"There should be plenty of both when this night's feasting is over. I'll see thou hast thy share—"
"What feasting? Is it night?" Nicanor asked.
"True; I forgot thou couldst not know," said Wardo. "To-night is held the betrothal feast of our lady and the lord Marius."
The careless figure on the floor stiffened, as it seemed, into stone as it sat. Nicanor turned his head, slowly, and looked up at his gaoler. The movement had in it something of the stealthiness of an animal crouching to spring.
"Betrothed—to-night?" he muttered. The hands about his knees tightened until their muscles strained under the brown skin; but the light was bad, and Wardo's eyes were not over keen to see what he was not looking for.
"Why, yes," said Wardo. "It is held in the Hall of Columns. By this time, without doubt, the kiss is given and taken, the pledge is passed, and our little lady by rights is in another's keeping. It wants only the marriage three days hence."
Nicanor rose lithely to his feet, pressing back his mane of hair with both hands.
"Wardo, we two have been friends, have we not, ever since we put each the other to sleep with blows over the baker's black-eyed daughter?"
Wardo looked at him.
"Ay, that is so," he said sincerely.