The crier took her by the hand, and, leading her to Alischar, retired a few paces to allow them opportunity of conversation.
"Amiable young man!" whispered she to the youth, "will you not buy me?"
Alischar shook his head sorrowfully.
"Aha!" said she, "I have it. Perhaps you think I am too dear? Will you give nine hundred ducats for me?"
"No."
"Eight hundred?"
"No."
"Seven hundred?"
"No, no."
And in this way she came down to one hundred ducats, receiving always the same melancholy monosyllable in reply.