cting, one by one, the oboli from the belt of some drunken sailor,
and in amusing the drinkers with artless songs and obscene words, the
meaning of which she did not know. She passed from knee to knee, in a
room reeking with the odours of fermented drinks and resiny wine-skins;
then, her cheeks sticky with beer and pricked by rough beards, she
escaped, clutching the oboli in her little hand, and ran to buy
honey-cakes from an old woman who crouched behind her baskets under the
Gate of the Moon. Every day the same scenes were repeated, the
sailors relating their perilous adventures, then playing at dice or
knuckle-bones, and blaspheming the gods, amid their shouting for the
best beer of Cilicia.

Every night the child was awakened by the quarrels of the drunkards.
Oyster-shells would fly across the tables, cutting the heads of those
they hit, and the uproar was terrible. Sometimes she saw, by the light
of the smoky lamps, the knives glitter, and the blood flow.

It humiliated her to think that the only person who showed her any human
kindness in her young days was the mild and gentle Ahmes. Ahmes, the
house-slave, a Nubian blacker than the pot he gravely skimmed, was as
good as a long night's sleep. Often he would take Thais on his knee,
and tell her old tales about underground treasure-houses constructed for
avaricious kings, who put to death the masons and architects. There
were also tales about clever thieves who married kings' daughters, and
courtesans who built pyramids. Little Thais loved Ahmes like a father,
like a mother, like a nurse, and like a dog. She followed the slave into
the cellar when he went to fill the amphorae, and into the poultry-yard
amongst the scraggy and ragged fowls, all beak, claws, and feathers, who
flew swifter than eagles before the knife of the black cook. Often at
night, on the straw, instead of sleeping, he built for Thais little
water-mills, and ships no bigger than his hand, with all their rigging.

He had been badly treated by his masters; one of his ears was torn,
and his body covered with scars. Yet his features always wore an air of
joyous peace. And no one ever asked him whence he drew the consolation
in his soul, and the peace in his heart. He was as simple as a child.
As he performed his heavy tasks, he sang, in a harsh voice, hymns which
made the child tremble and dream. He murmured, in a gravely joyous
tone--

"Tell us, Mary, what thou hast seen where thou hast been?