When Perpetua removed her hands she found herself alone in the most wonderful room she had ever seen or dreamed of. She looked with astonishment at the gorgeous stuffs and furs, the gold and color, the glow of fire and gleam of jewels; she breathed in amazement the subtly perfumed air which seemed at first to make her feel giddy, her who could stand upon the brink of the grimmest precipice in Sicily and look down untroubled to its distant floor. Her senses were confused by the lights, the odors, by the long, strange journey through the night, closely mewed in a litter borne by black giants, who offered her no harm but answered her no word. Anxiety for her father had denied anxiety for herself and still denied her.
“What is this place?” she cried aloud to emptiness. “Is there no one here?”
Instantly the curtains in front of her divided, revealing Lycabetta in the pride of her whiteness, almost unclothed in her transparent drapery.
“I am here,” she said, and, descending, advanced a little way towards the girl.
Perpetua stared at the woman who had come upon her so noiselessly, her white body shining through her thin, glittering robes.
“Where is my father?” she asked.
Lycabetta laughed a little, cruel laugh.
“This is a strange place to come and cry for a father,” she answered, reading with amusement the wonder in the girl’s eyes.
Perpetua caught her breath in sudden suspicion.