While the young women were busy at the medicine-cupboard, Antonius and Polykarp left the room.

The latter had already crossed the threshold, when he turned once more, and cast a long look at Sirona.  Then, with a hasty movement, he went on, closed the door, and with a heavy sigh descended the stairs.

As soon as his sons were gone, Petrus turned to the steward again.

“What is wrong with the slave Anubis?” he asked.

“He is—­wounded, hurt,” answered Jethro, “and for the next few days will be useless.  The goat-girl Miriam—­the wild cat—­cut his forehead with her reaping hook.”

“Why did I not hear of this sooner?” cried Dorothea reprovingly.  “What have you done to the girl?”

“We have shut her up in the hay loft,” answered Jethro, “and there she is raging and storming.”

The mistress shook her head disapprovingly.  “The girl will not be improved by that treatment,” she said.  “Go and bring her to me.”

As soon as the intendant had left the room, she exclaimed, turning to her husband, “One may well be perplexed about these poor creatures, when one sees how they behave to each other.  I have seen it a thousand times!  No judgment is so hard as that dealt by a slave to slaves!”

Jethro and a woman now led Miriam into the room.  The girl’s hands were bound with thick cords, and dry grass clung to her dress and rough black hair.  A dark fire glowed in her eyes, and the muscles of her face moved incessantly, as if she had St. Vitus’ dance.  When Dorothea looked at her she drew herself up defiantly, and looked around the room, as if to estimate the strength of her enemies.

She then perceived Hermas; the blood left her lips, with a violent effort she tore her slender hands out of the loops that confined them, covering her face with them, and fled to the door.  But Jethro put himself in her way, and seized her shoulder with a strong grasp.  Miriam shrieked aloud, and the senator’s daughter, who had set down the medicines she had had in her hand, and had watched the girl’s movements with much sympathy, hastened towards her.  She pushed away the old man’s hand, and said, “Do not be frightened, Miriam.  Whatever you may have done, my father can forgive you.”

Her voice had a tone of sisterly affection, and the shepherdess followed Marthana unresistingly to the table, on which the plans for the bridge were lying, and stood there by her side.

For a minute all were silent; at last Dame Dorothea went up to Miriam, and asked, “What did they do to you, my poor child, that you could so forget yourself?”