“I am quite willing to go with you.”

And she rose and followed the old woman out of the city.

The old woman, who was named Moeroe, went from city to city with a troupe of girls and boys, whom she taught to dance, and then hired out to rich people to appear at feasts.

Guessing that Thais would soon develop into a most beautiful woman, she taught her—­with the help of a whip—­music and prosody, and she flogged with leather thongs those beautiful legs, when they did not move in time to the strains of the cithara.  Her son—­a decrepit abortion, of no age and no sex—­ill-treated the child, on whom he vented the hate he had for all womankind.  Like the dancing-girls whose grace he affected, he knew, and taught Thais, the art of pantomime, and how to mimic, by expression, gesture, and attitude, all human passions, and more especially the passions of love.  He was a clever master, though he disliked his work; but he was jealous of his pupil, and as soon as he discovered that she was born to give men pleasure, he scratched her cheeks, pinched her arms, or pricked her legs, as a spiteful girl would have done.  Thanks, however, to his lessons, she quickly became an excellent musician, pantomimist, and dancer.  The brutality of her master did not at all surprise her; it seemed natural to her to be badly treated.  She even felt some respect for the old woman, who knew music and drank Greek wine.  Moeroe, when she came to Antioch, praised her pupil to the rich merchants of the city who gave banquets, both as a dancer and a flute-player.  Thais danced and pleased.  She accompanied the rich bankers, when they left the table, into the shady groves on the banks of the Orontes.  She gave herself to all, for she knew nothing of the price of love.  But one night that she had danced before the most fashionable young men of the city, the son of the pro-consul came to her, radiant with youth and pleasure, and said, in a voice that seemed redolent of kisses—­

“Why am I not, Thais, the wreath which crowns your hair, the tunic which enfolds your beautiful form, the sandal on your pretty foot?  I wish you to tread me under foot as a sandal; I wish my caresses to be your tunic and your wreath.  Come, sweet girl! come to my house, and let us forget the world.”

She looked at him whilst he was speaking, and saw that he was handsome.  Suddenly she felt a cold sweat on her face.  She turned green as grass; she reeled; a cloud descended before her eyes.  He again implored her to come with him, but she refused.  His ardent looks, his burning words were vain, and when he took her in his arms to try and drag her away, she pushed him off rudely.  Then he implored her, and shed tears.  But a new, unknown, and invincible passion dominated her heart, and she still resisted.

“What madness!” said the guests.  “Lollius is noble, handsome, and rich, and a dancing-girl treats him with scorn!”

Lollius returned home alone that night, quite love-sick.  He came in the morning, pale and red-eyed, and hung flowers at the dancing-girl’s door.