“Iambe is not devoid of reason,” replied Sirona.  “And even if she were, what have I left if she dies?  She grew up in my father’s house, where all loved me; I had her first when she was only a few days old, and I brought her up on milk on a little bit of sponge.  Many a time, when I heard the little thing whining for food, have I got out of bed at night with bare feet; and so she came to cling to me like a child, and could not do without me.  No one can know how another feels about such things.  My father used to tell us of a spider that beautified the life of a prisoner, and what is a dirty dumb creature like that to my clever, graceful little dog!  I have lost my home, and here every one believes the worst of me, although I have done no one any harm, and no one, no one loves me but Iambe.”

“But I know of one who loves every one with a divine and equal love,” interrupted Paulus.

“I do not care for such a one,” answered Sirona.  “Iambe follows no one but me; what good can a love do me that I must share with all the world!  But you mean the crucified God of the Christians?  He is good and pitiful, so says Dame Dorothea; but he is dead—­I cannot see him, nor hear him, and, certainly, I cannot long for one who only shows me grace.  I want one to whom I can count for something, and to whose life and happiness I am indispensable.”

A scarcely perceptible shudder thrilled through the Alexandrian as she spoke these words, and he thought, as he glanced at her face and figure with a mingled expression of regret and admiration, “Satan, before he fell, was the fairest among the pure spirits, and he still has power over this woman.  She is still far from being ripe for salvation, and yet she has a gentle heart, and even if she has erred, she is not lost.”

Sirona’s eyes had met his, and she said with a sigh, “You look at me so compassionately—­if only Iambe were well, and if I succeeded in reaching Alexandria, my destiny would perhaps take a turn for the better.”

Paulus had risen while she spoke, and had taken the pot from the hearth; he now offered it to his guest, saying: 

“For the present we will trust to this broth to compensate to you for the delights of the capital; I am glad that you relish it.  But tell me now, have you seriously considered what danger may threaten a beautiful, young, and unprotected woman in the wicked city of the Greeks?  Would it not be better that you should submit to the consequences of your guilt, and return to Phoebicius, to whom unfortunately you belong?”

Sirona, at these words, had set down the vessel out of which she was eating, and rising in passionate haste, she exclaimed: