“No, with her kidnapper.”
“Do you see her kidnapper?”
“Yes.”
“Describe him to me!”
“Give me your hand, here, above Rhodopis’ sandal.”
Lucius stretched out his hand to the priest, above the sandal:
“Describe him to me!” he repeated.
And in his tortured mind he saw before him the image of one of his own sailors, of whom he had been thinking lately, who at that time used to prowl about the villa at Baiæ: a Cypriote whom he had once caught talking to Ilia in the oleanders; she had never been able to explain what he was doing.
There was a pause. The priest’s lean hand trembled violently in Lucius’ firm grasp. And at last the priest said, with his eyes closed and his other hand still pressing Ilia’s sandal to his forehead:
“I see him, plainly, plainly! Rhodopis’ spirit is enlightening me! I see the kidnapper! I see Ilia’s kidnapper!”