uttered a pitiful cry of pain.  The dog had belonged to Sirona since she was quite a girl, it had come with her to Rome, and from thence to the oasis; it clung to her with affection, and she to it, for Iambe liked no one to caress and stroke her so much as her mistress.  She was so much alone, and the greyhound was always with her, and not only entertained her by such tricks as any other dog might have learned, but was to her a beloved, dumb, but by no means deaf, companion from her early home, who would prick its ears when she spoke the name of her dear little sisters in distant Arelas, from whom she had not heard for years; or it would look sadly in her face, and kiss her white hands, when longing forced tears into her eyes.

In her solitary, idle, childless existence Iambe was much, very much, to her, and now as she saw her faithful companion and friend creep ill-treated and whining up to her bed—­as the supple animal tried in vain to spring up and take refuge in her lap, and held out to his mistress his trembling, perhaps broken, little paw, fear vanished from the miserable young woman’s heart—­she sprang from her couch, took the little dog in her arms, and exclaimed with a glance, which flashed with anything rather than fear or repentance:  “You do not touch the poor little beast again, if you take my advice.”

“I will drown it to-morrow morning,” replied Phoebicius with perfect indifference, but with an evil smile on his flaccid lips.  “So many two-legged lovers make themselves free to my house, that I do not see why I should share your affections with a quadruped into the bargain.  How came this sheepskin here?” Sirona vouchsafed no answer to this last question, but she exclaimed in great excitement, “By God—­by your God—­by the mighty Rock, and by all the gods! if you do the little beast a harm, it will be the last day I stop in your house.”

“Hear her!” said the centurion, “and where do you propose to travel to?  The desert is wide and there is room and to spare to starve in it, and for your bones to bleach there.  How grieved your lovers would be—­for their sakes I will take care before drowning the dog to lock in its mistress.”

“Only try to touch me,” screamed Sirona beside herself, and springing to the window.  “If you lay a finger on me, I will call for help, and Dorothea and her husband will protect me against you.”

“Hardly,” answered Phoebicius drily.  “It would suit you no doubt to find yourself under the same roof as that great boy who brings you colored glass, and throws roses into your window, and perhaps has strewed the road with them by which he found his way to you to-day.  But there are nevertheless laws which protect the Roman citizen from criminals and impudent seducers.  You were always a great deal too much in the house over there, and you have exchanged your games with the little screaming beggars for one with the grownup child, the rose-thrower-the fop, who, for your sake, and not to be recognized, covers up his purple coat with a sheepskin!  Do you think, you can teach me anything about lovesick night-wanderers and women?