“She is ill brought up. I have often asked you why you did not train her better,” replied Prince Christodoridi, mindful of discipline. “I am going to send her to be educated where she will learn obedience.”
Princess Christodoridi had never defied her husband, nor even disappointed him, save in failing to provide the son who was to have supplanted Romanos, but at this extraordinary betrayal of past convictions she ventured a mild protest.
“But, lord, you have always said——”
“May I not do what I will with my own daughter?” cried the Prince furiously. “The girl goes to-morrow.”
Princess Christodoridi collapsed, and Angeliké, from a sheltered corner, made signs of derision. But Danaë had provided beforehand against any undue elation on Angeliké’s part, and was content.
CHAPTER II.
THE LADY.
It was a very woe-begone and dishevelled Danaë, not at all like an inspired deliverer, who stumbled ashore on the quay at Therma at the rough bidding of Petros. The passage had been a stormy one, and the island girl, who could have faced a gale without serious discomfort in a fishing-boat, had succumbed hopelessly to the vile odours and eccentric motion of the wretched little steamer that carried her from the neighbouring island of Tortolana, Strio’s nearest link with civilisation, to the capital of her brother’s principality. Either his qualms of conscience, or the possession of uncontrolled authority, had transformed the stolid Petros into a very truculent ruffian—or perhaps it was merely that he had determined to subject his “niece” to a severe test at the outset of their relationship. However this might be, he reviled her with much choice of language whenever he came across her prostrate and suffering form, threatening her with his stick when she roused herself to protest, and when they entered the harbour, locked her up for some hours in an empty cabin while he went on shore to arrange for getting her to “the Lady’s” house. Returning, he summoned her forth with curses—which she divined were drawn from him by some fresh proof of confidence from the master he was plotting to betray—and she followed him meekly through the streets, carrying her modest bundle, while he swaggered ahead, never deigning to cast a glance at her. The new Therma, rebuilt on European methods after its bombardment by the Powers, was a city of enchantment to the little barbarian from Strio, but she durst not let her eyes wander to the tall white houses or the astonishing shops. The swarming crowd of all nationalities that jostled her as she stumbled along, ill and miserable, in the wake of Petros, was simply a collection of moving obstacles, blocking the way to the attainment of her aim, the deliverance of the brother who represented all the romance that had ever touched her life from the spells of the witch-woman. Danaë knew very little about the Powers of Europe, but she was a great authority on witches, like all the women of her island.
Her weary feet had carried her through many wide streets, past the ruined fortifications, now fast becoming overgrown with bushes, and out into a region of villas, set in lofty gardens, all enclosed with high walls, when the sudden apparition of a soldier on guard reminded her of what she had heard on the rampart. The sentry winked at Petros as he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at a gateway in the wall.
“He’s there,” he said. “Told me you’d be coming.”
Petros grunted, and went on to the door, which opened as if by magic. Danaë followed him in, and the door was closed instantly by an old woman behind it. Inside was one of Petros’s fellow-guardsmen, in full Greek costume, in charge of three horses, and Petros joined him immediately, after a perfunctory gesture, suggestive of washing his hands of Danaë, in the direction of the old woman, who sniffed significantly.