“Baltè, Baltè, I never thought I could be so glad again. I never thought——”
“And just for seein’ old Baltè’s face,” said the slave proudly. “Here, eat your supper. Ye’re that thin and white.”
They talked in whispers, or rather in low, even tones, for Baltè well knew that whispers are most conspicuous of all sounds.
“How did you get to me, Baltè; how, in Apollo’s name?” Even the divine name seemed strange to Theria now.
“Been tryin’ ever since that old Chimera took me away from you. What’s she, to be takin’ care o’ my darling?”
“Yes—go on.”
“I couldn’t get in. The slaves were that pitickilar. Then I went to Lycophron and I begged him. I says, ‘Give me money to get to my darlin’. She’s dyin’ for the sight of a home face.’
“‘How do you know that?’ says he.
“‘You know yourself,’ I says. ‘Could she feel any other way?’