While Constantine gazed with no unkindly feelings at the still face of Damia—­to whom, after all, he owed many a little debt of kindness—­and then turned to look at Gorgo who stood downcast, pale, and struggling to breathe calmly, Dame Marianne tried to proffer a few words of consolation.  She warmly praised everything in the dead woman which was not in her estimation absolutely reprobate and godless, and brought forward all the comforting arguments which a pious Christian can command for the edification and encouragement of those who mourn a beloved friend; but to Gorgo all this well-meant discourse was as the babble of an unknown tongue; and it was only when, at length, Marianne went up to her and drew her to her motherly bosom, to kiss her, and bid her be welcome under Clelnens’ roof till Porphyrius should be at home again, that she understood that the good woman meant kindly, and honestly desired to help and comfort her.

But the allusion to her father reminded her of the first duty in her path; she roused her energies, thanked Marianne warmly, and begged her only to assist her in carrying the corpse into the thalamos, and then to take charge of the keys.  She herself, she explained, meant at once to seek her father, since he ought to learn from no one but herself of his mother’s death.  Nor would she listen for a moment to her friend’s pressing entreaties that she would put off this task, and pass the night, at any rate, under her roof.

Constantine had kept in the background; it was not till Gorgo approached the dead and gave the order to carry the body down into the house that he came forward, and with simple feeling offered her his hand.  The girl looked frankly in his face, and, as she put her hand in his, she said in a low voice:  “I was unjust to you, Constantine.  I insulted and hurt you; but I repented sincerely, even before you had left the house.  And you owe me no grudge, I know, for you understood how forlorn I must be and came to see me.  There is no ill-feeling, is there, nothing to come between us?”

“Nothing, nothing!” he eagerly exclaimed, seizing her other hand with passionate fervor.

She felt as if all the blood in her body had rushed in a full tide to her heart—­as if he were some part of her very being, that had been torn out, snatched from her, and that she must have back again, even if it cost them both their life and happiness.  The impulse was irresistible; she drew away her hands from his grasp and flung them round his neck, clinging to him as a weary child clings to its mother.  She did not know how it had come about—­how such a thing was possible, but it was done; and without paying any heed to Marianne, who looked on in dismay while her son’s lips were pressed to the brow and lips of the lovely idolatress, she wept upon her lover’s shoulders, feeling a thousand roses blossoming in her soul and a thousand thorns piercing and tearing her heart.