me.

"Magas, my son, and his daughter is named Heliodore. Ah! she is such a
woman as I would see you wed, beautiful indeed, and good and true as she
is beautiful, with a high spirit also, such as befits her ancient blood.
Mayhap you will note her in the cathedral. Nay, I forgot, not there, but
afterwards in this palace, since it is the command of the Empress, to
whom I have been speaking of their matters, that these two should come
to dwell here for a while. After that I hope we shall all return to
Egypt together, though Magas, being on a secret mission, does not travel
under his own name, but as a merchant."

Suddenly he paused, and began to stare at my throat.

"Is aught wrong with my armour, Father?" I asked.

"No, son. I was looking at that trinket which you wear. Of course I have
noted it before, but never closely. It is strange, very strange!"

"What is strange, Father?"

"Only that I have seen another like it."

"I dare say you have," I answered, laughing, "for when I would not give
this to the Augusta, it pleased her to have it copied."

"No, no; I mean in Egypt, and, what is more, a story hung to the jewel."

"On whom? Where? What story?" I asked eagerly.

"Oh! I cannot stay to tell you now. Moreover, your mind should be fixed
upon immortal crowns, and not on earthly necklaces. I must be gone; nay,
stay me not, I am already late. Do you get you to your knees and pray
till your god-parents come to fetch you."

Then, in spite of all I could do to keep him, he went, muttering:
"Strange! Exceeding strange!" and leaving me quite unfit for prayer.

An hour later I was riding through the streets of the mighty city, clad
in shining armour. As the season was that of October, in which the Feast
of St. Michael falls, we wore cloaks, although, the day being warm, they
were little needed. Mine was of some fine white stuff, with a red
cross broidered on the right shoulder. Stauracius, the eunuch and great
minister, who had been ordered to act as my god-father, rode alongside
of me on a mule, because he dared not mount a horse, sweating beneath
his thick robe of office, and, as I heard from time to time, cursing me,
his god-son, and all this ceremony beneath his breath. On my other hand
was my god-mother, Martina, riding an Arab mare, which she did well
enough, having been brought up to horsemanship on the plains of Greece.
Her mood was varied, for now she laughed at the humour of the scene, and
now she was s