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Slowly, the slave descended. Sullen and silent, she slunk forward, like some halting panther in the night.

Her body gleamed, golden as the moon, sinuous and satiny under the transparent cestus. Her bare feet moved noiselessly, every step one of infinite grace. She came forward, eyes brooding, and stood half shrinking, half defiant before the long stone bench where sat her master. Suddenly she raised her head, tossed back her short black hair and faced him.

As by a signal, opera-glasses went up, a sigh of pleasure went through the house. The audience waited. She opened her lips and her voice, low and liquid, flowed out, thrilling through their veins. The thick contralto of it, the fascinating foreign accent, completely captivated them.

He reached out, drew her toward him. One felt the wave of terror seizing her. His big hands grasped her shoulders. She gave a smothered cry and he laughed.

ssss1 She pleaded, then resisted, and finally, voice rising like a viol with strings drawn taut, defied him, calling upon the gods to save her for the man she loved.