The woman was a huge red-haired negress in yellow, fully six feet tall in her heelless slippers, and her black arms, bare above the elbow, were as sinewy and muscular as any fisherman's or porter's. Her thick lips were parted in a sort of savage grin that showed two rows of teeth as sharp and white as a shark's; her hair must have been just dyed that day, for it was as red as flame to the very roots, and it stood out almost straight from her shiny black forehead and temples; as she rather contemptuously scrutinised Omobono from head to foot the whites of her coal-black eyes gleamed in a way that was positively terrifying. She wore wide Greek trousers of blue cotton, gathered at the ankle, and a wadded coat of yellow, that hung down below her knees in loose folds, like a sort of skirt, but fitted tightly over her tremendous shoulders. This garment was closely girded round her ample waist by a red sash, in which she carried her armoury, consisting of a serviceable Arab knife with a bone hilt and brass sheath, and a small whip made of a broad flat thong of hippopotamus hide with a short oak stock.
This terrific apparition stood in the little vestibule holding the door open and grinning at Omobono. She had closed another door behind her before opening the outer one, for the slave-dealer's establishment was evidently managed with a view to the safety of his merchandise.
'And what do you want of Rustan Karaboghazji at this time of the afternoon?' enquired the negress. 'Who are you?'
'I am only a clerk,' answered Omobono in a deprecating tone, and shrinking a little under his cloak, as the awful virago thrust her head forward. 'I am the clerk of Messer Carlo Zeno, a rich Venetian merchant, who sends a message by me to your master——'
'My master!' interrupted the black woman, with a scornful laugh. 'My master, indeed!'
'I—I supposed——' faltered Omobono apologetically.
The negress moved a little and rested one huge hand on her hip, while she slipped the other slowly up the door-post till it was above her head. In this attitude she looked gigantic.
'You mean my husband,' she said, showing all her teeth. 'Rustan Karaboghazji is my husband. Do you understand?'
'Yes, Kokóna—I—I mean Kyría—yes, certainly! I should have known at once that you were the mistress of the house if you had not condescended to open the door yourself, Kyría.'
'And what would become of the cattle,' enquired the negress with a backward toss of her head towards the yard behind her, 'if the stable door were in charge of a slave? If your master—' she dwelt on the two words contemptuously—'wishes to buy of us, he will have to come here and choose for himself.'