No, you needn't point your middle finger at me so, to ward off the
evil eye. I'm neither Chaldean astrologer, nor Etruscan soothsayer.
Come, tell me who you are, and whom you belong to?"

Artemisia did not have the least idea what to say. Agias, partly
through youthful love of adventure, partly because he felt that he was
playing now for very high stakes and must risk a good deal, had thrown
himself on the divan, and was holding Artemisia captive under his
keen, genial eyes. She grew redder in face than before, began to
speak, then broke off with more confused blushes.

"She means to say," finally ventured Sesostris, "that she is
Artemisia, the niece of Pratinas."

"The niece of Pratinas!" exclaimed Agias, settling himself upon the
cushions in a manner that indicated his intention to make a prolonged
stay; "and does Pratinas keep his pretty niece shut up in a gloomy
tenement, when she has the voice of one of the Graces, and more than
their share of beauty! Shame on him; I thought he had better sense
than that!"

"Sir," ventured Artemisia, trying desperately to stand on her dignity,
"I do not know you. My uncle will be greatly vexed to find you here.
Will you go away at once?"

"That I will not," replied Agias, firmly; and he drew from the hamper
a baker's bun, and began to munch it, as though laying in provision
for a lengthy stay.

Artemisia and Sesostris exchanged glances of dismay.

"What _shall_ I do?" said the girl to the Ethiop in a very audible
whisper.

"Sing," interrupted Agias. "Let me hear the rest of the Theocritus."

"I don't like to sing those songs," objected Artemisia. "Pratinas
makes me, I don't know why."

"Well," said Agias, smiling, "I wouldn't for the-world make you sing
against your will. Suppose you tell me about yourself. Tell me when
your uncle is away, and when I may come and see you again."

"He's away nearly all the time," said Artemisia, very incautiously.
"But _who are_ you? Why do you want to come and see me?"

"Why do I want to look at a flower? Why do I want to hear the
nightingale sing? Why do I like a cup of good wine?" laughed Agias.
"Then, fair mistress, you may look for my answer when _you_ have
answered all of these questions of mine."

"I don't see what you mean," said poor Artemisia, looking dreadfully
puzzled.

"I mean," exclaimed the other, "what Sappho meant of the bride,--

'She like an apple turned red; which reddens far up on the tree-top:--
Upon t