senses well together in the
presence of unsuspected danger.

Lycabetta answered her, languidly amused.

"I am everything and nothing. There are poets who rhyme me the Rose of
the World. There are priests who name me the Strange Woman. I am
Lycabetta."

"Lycabetta!" Perpetua repeated the name almost unconsciously, and
Lycabetta saw that it had no meaning to her ears.

"Has no love-wind ever blown my name to your sky-nest?" she asked. "Has
your royal lover never named my name? For I, too, am one of the King's
darlings."

Perpetua started at the mention of the King's name, and looked around
again at the gorgeous cage.

"The King! the King! Is this the King's house?" she asked, with wider
eyes and clinched fingers.

Lycabetta made her a mocking reverence.

"Every house in Sicily is the King's house, and my poor roof is as loyal
as the best. This is my house and yours, for now you dwell in it at the
King's pleasure."

"Then I will leave it at my own pleasure, instantly." She knew that she
was snared, but she showed no sign of fear.

Lycabetta shook her head and smiled evilly.

"I think you will stay. Every door is guarded, every bolt driven home.
My frightened bird, you cannot escape from this cage."

She knew that the girl was at her mercy and began to find stealthy
delight in the thought. Perpetua faced her boldly, holding her head
high. Pagan and Christian faced each other with bright eyes.

"I do not fear you," Perpetua said, calmly. "You dare not hold me here
against my will. The King himself has no power over a free woman. If you
restrain me, I will call for help, and every honest hand in Syracuse
will be raised to set me free."

Lycabetta laughed again, and her laughter seemed to run over her in
waves of colored fire as her thin garments trembled on her body.

"My gardens are deep and dim and quiet. No sound from here would reach
the world outside. No, not the death-cry nor the shriek of tortured
flesh."

Perpetua gazed at her as she might at some spirit of evil released at
midnight to wreak its will upon the sinful. There was a great horror in
her heart, but there was a great courage in her voice.

"Whoever you are, you cannot frighten me; you dare not keep me here."

Lycabetta thrust her head a little forward, like a snake about to
strike.

"You silly wood savage, you will be very tame presently," she promised,
in a low, hard voice.

"In the name of God I defy you, and I go," Perpetua sai