At length she said she must go to her lessons with Eudoxia; she had a hard task before her and they must think of her and wish her good success.  She threw her arms first round the widow’s neck and then round Pulcheria’s; and, as the tears would start to her eyes, she asked them if she were not indeed a silly childish thing—­but they were to think of her all the same and never to forget her.

She met the governess in her own room; Eudoxia cut off the fine, soft curls, shedding her first tears over them; and those tears flowed faster as she placed round Mary’s neck a little reliquary containing a lock from the sheep-skin of St. John the Baptist, which had belonged to her own mother.  It was very dear and sacred to her, and she had never before parted from it, but now it was to protect the child and bring her happiness—­great happiness.

Had it brought her such happiness?—­Not much, in truth; and yet she believed in the saving and beneficent influence of the relic.

At last Mary stood before her with short hair and in a boy’s dress; and what a sweet and lovely little fellow it was; Eudoxia could not weary of looking at him.  But Mary was too pretty, too frail for a boy; and Eudoxia advised her to pull her broad travelling hat low over her eyes as soon as she came in sight of men, or else to darken her color.

Gamaliel, who had in fact come to warn Dame Joanna against Horapollo, had kept them informed of the progress of this day’s sitting, and Paula’s conduct to save her lover had increased Mary’s admiration for her.  When she should confront Amru she could answer him on every head, so she felt equipped at all points as she stole through the garden with Eudoxia, and down to the quay.

When she had passed the gateway she once more kissed her hand to the house she loved and its inmates; then, pointing with a sigh to the neighboring garden, she said: 

“Poor Katharina! she is a prisoner now.—­Do you know, Eudoxia, I am still very fond of her, and when I think that she may take the plague, and die but no!—­Tell Mother Joanna and Pulcheria to be kind to her.  To-morrow, after breakfast, give them my letter; and this evening, if they get anxious, you can only quiet them by saying you know all and that it is of no use to fret about me.  You will set it all right and not allow them to grieve.”

As they passed a Jacobite chapel that stood open, she begged Eudoxia to wait for her and fell on her knees before the crucifix.  In a few minutes she came out again, bright and invigorated and, as they passed the last houses in the town, she exclaimed: 

“Is it not wicked, Eudoxia?  I am leaving those I love dearly, very dearly, and yet I feel as glad as a bird escaping from its cage.  Good Heaven!  Only to think of the ride by night through the desert and over the hills, a swift beast under me, and over my head no ceiling but the blue sky and countless stars!  Onward and still onward to a glorious end, left entirely to myself and entrusted with an important task like a grownup person!  Is it not splendid?  And by God’s help—­and if I find the governor and succeed in touching his heart....  Now, confess, Eudoxia, can there be a happier girl in the whole wide world?”