Читать книгу Fabiola; Or, The Church of the Catacombs онлайн

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It did not please the haughty lady, who said, “Methinks, slave, that you are not over given to praise. One seldom hears a soft word from your mouth.”

“And what worth would it be from me,” answered Syra; “from a poor servant to a noble dame, accustomed to hear it all day long from eloquent and polished lips? Do you believe it when you hear it from them? Do you not despise it when you receive it from us?”

A look of spite was darted at her from her two companions. Fabiola, too, was angry at what she thought a reproof. A lofty sentiment in a slave!

“Have you yet to learn, then,” she answered haughtily, “that you are mine, and have been bought by me at a high price, that you might serve me as I please? I have as good a right to the service of your tongue as of your arms; and if it please me to be praised, and flattered, and sung to, by you, do it you shall, whether you like it or not. A new idea, indeed, that a slave has to have any will but that of her mistress, when her very life belongs to her!”