“About you.”
“How about me?”
“I was thinking of our last interview in this place, and what a fool you made of yourself.”
“How kind of you, Afra, to be thinking of me, especially as I was not just then thinking of you, but of your countrymen in those cells.”
“Cease your impertinence, and call people by their proper names. I am not Afra the slave any longer; at least I shall not be so in a few hours; but Jubala, the wife of Hyphax, commander of the Mauritanian archers.”
“A very respectable man, no doubt, if he could speak any language besides his gibberish; but these few hours of interval may suffice for the transaction of our business. You made a mistake, methinks, in what you said just now. It was you, was it not, that made a fool of me at our last meeting? What has become of your fair promises, and of my fairer gold, which were exchanged on that occasion? Mine, I know, proved sterling; yours, I fear, turned out but dust.”
“No doubt; for so says a proverb in my language: ‘the dust on a wise man’s skirts is better than the gold in the fool’s girdle.’ But let us come to the point; did you really ever believe in the power of my charms and philters?”
“To be sure I did; do you mean they were all imposture?”
“Not quite all; you see we have got rid of Fabius, and the daughter is in possession of the fortune. That was a preliminary step of absolute necessity.”
“What! do you mean that your incantations removed the father?” asked Corvinus, amazed, and shrinking from her. It was only a sudden bright thought of Afra’s, so she pushed her advantage, saying: