nd his master was obliged to
yield to the Alexandrian's will.

Ledscha laughed incredulously: "He--obey a woman!"

"He certainly would not submit to a man," replied the slave. "Artists,
you must know, would rather oppose ten of the most powerful men than
one weak woman, if she is only beautiful. As for the daughter of
Archias--thereby hangs a tale."

"Archias?" interrupted the girl. "The rich Alexandrian who owns the
great weaving house?"

"The very man."

"So it is his daughter who is keeping Hermon? And you say he is obliged
to serve her?"

"As men serve the Deity, to the utmost, or truth," replied the slave
importantly. "Archias, the father, it is true, imposed upon us the debt
which is most tardily paid, and which people, even in this country, call
'gratitude.' We are under obligations to the old man--there's no denying
it--and therefore also to his only child."

"For what?" Ledscha indignantly exclaimed, and the dark eyebrows which
met above her delicate nose contracted suspiciously. "I must know!"

"Must!" repeated the slave. "That word is a ploughshare which suits only
loose soil, and mine, now that my master is waiting for me, can not be
tilled even by the sharpest. Another time! But if, meanwhile, you have
any message for Hermon----"

"Nothing," she replied defiantly; but Bias, in a tone of the most eager
assent, exclaimed: "One friendly word, girl. You are the fairest among
the daughters of the highest Biamite families, and probably the richest
also, and therefore a thousand times too good to yield what adorns you
to the Greek, that it may tickle the curiosity of the Alexandrian apes.
There are more than enough women in the capital to serve that purpose.
Trust the experience of a man not wholly devoid of wisdom, my girl. He
will throw you aside like an empty wine bottle when he has used you for
a model."

"Used?" interrupted Ledscha disdainfully; but he repeated with firm
decision: "Yes, used! What could you learn of life, of art and artists,
here in the weaver's nest in the midst of the waves? I know them. A
sculptor needs beautiful women as a cobbler wants leather, and the
charms he seeks in you he does not conceal from his friend Myrtilus, at
least. They are your large almond-shaped eyes and your arms. They make
him fairly wild with delight by their curves when, in drawing water, you
hold the jug balanced on your head. Your slender arched foot, too, is a
welcome morsel to him."

The darkness