"It belongs to Iphicrates," Artemisia said.
"To Iphicrates?" the strange woman replied with sudden interest and in evident astonishment. "And—are you his daughter?"
"No; I am of Athens; my name is Artemisia," the girl replied.
Her companion's head fell back among the pillows and her gaze rested upon Artemisia's face. So intent was the look that Artemisia grew uncomfortable under it.
"Why do you look at me so strangely?" she asked at last.
"Pardon me," the other replied, letting her eyes fall. "I have heard of you."
"Then you, too, are of Athens?" the girl cried joyfully, throwing herself on her knees beside the couch and taking the strange woman's hand. "You have heard of Clearchus? Is he—living?"
"He is living, and he loves thee," the stranger replied, as though reading what was in her mind.
A great gladness rushed through Artemisia's being. An immeasurable load was suddenly lifted from her heart. She put her face down upon the edge of the couch and wept for sheer gratitude. The strange woman said nothing, but her hand rested lightly on the soft brown hair, and she stroked the bent head with gentle fingers.
The door opened without noise, and the bulk of Iphicrates advanced gradually into the room. As his cunning eyes took in the scene before him an anxious look overspread his face.