VIII
BABA
Next morning, just as the sun rose over the city, Charmides opened his eyes. If ever Charmides could be said to be lighter of heart, brighter of face, and cheerier of spirit at one time than another, it was in the very early day. The smell of the dawn, its peculiar, charming freshness, that penetrates to the very heart of the most crowded city, was as life to his soul. To-day, when he went forth for his solitary stroll by the edge of the canal, the air, unbreathed and dewy as it was, brought him as usual a sense of undimmed delight.
As he walked, scarcely heeding the rows of ungainly flat-boats drawn up along the edge of the canal, or the small army of scavenger-dogs that slept the sleep of the hungry near them, Charmides dreamed. This, indeed, was a matter of course. The morning and the sunlight would have lost half their beauty had not the thought of Ramûa been in his heart. To-day his pure pleasure in her was a little tainted by the impression that last night's revelation had made upon him, in the not very clear sense of right and wrong that it betrayed in her whom he loved. Yet he had absolute confidence in his influence over her; and, as he returned to the house, no premonition of the new trouble disturbed his happy tranquillity.
Upon recrossing the threshold of the outer room an unwonted sight met his eyes. It was still early: so early that neither the girls nor Beltani would, ordinarily, have been about. Yet here was Bazuzu, sitting near the door-way, bare-shouldered, while Baba bent over him, deftly applying a paste of bruised onions and sesame to the two blood-incrusted wounds in the slave's back. Bazuzu sat dumb and patient beneath the gentle hands; but Baba's face was drawn, and the tears rained from her eyes as she worked. Beholding them, Charmides uttered an exclamation:
"Apollo! What is it, Bazuzu? What has happened?"
There was no answer. Bazuzu did not even look up. Baba gave the Greek a wretched little glance, compressed her lips, and bent over her task again with a stifled sob.
"Baba! Bazuzu! Tell me!"
Still they were silent. But as the rhapsode, more and more bewildered, was about to question them more intelligently, the slave, lifting his eyes for an instant, muttered, indistinctly:
"To him that sleeps too well by night Nebo grants little knowledge."
"Stop, Bazuzu! I will not have thee speak so!" cried Baba, instantly resenting the suggestion.