n as you wish."

Thrasaric emptied a huge goblet of wine.

"No, no," he said; "at least not so--not by my will. She is a free
woman, no slave, whom I could give away, even if I should ever desire
it."

"Only resign your right to her. It will be easy--for money--to find a
reason for annulling the marriage."

"She is a Catholic, he an Arian," whispered Astarte.

"Of course! That will do! And then merely let me--Gelimer cannot always
strike down her abductor."

"No! Silence! Not so! But--we might throw dice! Then the dice, chance,
would have decided--not I! Oh, I can, I can--think no longer! If I
throw higher, each shall keep what he has; if I throw lower, I
will--no, no! I will not! Let me sleep!" And overcome by the wine, in
spite of the uproar around him, he dropped his huge rose-garlanded head
on both arms, which lay folded on the marble front of the box.

Modigisel and Astarte exchanged significant glances.

"What do you expect to gain by it?" asked Modigisel. "He won't exchange
for you; only for the horse."

"But she--that nun-faced girl--shall not have him! And my time will
come later!"

"If I release you from my patronage."

"You will."

"I don't know yet."

"Oh, yes, you will," she answered coaxingly.

But even as she spoke, she again threw back her head and closed her
eyes.

* * * * *

After a brief slumber the bridegroom was shaken rudely by his brother.

"Up!" cried the latter; "Eugenia has come back. Let her take her
place--"

"Eugenia! I did not throw dice for her. I don't want the horse. I made
no promise."

He started in terror; for Eugenia was standing before him with the
Ionian; her large dark-brown eyes, whose whites had a bluish cast, were
gazing searchingly, anxiously, distrustfully, into the very depths of
his soul. But she said nothing; only her face was paler than usual. How
much had she heard--understood? he asked himself.

Thrasabad's slave humbly made way for her.

"I thank you. Aphrodite."

"Oh, do not call me by that name of mockery and disgrace! Call me as my
dear parents did at home before I was stolen,--became booty, a
chattel."

"I thank you, Glauke."

"The races cannot take place," lamented Thrasabad, to whom a freedman
had just brought a message.

"Why not?"

"Because no one will bet against the stallion which Modigisel entered
last of all. It is Styx; you know him."

"Yes, I know him! I made no promise, did I, Modi