It was blowing a
perfect gale, the sea was rough, and the captain too cross to tell us
how long we would have on shore. I looked at my companion and she
looked at me. In that one glance we decided that we would see the
Acropolis or die in the attempt. A Cook's guide was watching our
indecision with hungry eyes. We have since named him Barabbas, for
reasons known to every unfortunate who ever fell into his hands. But
he was clever. He said that we might cut his head off if he did not
get us back to the boat in time. We assured him that we would gladly
avail ourselves of his permission if that ship sailed without us. Then
we scuttled down the heaving stairway at the ship's side, and away we
went over (or mostly through) the waves to the Piraeus. There we took
a carriage, and at the maddest gallop it ever was my lot to travel we
raced up that lovely smooth avenue, between rows of wild pepper-trees
which met overhead, to Athens; through Athens at a run, and reached
the Acropolis, blown almost to pieces ourselves, and with the horses
in a white foam.
Up to that time the Acropolis had been but a name to me.
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