"Then you will make room," was the rough reply. "It is Memnon who gives the order, do you understand? He directed that the young woman who lives here should care for her. Where is she?"
"There is no young woman here," Iphicrates replied glibly. "The general must have been mistaken."
"Lying will not help you," the soldier replied. "I saw her myself. Call her quickly if you want to save your skin."
Artemisia did not wait to be summoned. She descended the stairs and went in among the soldiers.
"Carry her to the room above, and I will see that she is cared for," she said quietly.
The young captain to whom the execution of Memnon's order had been entrusted looked at her with frank admiration.
"By Zeus!" he said, "I wish I had been run over myself. Take her up, litter and all," he added to his men, "and be quick about it."
With some difficulty the soldiers carried the litter with its burden up the staircase.
"If he makes any trouble for you on account of this, report it to the general," the captain said to Artemisia, indicating Iphicrates with a nod. "And tell her when she recovers," he continued, nodding toward the litter, "that Memnon desired to express his regrets."
Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled and tramped down the stairs, followed by his men. Artemisia was already bending over the young woman. There was a bruise where the back of her head had struck the pavement, but otherwise she seemed to have escaped unhurt. Her wonderfully thick hair had evidently broken the force of the blow. She recovered her senses at the first touch of the cold water with which Artemisia bathed her temples.