“There, poor Iambe,” she said, “if we two, inside these four walls, want to see anything like a pleasing sight we must look at ourselves.”

Then she went on, turning to the slave.  “How the poor little beast trembles!  I believe it longs to be back again at Arelas, and is afraid we shall linger too long under this burning sky.  Give me my sandals.”

The black woman reached her mistress two little slippers with gilt ornaments on the slight straps, but Sirona flung her hair off her face with the back of her hand, exclaiming, “The old ones, not these.  Wooden shoes even would do here.”

And with these words she pointed to the court-yard under the window, which was in fact as ill contrived, as though gilt sandals had never yet trodden it.  It was surrounded by buildings; on one side was a wall with a gateway, and on the others buildings which formed a sharply bent horseshoe.

Opposite the wing in which Sirona and her husband had found a home stood the much higher house of Petrus, and both had attached to them, in the background of the court-yard, sheds constructed of rough reddish brown stones, and covered with a thatch of palm-branches; in these the agricultural implements were stored, and the senator’s slaves lived.  In front lay a heap of black charcoal, which was made on the spot by burning the wood of the thorny sajala species of acacia; and there too lay a goodly row of well smoothed mill-stones, which were shaped in the quarry, and exported to Egypt.  At this early hour the whole unlovely domain lay in deep shadow, and was crowded with fowls and pigeons.  Sirona’s window alone was touched by the morning sun.  If she could have known what a charm the golden light shed over her figure, on her rose and white face, and her shining hair, she would have welcomed the day-star, instead of complaining that it had too early waked her from sleep—­her best comfort in her solitude.

Besides a few adjoining rooms she was mistress of a larger room, the dwelling room, which look out upon the street.

She shaded her eyes with her hand, exclaiming, “Oh! the wearisome sun.  It looks at us the first thing in the morning through the window; as if the day were not long enough.  The beds must be put in the front room; I insist upon it.”

The slave shook her head, and stammered an answer, “Phoebicius will not have it so.”

Sirona’s eyes flashed angrily, and her voice, which was particularly sweet, trembled slightly as she asked, “What is wrong with him again?”

“He says,” replied the slave, “that the senator’s son, Polykarp, goes oftener past your window than altogether pleases him, and it seems to him, that you occupy yourself more than is necessary with his little brothers and sisters, and the other children up there.”

“Is he still in there?” asked Sirona with glowing cheeks, and she pointed threateningly to the dwelling-room.

“The master is out,” stuttered the old woman.  “He went out before sunrise.  You are not to wait for breakfast, he will not return till late.”