Holding her breath, she nestled close to the trunk of the ancient tree to listen, and the first word she heard was the name “Nemesis,” which had just reached her from the tent.

She knew its meaning, for Tennis also had a little temple dedicated to the terrible goddess, which was visited by the Egyptians and Biamites as well as the Greeks.

A triumphant smile flitted over her unveiled features, for there was no other divinity on whose aid she could more confidently rely.  She could unchain the vengeance which threatened Hermon with a far more terrible danger than the thunder clouds above, under the protection—­nay, as it were at the behest of Nemesis.

To-morrow she would be the first to anoint her altar.

Now she rejoiced that her wealthy father imposed no restriction upon her in the management of household affairs, for she need spare no expense in choosing the animal she intended to offer as a sacrifice.

This reflection flashed through her mind with the speed of lightning while she was listening to Althea’s conversation with the sculptor.

“The question here can be no clever play upon the name and the nature of the daughter of Erebus and Night,” said the Thracian gravely.  “I will remind you that there is another Nemesis besides the just being who drives from his stolen ease the unworthy mortal who suns himself in good fortune.  The Nemesis whom I will recall to-day, while angry Zeus is hurling his thunderbolts, is the other, who chastises sacrilege—­Ate, the swiftest and most terrible of the Erinyes.  I will invoke her wrath upon you in this hour if you do not confess the truth to me fully and entirely.”

“Ask,” Hermon interrupted in a hollow tone.  “Only, you strange woman—­”

“Only,” she hastily broke in, “whatever the answer may be, I must pose to you as the model for your Arachne—­and perhaps it may come to that—­but first I must know, briefly and quickly, for they will be looking for me immediately.  Do you love Daphne?”

“No,” he answered positively.  “True, she has been dear to me from childhood—­”

“And,” Althea added, completing the sentence, “you owe her father a debt of gratitude.  But that is not new to me; I know also how little reason you gave her for loving you.  Yet her heart belongs neither to Philotas, the great lord with the little brain, nor to the famous sculptor Myrtilus, whose body is really too delicate to bear all the laurels with which he is overloaded, but to you, and you alone—­I know it.”

Hermon tried to contradict her, but Althea, without allowing him to speak, went on hurriedly:  “No matter!  I wished to know whether you loved her.  True, according to appearances, your heart does not glow for her, and hitherto you have disdained to transform by her aid, at a single stroke, the poverty which ill suits you into wealth.  But it was not merely to speak of the daughter of Archias that I accompanied you into this tempest, from which I would fain escape as quickly as possible.  So speak quickly.  I am to serve you in your art, and yet, if I understood you correctly, you have already found here another excellent model.”