“Certainly not, if you so wish it; I suppose his fate is quite a matter of indifference to you, madam. It certainly is to me. He won’t be the first officer that my countrymen have shot. Many they have killed, and some they have saved. But of course that was all chance.”
There was a significance in her words and tones, which did not escape the quick ear and mind of Fabiola. She looked up, for the first time, and fixed her eyes searchingly on her maid’s swarthy face. There was no emotion in it; she was placing a flagon of wine upon the table, just as if she had not spoken. At length the lady said to her:
“Afra, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. What can a poor slave know? Still more, what can she do?”
“Come, come, you meant by your words something that I must know.”
The slave came round the table, close to the couch on which Fabiola rested, looked behind her, and around her, then whispered, “Do you want Sebastian’s life preserved?”
Fabiola almost leaped up, as she replied, “Certainly.”
The servant put her finger to her lip, to enforce silence, and said, “It will cost dear.”
“Name your price.”
“A hundred sestertia,[184] and my liberty.”