“I have my task to do,” she answered. “But you can talk to me at my work, if you choose.”
“What is your task?” questioned the fool, and the girl answered, simply:
“To serve my father’s sword!”
She turned from her interrogator and entered her dwelling, passing between its fringe of columns, as slim and erect as they, while the fool gaped at her. In another moment she reappeared, carrying with her that which contrasted strangely enough with her sex, her beauty, and her youth. She bore in her strong hands, and bore with ease, a great two-handed sword—the two-handed sword of the executioner, her father—the two-handed sword that was the symbol of the stroke of justice in the eyes of all the world. With an air of pride the girl carried the great weapon, the pride of a child with its doll, of a mother with her infant, of a soldier with his flag.
At the sight of her the fool flung up his arms and emitted a queer, ropy gust of laughter.
“Oh, ho!” he gurgled, “oh, ho! I think I know you now. You are the daughter of Theron the executioner.”
The girl looked straightly at him, her eyes shining under levelled brows. She let the point of the great sword rest on the grass, and she leaned upon its mighty cross-piece, resting her cheek against its handle. Her red hair ran in ripples over her shoulders and over the hilt of the blade, red as ever the blood the blade had caused to flow of old.
“I am the daughter of Theron the executioner,” she said, gravely.
The monster flung a sneer from thrust-out lips, emphasizing it with thrust-out hands.
“A pretty trade!” he cried, derisively. The girl answered him as calmly and proudly as if she were the very divinity of justice rebuking some obscene brawler.