had quite other views for her
granddaughter.

All this excited Dada's sympathies to the highest pitch, but she listened
with even greater attention when her gossip began to speak of Marcus, his
mother, and his brother. In this the Egyptian slave was the tool of old
Damia. She had counted on being questioned about the young Christian, and
as soon as Dada mentioned his name she shuffled on her knees close up to
the girl, laid her hand gently on her arm and looking up into her eyes
with a meaning flash, she whispered in broken Greek--and hastily, for
Herse was bustling about the deck: "Such a pretty mistress, such a young
mistress as you, and kept here like a slave! If the young mistress only
chose she could easily--quite easily--have as good a lover as our Gorgo,
and better; so pretty and so young! And I know some one who would dress
the pretty mistress in red gold and pale pearls and bright jewels, if
sweet Dada only said the word."

"And why should sweet Dada not say the word?" echoed the girl gaily. "Who
is it that has so many nice things and all for me? You--I shall never
remember your name if I live to be as old as Damia. . . ."

"Sachepris, Sachepris is my name," said the woman, but call me anything
else you like. The lover I mean is the son of the rich Christian, Mary. A
handsome man, my lord Marcus; and he has horses, such fine horses, and
more gold pieces than the pebbles on the shore there. Sachepris knows
that he has sent out slaves to look for the pretty mistress. Send him a
token--write to my lord Marcus."

"Write?" laughed Dada. "Girls learn other things in my country; but if I
could--shall I tell you something? I would not write him a line. Those
who want me may seek me!"

"He is seeking, he is trying to find the pretty mistress," declared the
woman; "he is full of you, quite full of you, and if I dared. . . ."

"Well?"

"I would go and say to my lord Marcus, quite in a secret. . . ."

"Well, what? Speak out, woman."

"First I would tell him where the pretty mistress is hidden; and then say
that he might hope once--this evening perhaps--he is not far off, he is
quite near this . . . over there; do you see that little white house? It
is a tavern and the host is a freedman attached to the lady Damia, and
for money he would shut his shop up for a day, for a night, for many
days.--Well, and then I would say--shall I tell you all? My lord Marcus
is there, waiting for his pretty mistress, and has brough