“But is there no one?”
Myrtale silently lowered her eyes; then, to change the conversation, said:
“How is the house in the Street of the Bakers? Has it been much damaged by the flood and the earthquake?”
“Only one of the pillars in the peristyle was twisted awry; but the damage has been repaired and, so far as your home is concerned, you can have the wedding there any day.”
As they approached the city Myrtale became more and more thoughtful. Suddenly she sighed, drew her hand from her companion’s clasp, and remarked:
“It’s a pity that Lycon is a slave!” Then, as if fearing she had said too much, she hastened to add: “Don’t you think so, too?”
Polycles looked keenly at her and, in spite of the dusk of evening, he noticed that her cheeks were flushed.
“You are mistaken, child,” he replied. “Lycon is no slave. Your father freed him on the day of his death.”
“And I knew nothing about it?”
“You were standing at the hearth, preparing the decoction the physician had ordered.”