“It would be safest, madam, would it not, to trust the matter to some confidential slave?”
Valeria’s heart was beating fast, and the fair cheek was pale again now, while she answered, with studied carelessness—
“Perhaps it would, if I could think of one. You know his household, Myrrhina. Can I safely confide in any of them?”
“Those barbarians are generally faithful,” observed the maid, with the most unconscious air. “I know Licinius has [pg 88]a British slave in whom he places considerable trust. You have seen him yourself, madam.”
“Have I?” answered Valeria, moving restlessly into a more comfortable attitude. “Should I know him again? What is he like?”
The blood had once more mounted to her forehead, beneath the long hair. Myrrhina, who was behind her, saw the crimson mantling even on her neck. She was a slave, and a waiting-maid, but she was also a woman, and she could not resist the temptation; so she answered maliciously—
“He is a big awkward-looking youth, of lofty stature, madam, and with light curly hair. Stupid doubtless, and as trusty, probably, as he is thick-witted.”
It is not safe to jest with a tigress unless you are outside the bars of her cage. Valeria made a quick impatient movement that warned the speaker she had gone too far. The latter was not wanting in readiness of resource.
“I could bring him here, madam,” she added demurely, “within six hours.”
Her lady smiled pleasantly enough.