"Where am I?" she asked, opening her eyes.
"You are safe and with friends," Artemisia assured her.
"Am I much hurt?" she asked, without attempting to move.
"I think not," Artemisia said. "Your head is bruised."
"Is my face scarred?" was the next question.
"It is not even scratched," Artemisia replied, smiling.
The strange woman's lips parted in a responsive smile. "Then it might have been worse," she said.
With Artemisia's assistance she walked to a couch, where the young girl made her comfortable with pillows. Presently, under Artemisia's ministrations, she fell asleep. Artemisia sat watching her even breathing and wondering who she could be. A great ruby flamed upon her finger, and heavy chains of gold encircled her white throat. Her tiny feet were shod with silken sandals and her yellow chiton disclosed the rounded grace of her delicate limbs and the willowy suppleness of her figure. She must be some great lady, in spite of her youth, Artemisia thought, innocently, and she felt drawn to her in a manner that she hardly understood. If only she would stay, she would be a friend in whom confidence might be placed and whose sympathy would be a help. But of course she would go away as soon as she was able to move. Artemisia sighed in her loneliness.
When the stranger woke, however, she seemed in no hurry to go. She declared that the pain in her head had left her, and, turning lazily on her side, she studied her surroundings.
"Whose house is this?" she asked.