"Then how did you get her to come?" Clearchus asked. "You do not know her."
"I invited her," Chares replied; "and she accepted. I suppose it was a woman's whim. I did not ask her."
Slaves ran forward with a number of sword blades set in blocks of wood in such a manner as to enable them to stand upright. These they arranged symmetrically upon the carpet at equal distances from each other, so as to form a lozenge pattern with its point toward Thais. Dropping the end of the chain by which she held the leopard, as the music changed to a rhythmic cadence, the young woman began to tread in and out between the swords. Her movements were so light and graceful that she seemed hardly to touch the carpet, threading her way from side to side to the quickening measure. The leopard crept closer to the line of steel and watched her with glowing eyes. Faster and faster grew the measure, and faster grew her motions, until she was whirling among the blades, which flickered like blue flames as her shadow intercepted the light. A misstep would have sent her down to her death upon one of the points which she seemed to regard no more than if they had been so many flowers. The company watched her with a suspense that was breathless. Suddenly the music ceased, and she stood before them unharmed at the upper point of the lozenge. There was a glow on her cheeks and her bosom panted from her exertions. The guests broke into cries of admiration, casting their wreaths of myrtle at her feet; but she had eyes only for Chares, who lay looking at her with a lazy smile. She frowned and bit her lip.
"Did I not do it well?" she demanded.
"Excellently well," Chares replied.
"Is that all?" she asked in a tone of disappointment.
Before he could make any reply there came a frantic knocking at the door outside the house. Clearchus started forward with an exclamation of alarm. The man whom he had placed on guard ran in, terror stricken, followed by Tolman, one of the slaves from Melissa's house in Academe.
"Oh, my master!" Tolman cried, throwing himself at the feet of Clearchus.
"Artemisia!" the young man demanded.
"They have carried her off," Tolman said, "and Philox, the steward, is slain!"