on.  But as for you, the case does not apply to you, for you are the child of a brave freeman, respected in all the land; our people will regard you as a prisoner of war, not as a slave.  They will look up to me as your deliverer.  And if I had found you, just as you are, the meanest of slaves and keeping pigs, I would have put my hand in my wallet at once and have bought your freedom and have carried you off home as my wife—­and no Masdakite who saw you would ever blame me.  Now you know all about it, and there, I hope, is an end of your coyness and mincing.”

Mandane, however, still would not yield; she looked at him with eyes that entreated his pity, and pointed to her cropped ears.

Rustem shrugged his shoulders with a laugh.  “Of course, that too, into the bargain; You will not let me off any part of it!  If it had been your eyes now, you would not have been able to see, and no countryman can do with a blind wife, so I should leave you where you are.  But you, little one, have hearing as sharp as a bird’s?  And what bird—­pretty little things—­did you ever see with ears, unless it were a bat or a nasty owl?—­That is all nonsense.  Besides, who can see what you have lost now that Pulcheria has brought your hair down so prettily?  And do not you remember the head-dress our women wear?  You might have ears as long as a hare’s, and what good would it do you?—­no one could see them.  Just as you are, a lily grown like a cypress, you are ten times sweeter to look at than the prettiest girl there, if she had three or even four ears.  A girl with three ears!  Only think, Mandane, where could the third ear grow?”

How heartily he laughed, and how glad he was to have hit on this jest and have turned off a subject which might so well be painful to her!  But his mirth failed of its effect, and only brought a silent smile to her lips.  Even this died quickly away, and in its place there came such a sad, pathetic expression, as she hung her pretty head, that he could neither carry on the joke nor reproach her sharply.  He said compassionately, with a little shake of the head: 

“But you must not look like that, my pigeon:  I cannot bear it.  What is it that is weighing on your little soul?  Courage, courage, sweetheart, and make a clean breast of it!—­But no!  Do not speak.  I can spare you that!  I know, poor little darling—­it is that old story of the governor’s son.”

She nodded, and her eyes filled with tears; and he, with a loud sigh, exclaimed:  “I thought as much, I was right, poor child!”

He took her hand, and went on bravely: