One would have said that the power of the state was no longer in the ducal castle, but far away by the spurs of the Kutsch-kom Mountain, where lived the sorceress, the primitive oracle of her race. They paid no attention to their effeminate master, and listened only to this ancestral voice, that foretold national happiness.
“Phil,” said Ethel, “you know the proverb, ‘When you are in Rome, do as the Romans do.’ It’s a useless recommendation, for we can’t help doing it. But even if we don’t act like this people, we are rather Morganian in our thoughts, are we not? And it is the women who interest me chiefly,” Ethel continued. “It is their heroines whose remembrance fills the people with a hope beyond realization. And yet—what if it should be realized? We can never be certain.”
Phil was silent,—Helia was at his side.
“You look a little tired,” Ethel said to her.
Phil took Helia’s arm; and they walked together, talking little, making indifferent remarks to each other, each alone with his own innermost thoughts. They were leaving the weavers’ street for that of the armorers.
“There is enough here to cut the throats of a nation!” Phil could not help observing.
They were between the lines of shops. The sun’s rays fell straight down, striking flashes from the niello work of the rifles, from the ivory of the Albanese pistols, and from the clusters of daggers hanging from their hooks. They were of every form and size: the Malay creese, curved zigzag like a lightning-flash; Venetian stilettos, as pointed as a bee’s sting; and others pierced with holes, for their amalgam of arsenic and grease, looking like blotches. Besides the slender, elegant blade to be worn at the garter, there were horn-handled knives, real bandits’ weapons, made to stick into the back.
“‘Does the sight of so many weapons make you nervous?’”