“Surely we are wasting time,” I suggested.  To tell the truth I disapproved of his worrying the poor girl.

He took the daisy-chain from her, looking at me the while with something between a “by-your-leave” and a challenge.  A smile played about the corners of his mouth.

“Let us waste a little more.”  He held up the chain before her and began to sway it gently to and fro.  “Look at it, please, and stretch out your arm; look steadily.  Now your name is Julia Constantine, and you say that the arm on the wall belongs to you.  Why?”

“Because . . . if you please, sir, because of the mark.”

“What mark?”

“The mark on my arm.”

This answer seemed to discompose as well as to surprise him.  He snatched at her wrist and rolled back her sleeve, somewhat roughly, as I thought.  “Look here, sir!” he exclaimed, pointing to a thin red line encircling the flesh of the girl’s upper arm, and from that to the arm and armlet in the fresco.

“She has been copying it,” said I, “with a string or ribbon, which no doubt she tied too tightly.”

“You are mistaken, sir; this is a birthmark.  You have had it always?” he asked the girl.

She nodded.  Her eyes were fixed on his face with the gaze of one at the same time startled and confiding; and for the moment he too seemed to be startled.  But his smile came back as he picked up the daisy-chain and began once more to sway it to and fro before her.

“And when that arm belonged to you, there was sand around you—­eh!  Tell us, how did the sand come there?”

She was silent, staring at the pendulum-swing of the chain.  “Tell us,” he repeated in a low coaxing tone.

And in a tone just as low she began, “There was sand . . . red sand . . . it was below me . . . and something above . . . something like a great tent.”  She faltered, paused and went on, “There were thousands of people. . . .”  She stopped.

“Yes, yes—­there were thousands of people on the sand—­”

“No, they were not on the sand.  There were only two on the sand . . . the rest were around . . . under the tent . . . my arm was out . . . just like this. . . .”

The young man put a hand to his forehead.  “Good Lord!” I heard him say, “the amphitheatre!”

“Come, sir,” I interrupted, “I think we have had enough of this jugglery.”

But the girl’s voice went on steadily as if repeating a lesson:—­

“And then you came—­”

“I!” His voice rang sharply, and I saw a horror dawn in his eyes, and grow. “I!”

“And then you came,” she repeated, and broke off, her mind suddenly at fault.  Automatically he began to sway the daisy-chain afresh.  “We were on board a ship . . . a funny ship . . . with a great high stern. . . .”

“Is this the same story?” he asked, lowering his voice almost to a whisper; and I could hear his breath going and coming.