waiting. This talk has somewhat delayed my plans.”

Thonis gave them food to store in the boat, and cattle for the sacrifice, with bowls of dark wine. In the sight of them all Menelaus drew the pitiless knife with certain flourishes of irritation across the throats of the victims, and they fell gasping to the ground. Then he turned the wine from the bowls into cups, and poured it forth, and prayed in an incisive voice to the gods.

“O Zeus, most glorious, most great, O Athena, wise and terrible, O all ye immortal beings! Now do your works in the light, that men may look on justice. Punish the guilty and reward the good. Who among us have sinned against you let them starve on the sea rocks or drown in the waters. But those who with pure hearts have done your will, bring us soon to our own people!”

And the wind blew them all safe and sound to Sparta.