Dada, obeying a happy impulse, threw herself on her knees before the old woman, kissed her hands, and then, sitting on her heels, nestled at her feet.
Gorgo, however, noticing Herse's agitation, asked what had happened to them. Some monks, Herse explained, had followed them on the road hither, had snatched Dada's lyre from the slave who was carrying it and pulled the wreath out of her hair. Damia was furious as she heard it, and trembled with rage as she railed at the wild hordes who disgraced and desecrated Alexandria, the sacred home of the Muses; then she began to speak once more of the young captain, Mary's son, to whom the troupe of singers owed their lives.
"Marcus," said she, "is said to be a paragon of chastity. He races in the hippodrome with all the gallants of the town and yet—if it is true it is a miracle—he shuns women as though he were a priest already. His mother is very anxious that he should become one; but he, by the grace of Aphrodite, is the son of my handsome Appelles, who, if he had gazed into those blue eyes all the way from Rome to Alexandria, would have surrendered at mercy; but then he would also have conquered them—as surely as I hope to live till autumn. You need not blush so, child. After all, Marcus is a man like other men. Keep your eyes open, Dame Herse!"
"Never fear!" cried Herse. "And I have need to keep them open I am sorry to say. The young captain, who on board ship was so bashful and retiring, as soon as he was on land altered his time. While we were away this morning he crept into his own mother's inn like a ferret, opened the door of our room with the keys of which he has the command—it is shameful!—and proposed to the girl to fly, to leave us—she is the daughter of a dear sister of mine—and go with him; who but he knows where!"
Damia struck the floor with her crutch and, interrupting the indignant matron with a spiteful laugh, exclaimed:
"Ha, ha! The saintly Mary's most saintly son! Such wonders do not happen every day! Here, Dada—here; take this ring, it has been worn by a woman who once was young and who has had many lovers. Close—come close, my sweet child."
Dada looked up at the old lady with puzzled eyes; Damia bent her head close to the girl's, and whispered, softly but vehemently in her ear:
"Only turn that milksop's head, make him so madly and desperately in love with you that he does not know which way to turn for delicious torment. You can do it I know, and if you do—well, I make no promises; but on the day when all Alexandria is talking of that woman's son as wandering out, night after night, to watch under the window of the fair Dada, the heathen singer—when he drives you out in the face of day and in his own chariot, down the Canopic Way and past his mother's door—then child, ask, claim whatever you will, and old Damia will not refuse it."
Then raising her head she added to the others:
"In the afternoon, my friends, you can take possession of your new quarters. Go with them, Dada. By-and-bye we will find you a pretty room in the tower. Come and see me very often, sweet one, and tell me all your prettiest tales. When I am not too busy I shall always be glad to see you, for you and I have a secret you know."