She smoothed her skirt down with her hands and brushed exploring fingers from her blouse. But the island women were not easily repulsed. They were ready to give their babies to her if she asked for them. They would not forgo if they could help it the delight of examining new and fascinating kinds of clothes. Miss Daisy—still Miss Daisy, not a queen—burst from them and ran, with tossed hair and ruffled garments, up the steps again.
“Oh, Smith,” she said, “tell them that they mustn’t do it. I’m sure they don’t mean any harm, but I can’t bear to be pulled about.”
Smith translated; but it is doubtful if the women understood or even heard. There was a babble of soft voices. They were discussing eagerly the strange garments of the English lady.
Stephanos spoke again, gravely, gently.
“It is in my mind,” so Smith translated, “that one of our daughters should be the servant of the English lady; seeing that she has no maidens of her own people round about her. Kalliope is the fairest and the deftest. If it be the good pleasure of the English lady Kalliope shall serve her day and night, doing in all things the bidding of the Queen wherein if Kalliope fail by one hair’s breadth of perfect service, I, Stephanos the elder, her grandsire, will beat her with pliant rods fresh cut from the osier trees until the blood of full atonement flows from her.”
“My!” said the Queen. “After that I shan’t dare say a word to Kalliope even if she steals the last hairpin I own.”
“Tell that high priest,” said Donovan, “that I admire his loyalty. He may trot out the young woman. You must have a maid of some sort, Daisy, and I expect Kalliope will do her darnedest with that threat hanging over her.”
Stephanos the elder was an old gentleman of quick apprehension. He did not wait for Smith to translate what Donovan said. He turned to the women crowded below him. He raised one hand. Their babbling ceased at once. Through the silence Stephanos the elder spoke.
“Kalliope.”
A young girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years of age, came forward. Bowing low at each step she mounted, she climbed slowly towards the flagstaff. Her bowing suggested profound humility, but her eyes, when she raised them, sparkled, and her lips were parted in a gay smile. She was evidently in no fear of an immediate beating with fresh-cut osier rods. Yet Kalliope had some cause to be afraid. It was she who had endeavoured to explore to their source the clocks on the Queen’s stockings.