Passing through the silk-clad, bejewelled Persians who waited in an antechamber with their slaves and gifts, I gained the great terrace of the palace which looked upon the sea. Here I found Martina leaning on the parapet.
“Have you more of the Augusta’s pearls about you, Olaf?” she asked mockingly, speaking over her shoulder.
“Not I, Martina,” I answered, halting beside her.
“Indeed. I could have sworn otherwise, for they are perfumed, and I seemed to catch their odour. When did you begin to use the royal scent upon that yellow beard of yours, Olaf? If any of us women did so, it would mean blows and exile; but perchance a captain of the guard may be forgiven.”
“I use no scents, girl, as you know well. Yet it is true that these rooms reek of them, and they cling to armour.”
“Yes, and still more to hair. Well, what gift had my mistress for you to-day?”
“A commission to guard certain prisoners, Martina.”
“Ah! Have you read it yet? When you do, I think you’ll find that it names you Governor of the jail, which is a high office, carrying much pay and place. You are in good favour, Olaf, and I hope that when you come to greatness you will not forget Martina. It was I who put it into a certain mind to give you this commission as the only man that could be trusted in the Court.”
“I do not forget a friend, Martina,” I answered.
“That is your reputation, Olaf. Oh! what a road is opening to your feet. Yet I doubt you’ll not walk it, being too honest; or, if you do, that it will lead you—not to glory, but a grave.”