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

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“No doubt,” said Syra, amused, “it was all my fault; I had no business to argue with my mistress.”

“Argue with her!—argue!—O ye gods! who ever heard before of a slave arguing with a noble mistress, and such a learned one! Why, Calpurnius himself would be afraid of disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she was so—so agitated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this must be concealed; it must not be known that you have been so wrong. Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw round the arm, as if for ornament? All the others I know have plenty, given or bought; but you never seem to care for these pretty things. Let us look.”

She went into the maid-slave’s dormitory, which was within her room, opened Syra’s capsa or box, and after turning over in vain its scanty contents, she drew forth from the bottom a square kerchief of richest stuff, magnificently embroidered, and even adorned with pearls. Syra blushed deeply, and entreated not to be obliged to wear this most disproportioned piece of dress, especially as it was a token of better days, long and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, anxious to hide her mistress’s fault, was inexorable; and the rich scarf was gracefully fastened round the wounded arm.