At last the young man’s head rested against her shoulder among the cushions.  Then the Georgian woman opened her eyes slowly and glanced down at his face, while her hand stroked and smoothed his hair, and he could not see the strange smile on her wonderful lips.  For she knew that he could not see it, and she let it come and go as it would, half in pity and half in scorn.

“I knew you would come,” she said, bending her head a little nearer to his.

“When I do not, you will know that I am dead,” he answered almost faintly, and he sighed.

“And then I shall go to you,” she said, but as she spoke, she smiled again to herself.  “I have heard that in old times, when the lords of the earth died, their most favourite slaves were killed upon the funeral pile, that their souls might wait upon their master’s in the world beyond.”

“Yes.  It is true.”

“And so I will be your slave there, as I am here, and the night that lasts for ever shall seem no longer than this summer night, that is too short for us.”

“You must not call yourself a slave, Arisa,” answered Jacopo.

“What am I, then?  You bought me with your good gold from Aristarchi the Greek captain, in the slave market.  Your steward has the receipt for the money among his accounts!  And there is the Greek’s written guarantee, too, I am sure, promising to take me back and return the money if I was not all he told you I was.  Those are my documents of nobility, my patents of rank, preserved in your archives with your own!”

She spoke playfully, smiling to herself as she stroked his hair.  But he caught her hand tenderly and brought it to his lips, holding it there.

“You are more free than I,” he said.  “Which of us two is the slave?  You who hold me, or I who am held?  This little hand will never let me go.”

“I think you would come back to me,” she answered.  “But if I ran away, would you follow me?”

“You will not run away.”  He spoke quietly and confidently, still holding her hand, as if he were talking to it, while he felt the breath of her winds upon his forehead.

“No,” she said, and there was a little silence.

“I have but one fear,” he began, at last.  “If I were ruined, what would become of you?”

“Have you lost at play again to-night?” she asked, and in her tone there was a note of anxiety.

Contarini laughed low, and felt for the wallet at his aide.  He held it up to show how heavy it was with the gold, and made her take it.  She only kept it a moment, but while it was in her hand her eyelids were half closed as if she were guessing at the weight, for he could not see her face.

“I won all that,” he said.  “To-morrow you shall have the pearls.”

“How good you are to me!  But should you not keep the money?  You may need it.  Why do you talk of ruin?”

She knew that he would give her all he had, she almost guessed that he would commit a crime rather than lack gold to give her.