This reminder was a bold stroke, for Danaë had suffered severely at her father’s hands when, warned secretly by Angeliké, he had instituted a search of the fishing-boat in which a band of volunteers from Strio were going to the help of Prince Romanos and his insurgent companions in Hagiamavra, and had discovered among them his elder daughter dressed in boy’s clothes. She had been brought back with ignominy, and cruelly beaten, but the incident had given Prince Christodoridi a certain reluctant respect for her. Moreover, she had promptly repaid the faithless Angeliké by revealing her gratified acceptance of the serenades addressed to her by a young Striote who had travelled as far as Alexandria, and in so doing had rubbed off some of the awe with which his lord and his lord’s family should properly be regarded. Prince Christodoridi was nothing if not impartial, and Angeliké’s shoulders vied with Danaë’s in the bruises they exhibited for many weeks, while she had the added sting of knowing that her father considered Danaë had far the best of the fray.
“There is no question of displeasure here,” said Prince Christodoridi pointedly. “Successful, you may return. Unsuccessful, no one must know that you belonged to the Christodoridi.”
“Be it so, lord. I go under a false name to deliver my brother from his enchantment. If I succeed, the girls will sing of me in the dance; if I fail, I disappear. What is a woman more or less when the hope of the house is concerned?”
“All-Holy Mother of God! I could wish you had been my son, Danaë,” cried the Prince, with unwonted enthusiasm, “instead of that popinjay Romanos! But make no mistake,” he added repressively, “I send you merely because I would not reveal to any other the disgrace that threatens us. You will swear to obey the worthy Petros as if he were myself, since he will answer to me for your failure or success.”
“I am putting my neck in a noose,” grumbled Petros.
“Promise me first, lord, that you will wait to see if I succeed, and not suffer my sister to be married before me,” said Danaë, greatly daring. Her father frowned heavily.
“Would you make conditions with me, insolent one? Is a younger sister ever married before her elder? You will obey Petros in everything, and he has my authority to take any steps that may be necessary with regard to you.”
“The old woman at the Lady’s house said they wanted a girl to look after the child,” said Petros, with a slow grin. “I said I might be able to bring a niece of mine back from the islands. If Lady Danaë will be my niece, and obey me in all things, I will take her, but not otherwise. Holy Antony! if the Lord Romanos knew what was plotting against his love”—Prince Christodoridi glanced at him sharply—“perpetual imprisonment, no less—my life would not be worth a drachma, and I desire to continue in his service until he enters Czarigrad in triumph as Emperor.”
“Peace! you talk too much. Lady Danaë will obey you, and you will be responsible for her,” said Prince Christodoridi sharply. “Come, girl!” and with a hand on Danaë’s shoulder he marched her down the steps, across the courtyard, and into the room where her mother, roused by his approach from an unlicensed nap, looked up with eyes not unlike those of a comfortable but apprehensive cow.
“What has Danaë been doing now?” she asked feebly.