But Byssa did not heed her. The horse had come very near and was galloping swiftly to its stable at the foot of the cliff.
Ere Tratta could prevent it, Byssa hurried to the nearest flight of stairs and darted madly down the rough-hewn steps, where the slightest stumble would cause mutilation or death. The slave, not without an anxious shake of the head, slowly followed.
The horse had scarcely allowed itself to be caught when Byssa, with tears in her eyes and a peculiar solemnity of manner, turned to the old servant and pointed to the animal’s heaving flank.
There was not the slightest wound to be seen; but a streak of blood a finger broad had flowed down the steed’s white side and matted its hair together.
“I knew it, Tratta, I knew it!” cried Byssa despairingly.
Then, in a lower tone, she added: “It is his blood.”
But Tratta answered almost angrily:
“His or some other person’s; what do you know about it? Help me to get the horse into the shed.”
Byssa, without knowing what she was doing, obeyed and then looked out over the plain, where she beheld a sight that made her tremble from head to foot.
Lyrcus was approaching uninjured at the head of his men.