“Here?” asked Ledscha in a hollow tone; and the slave eagerly answered:  “Where else?  And that you may know the truth—­among those who visited Hermon in his studio is your own young sister.”

“Our Taus?  That child?” exclaimed the girl, stretching her hands toward the slave in horror, as if to ward off some impending disaster.

“That child, who, I think, has grown into a very charming girl—­and, before her, pretty Gula, the wife of Paseth, who, like your father, is away on his ship.”

Here, in a tone of triumphant confidence, the answer rang from the Biamite’s lips:  “There the slanderer stands revealed!  Now you are detected, now I perceive the meaning of your threat.  Because, miserable slave, you cherish the mad hope of beguiling me yourself, you do your utmost to estrange me from your master.  Gula, you say, visited Hermon in his studio, and it may be true.  But though I have been at home only a short time, Tennis is too full of the praises of the heroic Greek who, at the risk of his own life, rescued a child from Paseth’s burning house, for the tale not to reach my ears from ten or a dozen different quarters.  Gula is the mother of the little girl whose life was saved by Hermon’s bold deed, and perhaps the young mother only knocked at her benefactor’s door to thank him; but you, base defamer—­”

“I,” Bias continued, maintaining his composure with difficulty, “I saw Gula secretly glide into our rooms again and again to permit her child’s preserver to imitate in clay what he considered beautiful.  To seek your love, as you know, the slave forbade himself, although a man no more loses tender desires with his freedom than the tree which is encircled by a fence ceases to put forth buds and blossoms.  Eros chooses the slave’s heart also as the target for his arrows; but his aim at yours was better than at mine.  Now I know how deeply he wounds, and so, as soon as yonder ship in the harbour bears our visitor away again, I shall see you, Schalit’s daughter, Ledscha, standing before Hermon’s modelling table and behold him scan your beauty to determine what seems worth copying.”

The Biamite, panting for breath, had listened to the end.  Then, raising her little clinched hand menacingly, she muttered through her set teeth:  “Let him try even to touch my veil with his fingers!  If I had not been obliged to go away, this would not have happened to my Taus and luckless Gula.”

“Scarcely,” replied Bias calmly.  “If the chicken runs into the water, the hen can not save it.  For the rest—­I grew up as a boy in freedom with the husband of your sister, who summoned you to her aid.  His father’s brick-kiln was next to our papyrus plantation.  Then we fared like so many others—­the great devour the small, the just cause is the lost one, and the gods are like men.  My father, who drew the sword against oppression and violence, was robbed of liberty, and your brother-in-law, in payment for his honest courage, met an early death.  Is the story which is told of you here true?  I heard that soon after the poor fellow’s burial the slaves in the brick-kiln refused to obey his widow.  There were a dozen rebellious brick-moulders, and you—­one can forgive you much for it—­you, the weak girl——­”