All this excited Dada’s sympathies to the highest pitch, but she listened with even greater attention when her gossip began to speak of Marcus, his mother, and his brother.  In this the Egyptian slave was the tool of old Damia.  She had counted on being questioned about the young Christian, and as soon as Dada mentioned his name she shuffled on her knees close up to the girl, laid her hand gently on her arm and looking up into her eyes with a meaning flash, she whispered in broken Greek—­and hastily, for Herse was bustling about the deck:  “Such a pretty mistress, such a young mistress as you, and kept here like a slave!  If the young mistress only chose she could easily—­quite easily—­have as good a lover as our Gorgo, and better; so pretty and so young!  And I know some one who would dress the pretty mistress in red gold and pale pearls and bright jewels, if sweet Dada only said the word.”

“And why should sweet Dada not say the word?” echoed the girl gaily.  “Who is it that has so many nice things and all for me?  You—­I shall never remember your name if I live to be as old as Damia. . . .”

“Sachepris, Sachepris is my name,” said the woman, but call me anything else you like.  The lover I mean is the son of the rich Christian, Mary.  A handsome man, my lord Marcus; and he has horses, such fine horses, and more gold pieces than the pebbles on the shore there.  Sachepris knows that he has sent out slaves to look for the pretty mistress.  Send him a token—­write to my lord Marcus.”

“Write?” laughed Dada.  “Girls learn other things in my country; but if I could—­shall I tell you something?  I would not write him a line.  Those who want me may seek me!”

“He is seeking, he is trying to find the pretty mistress,” declared the woman; “he is full of you, quite full of you, and if I dared. . . .”

“Well?”

“I would go and say to my lord Marcus, quite in a secret. . . .”

“Well, what?  Speak out, woman.”

“First I would tell him where the pretty mistress is hidden; and then say that he might hope once—­this evening perhaps—­he is not far off, he is quite near this . . . over there; do you see that little white house?  It is a tavern and the host is a freedman attached to the lady Damia, and for money he would shut his shop up for a day, for a night, for many days.—­Well, and then I would say—­shall I tell you all?  My lord Marcus is there, waiting for his pretty mistress, and has brought her dresses that would make the rose-garment look a rag.  You would have gold too, as much gold as heart can wish.  I can take you there, and he will meet you with open arms.”

“What, this evening?” cried Dada, and the blue veins swelled on her white forehead.  “You hateful, brown serpent!  Did Gorgo teach you such things as this?  It is horrible, disgraceful, sickening!”

So base a proposal was the last thing she would ever have expected from Marcus—­of all men in the world, Marcus, whom she had imagined so good and pure!  She could not believe it; and as her glance met the cunning glitter of the Egyptian’s eyes her own sparkled keenly, and she exclaimed with a vehemence and decision which her attendant had never suspected in her: