“I have told you,” replied Lycon. “Do what I ask.”
“Well then,” murmured Myrtale sighing, “I promise.”
But at the same moment she turned pale, as if she felt a sudden chill.
“Confess!” she cried in a strangely altered tone. “It is the picture of an Athenian woman.”
Lycon shrank from the fierce expression of her face and, ere he could prevent it, she had seized the little article which he had laid on the edge of the couch in front of her.
She tore off the cloth with her teeth. A clumsy square bit of iron appeared. She turned and twisted it in her hands until, on one end, she discovered the letter K formed of three raised lines.
It was the stamp of the brand Lycon bore on his shoulder.
Myrtale instantly understood why he kept the rough bit of iron. To him, as he had said, it was the image of a good spirit.
By keeping this sign of his humiliation, he not only crushed all arrogance, but learned to judge mildly, govern himself, and become a better man. By remembering that he had been a slave, he made others forget it.
Myrtale felt a new emotion. Her heart swelled with affection, and throwing herself into her husband’s arms, she covered his face with tears and kisses.