“But you have confessed to me that the gipsies are hiding him!” cried Danaë triumphantly.
“True, lady, and you may tell it to the Lord Glafko. But when the gipsies swear that they have no knowledge of him, and the strictest search fails to discover him, is your word of such power that it will be believed in opposition to theirs?”
The hit was a shrewd one, and it told. All the misery of the loss of confidence of the last few days returned upon Danaë. No, her word would not be taken.
“Kalliopé!” Artemisia’s voice broke into her indecision from the courtyard. “Where are you, girl? Bring out that plate of honey cakes. The Tzigany says the bear likes them.”
She caught up the cakes from the table, but paused at the door. “Go to Therma, then, without the Lord Janni, for you shall not have him. And if any harm comes to the Lord Romanos by this delay, be sure he shall know who is to blame for it.”
She was out in the courtyard in a moment, and making for the stalwart form of Artemisia, whose presence would be an effectual protection against any further argument on the part of Petros. The performance having come to an end, and the gipsies reaped their reward of small coins, somebody had suggested that the bear also deserved something.
“Are you sure he likes them?” asked Artemisia doubtfully, with the plate in her hand. “I thought bears ate people and sheep.”
“Try him, lady; he would do anything for a honey cake,” said the leading gipsy. “If you knew how to hold it, he would dance for it.”
“It’s all very well to say ‘try him,’ but what if he prefers me to the cake?” The question was received with a chorus of dutiful laughter by Artemisia’s satellites.
“Ladies,” said the gipsy, “you seem to think this is an ordinary wild savage bear. I assure you that he is most civilised and polite. Far from eating human beings, he prefers honey cakes to any meat you could offer him. Now if the chief lady will throw one when I say the word——”