“Oh, mistress, and where is your little son Orion?” The crazy girl did not seem startled by the question; she replied very gravely:  “I have married him to the emperor’s daughter at Constantinople.”

“Hey day!  A splendid match!” exclaimed the black girl.  “Did you know that the young lord was here again?  He has brought home his grand wife to you no doubt, and we shall see purple and crowns in these parts!”

These words brought a deep flush into the poor creature’s face.  She anxiously pressed her hands on the bandage that covered her ears and said:  “Really Has he really come home?”

“Only quite lately,” said another and more good-natured girl, to soothe her.

“Do not believe her!” cried the negress.  “And if you want to know the latest news of him:  Last night he was out boating on the Nile with the tall Syrian.  My brother, the boatman, was among the rowers; and he went on finely with the lady I can tell you, finely. . . .”

“My husband, the great Mukaukas?” asked Mandane, trying to collect her ideas.

“No.  Your son Orion, who married the emperor’s daughter,” laughed the negress.

The crazy girl stood up, looked about with a restless glance, and then, as though she had not fully understood what had been said to her, repeated:  “Orion?  Handsome Orion?”

“Aye, your sweet son, Orion!” they all shouted, as loud as though she were deaf.  Then the usually placable girl, holding her hand over her ear, with the other hit her tormentor such a smack on her thick lips that it resounded, while she shrieked out loud, in shrill tones: 

“My son, did you say?  My son Orion?—­As if you did not know!  Why, he was my lover; yes, he himself said he was, and that was why they came and bound me and cut my ears.—­But you know it.  But I do not love him—­I could, I might wish, I. . . .”  She clenched her fists, and gnashed her white teeth, and went on with panting breath: 

“Where is he?—­You will not tell me?  Wait a bit—­only wait.  Oh, I am sharp enough, I know you have him here.—­Where is be?  Orion, Orion, where are you?”

She sprang away, ran through the sheds and lifted the lids of all the color-vats, stooping low to look down into each as if she expected to find him there, while the others roared with laughter.

Most of her companions giggled at this witless behavior; but some, who felt it somewhat uncanny and whom the unhappy girl’s bitter cry had struck painfully, drew apart and had already organized some new amusement, when a neat little woman appeared on the scene, clapping her plump hands and exclaiming: 

“Enough of laughter—­now, to bed, you swarm of bees.  The night is over too soon in the morning, and the looms must be rattling again by sunrise.  One this way and one that, just like mice when the cat appears.  Will you make haste, you night-birds?  Come, will you make haste?”