Karnis and his troupe were musicians of no ordinary stamp; still the law concerning singing-girls might place him in peril, especially now that—­to make matters worse—­a young Christian was paying court to his pretty niece.  What catastrophes might not be called down on his hapless head if so influential a woman as Marcus’ mother Mary should come to know of her son’s backsliding!  Herse had long perceived how attractive that little simpleton was to all men—­old and young—­and when one of the lovers, of whom she had no lack, happened to take her fancy she was apt to forget herself and play a too audacious game; but as soon as she found she had gone too far and somewhat committed herself she would draw back and meet him, if she could not avoid him, with repellent and even unmannerly coldness.  Again and again had Herse scolded and warned her, but Dada always answered her reproofs by saying that she could not make herself different from what she was, and Herse had never been able to remain stern and severe in the face of the foolish excuses that Dada put forward so convincingly.

To-day the good woman could not quite make up her mind whether it would be wiser to warn Dada against Marcus and desire her to repel any advances he might attempt to make, or to let bygones be bygones.  She knew full well how a trifling incident gains importance when undue emphasis is laid on it; she therefore had merely asked the girl what secret she could have with old Damia and had accepted some evasive subterfuge in reply, while, at the same time, she guessed the truth and was quite determined not to remit her watchfulness.  For a time, at any rate, she thought she would let matters go their own way, and never mention the young fellow’s name; but her husband spoilt this plan, for with the eager jollity of a man very much at his ease after a good dinner he called upon Dada to tell their the whole history of the young Christian’s invasion in the morning.  Dada at first was reticent, but the old man’s communicative humor proved infectious and she presently told her story: 

“I was sitting alone with the poor little boy, like—­well I do not know what like—­you must find a comparison for yourselves.  I was comforting myself with the reflection that the key was on the inside and the door locked, for I was getting frightened as the monks began to sing in the yard below, one part going off to the left, as it were, and the other part to the right.  Did you ever see two drunken men walking arm in arm, and lurching first to one side and then to the other?  You may laugh, but by the nine Muses it was just like that.  Then Papias grew tired and cross and kept asking where Agne was, till at last he began to cry.  When I asked him what he was crying for, he said he had forgotten, I really am patient—­you must all allow that—­I did not do anything to him, but, just to give him something to play with, I took out the key, for there was nothing else at hand that he could not break, and gave it to him and told him to play a tune on it.  This delighted him, and he really did it quite prettily.  Then I looked over my burnt dress and was horrified to see how large the holes were, and it struck me that I might turn it, because when you turn a thing the spots, you know, do not show.”