"Not his kind," Theodora flashed back. "He has nothing in common with those others save the garb—and there is more beneath it than we wot of—"
"The Lady Theodora's judgment is not to be gainsaid," the Circassian replied, without meeting her mistress' gaze. "Do they not throng to her bowers by the legion—"
"A pilgrimage of the animals to Circé's sty—each eager to be transformed into his own native state," Theodora interposed contemptuously.
"Perchance this holy man is in reality a prince from some mythical, fabled land—come to Rome to resist temptation and be forthwith canonized—"
Persephoné's mirth suffered a check by Theodora's reply.
"Stranger things have happened. All the world comes to Rome on one business or another. This one, however, has not his mind set on the Beatitudes—"
"Nevertheless he dared not enter the forbidden gates," the Circassian ventured to object.
"It was not fear. On that I vouch. Perchance he has a vow. Whatever it be—he shall tell me—face to face—and here!"
"But if the holy man refuse to come?"
Theodora's trained ear did not miss the note of irony in the Circassian's question.