At the same time he tried to throw his arm round her; but at his touch Klea felt the blood leave her cheeks and mount to her bloodshot eyes, and at that instant her hand, guided by some uncontrollable inward impulse, grasped the handle of the knife which Krates had lent her; she raised it high in the air though with an unsteady arm, exclaiming: 

“Let me go or, by Serapis whom I serve, I will strike you to the heart!”

The soldier to whom this threat was addressed, was not the man to be intimidated by a blade of cold iron in a woman’s hand; with a quick movement he seized her wrist in order to disarm her; but although Klea was forced to drop the knife she struggled with him to free herself from his clutch, and this contest between a man and a woman, who seemed to be of superior rank to that indicated by her very simple dress, seemed to most of the Cypriotes so undignified, so much out of place within the walls of a palace, that they pulled their comrade back from Klea, while others on the contrary came to the assistance of the bully who defended himself stoutly.  And in the midst of the fray, which was conducted with no small noise, stood Klea with flying breath.  Her antagonist, though flung to the ground, still held her wrist with his left hand while he defended himself against his comrades with the right, and she tried with all her force and cunning to withdraw it; for at the very height of her excitement and danger she felt as if a sudden gust of wind had swept her spirit clear of all confusion, and she was again able to contemplate her position calmly and resolutely.

If only her hand were free she might perhaps be able to take advantage of the struggle between her foes, and to force her way out between their ranks.

Twice, thrice, four times, she tried to wrench her hand with a sudden jerk through the fingers that grasped it; but each time in vain.  Suddenly, from the man at her feet there broke a loud, long-drawn cry of pain which re-echoed from the high walls of the court, and at the same time she felt the fingers of her antagonist gradually and slowly slip from her arm like the straps of a sandal carefully lifted by the surgeon from a broken ankle.

“It is all over with him!” exclaimed the eldest of the Cypriotes.  “A man never calls out like that but once in his life!  True enough—­the dagger is sticking here just under the ninth rib!  This is mad work!  That is your doing again, Lykos, you savage wolf!”

“He bit deep into my finger in the struggle—­”

“And you are for ever tearing each other to pieces for the sake of the women,” interrupted the elder, not listening to the other’s excuses.  “Well, I was no better than you in my time, and nothing can alter it!  You had better be off now, for if the Epistrategist learns we have fallen to stabbing each other again—­”