Myrtale understood the reproof. Her eyes filled with tears as she sank at Lycon’s feet and clasped his knees.
“Forgive me,” she whispered humbly, “forget my wicked words.”
“Forget them—I cannot. But I will treat you as if you had never uttered them.”
Myrtale still remained on her knees; Lycon raised her and she pressed her lips upon his shoulder.
“What have you there?” she timidly repeated.
“A peacemaker. The image of a good spirit.”
“Let me see it.”
“No,” replied Lycon, wrapping the cloth closer. “If any one else should look at the image it would lose its power. So promise me that you will never,—either now or in future—ask to see it.”
Myrtale pointed to an ivory couch which stood in the little room; Lycon reclined upon it, and she took her seat on the edge at his side.
“What harm would it do if I, your wife, should see it?” she whispered coaxingly, putting her arm around Lycon’s neck.