“As men serve the Deity, to the utmost, or truth,” replied the slave importantly. “Archias, the father, it is true, imposed upon us the debt which is most tardily paid, and which people, even in this country, call ‘gratitude.’ We are under obligations to the old man—there’s no denying it—and therefore also to his only child.”
“For what?” Ledscha indignantly exclaimed, and the dark eyebrows which met above her delicate nose contracted suspiciously. “I must know!”
“Must!” repeated the slave. “That word is a ploughshare which suits only loose soil, and mine, now that my master is waiting for me, can not be tilled even by the sharpest. Another time! But if, meanwhile, you have any message for Hermon——”
“Nothing,” she replied defiantly; but Bias, in a tone of the most eager assent, exclaimed: “One friendly word, girl. You are the fairest among the daughters of the highest Biamite families, and probably the richest also, and therefore a thousand times too good to yield what adorns you to the Greek, that it may tickle the curiosity of the Alexandrian apes. There are more than enough women in the capital to serve that purpose. Trust the experience of a man not wholly devoid of wisdom, my girl. He will throw you aside like an empty wine bottle when he has used you for a model.”
“Used?” interrupted Ledscha disdainfully; but he repeated with firm decision: “Yes, used! What could you learn of life, of art and artists, here in the weaver’s nest in the midst of the waves? I know them. A sculptor needs beautiful women as a cobbler wants leather, and the charms he seeks in you he does not conceal from his friend Myrtilus, at least. They are your large almond-shaped eyes and your arms. They make him fairly wild with delight by their curves when, in drawing water, you hold the jug balanced on your head. Your slender arched foot, too, is a welcome morsel to him.”
The darkness prevented Bias from seeing Ledscha’s features, but it was easy to perceive what was passing in her mind as, hoarse with indignation, she gasped: “How can I know the object of your accusations? but fie upon the servant who would alienate from his own kind master what his soul desires!”
Then Bias changed not only his tone of voice, but his language, and, deeply offended, poured forth a torrent of wrath in the dialect of his people: “If to guard you, and my master with you, from harm, my words had the power to put between you and Hermon the distance which separates yonder rising moon from Tennis, I would make them sound as loud as the lion’s roar. Yet perhaps you would not understand them, for you go through life as though you were deaf and blind. Did you ever even ask yourself whether the Greek is not differently constituted from the sons of the Biamite sailors and fishermen, with whom you grew up, and to whom he is an abomination? Yet he is no more like them than poppy juice is like pure water. He and his companions turn life upside down. There is no more distinction between right and wrong in Alexandria than we here in the dark can make between blue and green. To me, the slave, who is already growing old, Hermon is a kind master. I know without your aid what I owe him, and serve him as loyally as any one; but where he threatens to lead to ruin the innocent daughter of the race whose blood flows in my veins as well as yours, and in doing so perhaps finally destroy himself too, conscience commands me to raise my voice as loud as the sentinel crane when danger threatens the flock. Beware, girl, I repeat! Keep your beauty, which is now to be degraded to feast the eyes of gaping Greeks, for the worthiest husband among our people. Though Hermon has vowed, I know not what, your love-dallying will very soon be over; we shall leave Tennis within the next few days. When he has gone there will be one more deceived Biamite who will call down the curse of the gods upon the head of a Greek. You are not the only one who will execrate the destiny that brought us here. Others have been caught in his net too.”
“Here?” asked Ledscha in a hollow tone; and the slave eagerly answered: “Where else? And that you may know the truth—among those who visited Hermon in his studio is your own young sister.”
“Our Taus? That child?” exclaimed the girl, stretching her hands toward the slave in horror, as if to ward off some impending disaster.
“That child, who, I think, has grown into a very charming girl—and, before her, pretty Gula, the wife of Paseth, who, like your father, is away on his ship.”