so there was nothing for it but to ask Papias for the key; however, he did not know where he had put it.  I afterwards thought of asking him what he had done with his flute and he fetched it then at once.—­In short, the key was nowhere to be found.  I told Marcus this and he wrung his hands with vexation; but in a few minutes the inn-steward, who must have been hiding to listen behind a pillar, suddenly appeared as if he had dropped from the skies, took a key out of his girdle, threw the door wide open, and vanished as if the earth had swallowed him.

“There we stood, Marcus and I, face to face.  He was quite agitated; I really believe the poor fellow was trembling, and I did not feel very confident; however, I asked him what it was that he wanted.  Then he recovered himself a little:  ’I wished,’—­he began; so I went on:  ’Thou wishedst,’—­and it might have gone on to the end:  ‘he wished, we wished’ —–­and so forth, like the children at school at Rome, when we were learning Greek; but, Papias came to the rescue, for he ran up to Marcus and asked him to toss him up high, as he used to do on board ship.  Marcus did as he was asked, and then he suddenly broke out into such a torrent of words that I was quite terrified.  First he said so many fine things that I quite expected a declaration of love, and was trying to make up my mind whether I would laugh him out of it or throw myself into his arms—­for he really is a dear, good, handsome fellow—­and if you would like to know the truth I should have been very willing to oblige him—­to a certain extent.  But he asked me nothing, and from talking of me—­listen to this Father Karnis—­and saying that the great Father in Heaven had granted me every good gift, he went on to speak of you as a wicked, perverse and reprobate old heathen.”

“I will teach him!” exclaimed Karnis shaking his fist.

“Nay, but listen,” Dada went on.  “He praised you and mother for a great many things; but do you know what he says is wrong?  He says you will imperil my psyche—­my soul, my immortal soul.  As if I had ever heard of any Psyche but the Psyche whom Eros loved!”

“That is quite another thing,” said Karnis very seriously.  “In many songs, you know, I have tried to make you uplift your soul to a higher flight.  You have learnt to sing, and there is no better school for a woman’s soul than music and singing.  If that conceited simpleton—­why, he is young enough to be my grandson—­if he talks any such nonsense to you again you may tell him from me . . .”

“You will tell him nothing,” cried Herse, “for we can have nothing whatever to do with the Christian.  You are my own sister’s child and I desire and order you—­do you hear—­to keep out of his way, if he ever tries to come near you again . . .”