“And then—­then my lord Constantine came to us on the ship, and the pretty mistress laughed with him and asked him to take off his helmet, because the pretty mistress wanted to see the cut, the great sword-cut above his eyes, and my lord Constantine took it off.”

“It is a lie!” exclaimed Gorgo.

“No, no; it is true.  Sachepris does not want her feet flayed, mistress,” cried the slave.  “Ask my lord Constantine himself.”

“Yes, I went on board,” said Constantine.  “Just as I was crossing the ship-yard a young girl dropped her fan into the lake.  I fished it out at her request, and carried it back to her.”

“Yes, that was it,” cried Sachepris.  “And the pretty mistress laughed with my lord Constantine—­is it not true?—­and she took his helmet out of his hand and weighed it in hers . . .”

“And you could stop on your way here to trifle with that child?” cried Gorgo wrathfully.  “Pah! what men will do!”

These words portended rage and intense disgust to Constantine.  “Gorgo!” he cried with a reproachful accent, but she could not control her indignation and went on more vehemently than ever: 

“You stopped—­with that little hussy—­on your way to me—­stopped to trifle and flirt with her!  Shame!  Yes, I say shame!  Men are thought lucky in being light-hearted, but, for my part, may the gods preserve me from such luck!  Trifling, whispering, caressing—­a tender squeeze of the hand—­solemnly, passionately earnest!—­And what next?  Who dares warrant that it will not all be repeated before the shadows are an ell long on the shore!”

She laughed, a sharp, bitter laugh; but it was a short one.  She ceased and turned pale, for her lover’s face had undergone a change that terrified her.  The scar on his forehead was purple, and his voice was strange, harsh and hoarse as he leaned forward to bring his face on a level with hers, and said: 

“Even if you had seen me with your own eyes you ought not to have believed them!  And if you dare to say that you do believe it, I can say Shame! as well as you.  My life may be at stake but I say:  Shame!”

As he spoke he clutched the back of a chair with convulsive fury and stood facing the girl like an avenging god of war, his eyes flashing to meet hers.  This was too much for old Damia; she could contain herself no longer, and striking her crutch on the floor she broke out: 

“What next shall we hear!  You threaten and storm at the daughter of this house as if she were a soldier in your camp!  Listen to me, my fine gentleman, and mind what I say:  In the house of a free Alexandrian citizen no one has any right to give his orders—­be he Caesar, Consul or Comes; he has only to observe the laws of good manners.”  Then turning to Gorgo she shook her head with pathetic emphasis; “This, my love, is the consequence of too much familiar condescension.  Come, an end of this!  Greeting and parting often go hand in hand.”