Music was the bond between her and Orpheus, and when her soul was stirred she could feel and express herself in music.  Song was the language of her heart, and she had learnt by experience that it was a language which even the heathen could both use and understand.  The Eternal Father himself must find joy in such a voice as Gorgo’s.  She was a heathen, and yet she had thrown into her song all that Agne herself could feel when she lifted up her heart in passionate prayer.  The Christian—­so she had often been taught—­must have no part with the idolaters; but it was God himself who had cast her on the hands of Karnis, and the Church commanded that servants should obey their masters.  Singing seemed to her to be a language in itself, bestowed by God on all living creatures, even on the birds, wherein to speak to Him; so she allowed herself to look forward with pleasure to an opportunity of mingling her own voice with that of the heathen lady.

CHAPTER IV.

Not long after Porphyrius and the philosopher had retired to a private room Herse returned with Dada.  Gorgo’s blue spangled dress, which Damia had sent her, suited the girl to perfection; but she was quite out of breath, and her hair was in disorder.  Herse, too, looked agitated, her face was red and she dragged little Papias, whose hand she held, rather roughly at her heels.

Dada was evidently abashed; less by reason of the splendor that surrounded her than because her foster-mother had strictly enjoined her to be very quiet and mannerly in the presence of their patrons.  She felt shy and strange as she made her low courtesy to the old lady; but Damia seemed to be pleased with the timid grace of her demeanor, for she offered her her hand—­an honor she usually conferred only on her intimates, bid her stoop, and gave her a kiss, saying kindly:  “You are a good brave girl.  Fidelity to your friends is pleasing in the sight of the gods, and finds its reward even among men.”

Dada, obeying a happy impulse, threw herself on her knees before the old woman, kissed her hands, and then, sitting on her heels, nestled at her feet.

Gorgo, however, noticing Herse’s agitation, asked what had happened to them.  Some monks, Herse explained, had followed them on the road hither, had snatched Dada’s lyre from the slave who was carrying it and pulled the wreath out of her hair.  Damia was furious as she heard it, and trembled with rage as she railed at the wild hordes who disgraced and desecrated Alexandria, the sacred home of the Muses; then she began to speak once more of the young captain, Mary’s son, to whom the troupe of singers owed their lives.

“Marcus,” said she, “is said to be a paragon of chastity.  He races in the hippodrome with all the gallants of the town and yet—­if it is true it is a miracle—­he shuns women as though he were a priest already.  His mother is very anxious that he should become one; but he, by the grace of Aphrodite, is the son of my handsome Appelles, who, if he had gazed into those blue eyes all the way from Rome to Alexandria, would have surrendered at mercy; but then he would also have conquered them—­as surely as I hope to live till autumn.  You need not blush so, child.  After all, Marcus is a man like other men.  Keep your eyes open, Dame Herse!”