"They say they have a woman with them," Lysidice answered.

Lycabetta struck herself upon the forehead with her open palm.

"A woman!" she cried, joyously. "Why, I had forgotten. Now I shall have sport in my loneliness. This is the girl who is to be my plaything.

Admit them and tell them to leave the girl here alone. But bid them wait within call. I may have need of them. Fly away, love-birds."

Lysidice went out as she had come, to bear Lycabetta's bidding to the Moorish slaves. The others, fluttering like frightened doves before Lycabetta's dismissal, disappeared into the farther apartments of the palace. Lycabetta rose alertly, and, mounting the steps that rose behind the altar leading to another room, concealed herself behind the dividing curtains. In a few moments Zal and Rustum came in bearing between them a gilded litter curtained with crimson silk. Setting this upon the ground, they drew the curtains and bade Perpetua come forth. As Perpetua emerged from the litter the brightness of the light after her long journey through the night dazzled her, and for a moment she put her hands to her eyes to shield them from the unexpected light. In that moment Zal and Rustum had lifted up the litter and disappeared through the hangings.

When Perpetua removed her hands she found herself alone in the most wonderful room she had ever seen or dreamed of. She looked with astonishment at the gorgeous stuffs and furs, the gold and color, the glow of fire and gleam of jewels; she breathed in amazement the subtly perfumed air which seemed at first to make her feel giddy, her who could stand upon the brink of the grimmest precipice in Sicily and look down untroubled to its distant floor. Her senses were confused by the lights, the odors, by the long, strange journey through the night, closely mewed in a litter borne by black giants, who offered her no harm but answered her no word. Anxiety for her father had denied anxiety for herself and still denied her.

"What is this place?" she cried aloud to emptiness. "Is there no one here?"

Instantly the curtains in front of her divided, revealing Lycabetta in the pride of her whiteness, almost unclothed in her transparent drapery.

"I am here," she said, and, descending, advanced a little way towards the girl.

Perpetua stared at the woman who had come upon her so noiselessly, her white body shining through her thin, glittering robes.

"Where is my father?" she asked.

Lycabetta laughed a little, cruel laugh.

"This is a strange place to come and cry for a father," she answered, reading with amusement the wonder in the girl's eyes.

Perpetua caught her breath in sudden suspicion.

"Is not my father here?" she said. "They told me he was sick and had called for me."

Lycabetta shrugged her beautiful shoulders and her gleaming raiment rippled in little waves of changing color.

"Sick or well, living or dead, you will find no father here, nor mother neither; but I will be your sister, if you please, sweet simplicity."

She smiled alluringly.

Perpetua looked at her with brave, quiet eyes of dislike.

"Who are you?" she asked, holding her senses well together in the presence of unsuspected danger.

Lycabetta answered her, languidly amused.

"I am everything and nothing. There are poets who rhyme me the Rose of the World. There are priests who name me the Strange Woman. I am Lycabetta."

"Lycabetta!" Perpetua repeated the name almost unconsciously, and Lycabetta saw that it had no meaning to her ears.

"Has no love-wind ever blown my name to your sky-nest?" she asked. "Has your royal lover never named my name? For I, too, am one of the King's darlings."

Perpetua started at the mention of the King's name, and looked around again at the gorgeous cage.

"The King! the King! Is this the King's house?" she asked, with wider eyes and clinched fingers.

Lycabetta made her a mocking reverence.

"Every house in Sicily is the King's house, and my poor roof is as loyal as the best. This is my house and yours, for now you dwell in it at the King's pleasure."

"Then I will leave it at my own pleasure, instantly." She knew that she was snared, but she showed no sign of fear.

Lycabetta shook her head and smiled evilly.

"I think you will stay. Every door is guarded, every bolt driven home.

My frightened bird, you cannot escape from this cage."

She knew that the girl was at her mercy and began to find stealthy delight in the thought. Perpetua faced her boldly, holding her head high. Pagan and Christian faced each other with bright eyes.

"I do not fear you," Perpetua said, calmly. "You dare not hold me here against my will. The King himself has no power over a free woman. If you restrain me, I will call for help, and every honest hand in Syracuse will be raised to set me free."

Lycabetta laughed again, and her laughter seemed to run over her in waves of colored fire as her thin garments trembled on her body.

"My gardens are deep and dim and quiet. No sound from here would reach the world outside. No, not the death-cry nor the shriek of tortured flesh."

Perpetua gazed at her as she might at some spirit of evil released at midnight to wreak its will upon the sinful. There was a great horror in her heart, but there was a great courage in her voice.

"Whoever you are, you cannot frighten me; you dare not keep me here."

Lycabetta thrust her head a little forward, like a snake about to strike.

"You silly wood savage, you will be very tame presently," she promised, in a low, hard voice.

"In the name of God I defy you, and I go," Perpetua said, and turned to go out by the entrance through which she came.

"In the name of the devil you stay where you are," Lycabetta cried, and clapped her hands.

Instantly the hangings that concealed the entrance parted, and the black giants entered and stood silently awaiting Lycabetta's orders.

Perpetua moved to them with a gesture of authority.

"Let me pass," she commanded.

The Moors stood motionless. Lycabetta called to her captive:

"Those slaves are as strong and merciless as wild beasts. Whatever I told them to do to you, they would do to you."

Perpetua moved back towards Lycabetta. Lycabetta gave a sign and the blacks disappeared behind the curtains.

Perpetua advanced to Lycabetta and looked her squarely in the face.

"Why have I been brought here?" she demanded, sternly, though despair was tugging at her heartstrings.

Lycabetta leaned back upon her couch and looked at her prisoner curiously. The Neapolitan recognized that there was beauty of a kind given to the girl--in her hair, red as the reddest sunset, in her candid eyes, in the strong, supple body, overbrown from mountain light and mountain air for Lycabetta's fancy. This was a raw taste of the King's, she thought, contemptuously; the girl would only be passable in a while, in a long while. What kind of passion was it that a king could feel for a country wench, while her gardens were thronged with shapes of loveliness, while she, Lycabetta, still lived? The passions of the great are mad fancies, but surely this was the maddest fancy greatness ever entertained. So she mused while Perpetua watched her. She was stirred from her meditations when the girl repeated her question.