from the walls; I did not understand
what he wanted with them, unless he meant to arm himself in porcupine
fashion.

Presently Euphrosyne came, but it was a transformed Euphrosyne. The
kilt, knee breeches, and gaiters were gone; in their place was the white
linen garment with flowing sleeves and the loose jacket over it, the
national dress of the Greek woman; but Euphrosyne's was ornamented with
a rare profusion of delicate embroidery, and of so fine a texture that
it seemed rather like some delicate, soft, yielding silk. The change of
attire seemed reflected in her altered manner. Defiance was gone and
appeal glistened from her eyes as she stood before me. I sprang up, but
she would not sit. She stood there, and, raising her glance to my face,
asked simply: "Is it true?"

In a business-like way I told her the whole story, starting from the
every-day scene at home in the restaurant, ending with the villainous
conversation and the wild chase of the night before. When I related how
Constantine had called Francesca his wife, Euphrosyne shivered; while I
sketched lightly my encounter with him and Vlacho, she eyed me with a
sort of grave curiosity; and at the end she said: "I'm glad you weren't
killed." It was not an emotional speech, nor delivered with any
_empressement_; but I took it for thanks, and made the best of it.
Then at last she sat down and rested her head on her hand. Her absent
air allowed me to study her closely, and I was struck by a new beauty
which the bizarre boy's dress had concealed. Moreover, with the doffing
of that, she seemed to have put off her extreme hostility; but perhaps
the revelation I had made to her, which showed her the victim of an
unscrupulous schemer, had more to do with her softened air. Yet she bore
the story firmly, and a quivering lip was her extreme sign of grief or
anger. And her first question was not of herself.

"Do you mean that they will kill this woman?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it's not unlikely that something will happen to her, unless,
of course--" I paused, but her quick wit supplied the omission.

"Unless," she said, "he lets her live now, because I am out of his
hands."

"Will you stay out of his hands?" I asked. "I mean, as long as I can
keep you out of them."

She looked round with a troubled expression.

"How can I stay here?" she said in a low tone.

"You will be as safe here as you were in your mother's arms," I
answered.

She acknowledged my promise w