The slave entered and stood near the door, without entirely closing it.
“Who came yesterday, Djala?”
“You do not know?”
“No, I did not look. He was handsome? I think I slept all the time; I was tired. I remember nothing at all about it. At what time did he go away? This morning early?”
“At sunrise, he said—”
“What did he leave me? Is it much? No, don’t tell me. It’s all the same to me. What did he say? Has no one been since? Will he come back again? Give me my bracelets.”
The slave brought a casket, but Chrysis did not look at it, and, raising her arm as high as she could:
“Ah! Djala,” she said, “ah! Djala! I long for extraordinary adventures.”
“Everything is extraordinary,” said Djala, “or nought. The days resemble one another.”
“No, no. Formerly it was not like that. In all the countries of the world gods came down to earth and loved mortal women. Ah! on what beds await them, in what forest search for them that are a little more than men? What prayers shall I put up for the coming of them that will teach me something new or oblivion of all things? And if the gods will no longer come down, if they are dead or too old, Djala, shall I too die without seeing a man capable of putting tragic events into my life?”