Meanwhile Giustina rushed on like a whirlwind till she fell panting on the divan beside Zoë, hardly seeing her at all, and staring at the door, through which she expected every moment to see the burly Tartar enter in pursuit; so that Yulia, who guessed the danger, ran and shut it of her own accord. Then Giustina drew a long breath and looked round, and she met Zoë's eyes scrutinising her face with a look she never forgot. 'That monster!' she exclaimed, by way of explanation and apology. Zoë had heard nothing, for the house was solidly built, and she had not the least idea who had frightened Giustina. It occurred to her that Gorlias might be in the house, and that on being seen by the Venetians it had suited him to terrify them in order to get out again without being questioned. 'You are Giustina Polo,' she said. 'I am Arethusa, Messer Carlo Zeno's slave. Will you tell me what has happened?' Giustina had now recovered herself enough to see that this Arethusa was very lovely, and she momentarily forgot the danger she had escaped. 'You are his slave!' she repeated slowly, and still breathing hard. 'Ah--I begin to understand.' 'So do I,' Zoë answered, looking at the handsome, heavy face, the dyed hair, and marble hands. There was something like relief in her tone, now that she had examined her rival well. 'When did Carlo buy you?' asked Giustina, growing coldly insolent as she recovered her breath and realised her social superiority. 'I think it was just five weeks ago,' Zoë answered simply. 'But it seems as if I had always been here.' 'I have no doubt,' said Giustina. 'Five weeks! Yes, I understand now.' Then a fancied sound waked her fear of pursuit again, and her eyes turned quickly towards the door. Yulia was standing beside it, listening with her ear to the crack; she shook her head as she met Giustina's anxious glance. There was nothing; no one was coming. 'You had better tell me what has happened,' Zoë said. 'You met some one who frightened you,' she suggested. Giustina saw that Zoë was in complete ignorance of the Tartar's visit, and she told what she had seen and heard downstairs. As she went on, explaining that Tocktamish demanded ten thousand ducats in Zeno's name, Zoë's expression grew more anxious, for she gathered the truth from the broken and exaggerated narrative. After failing in his attempt to free Johannes, Zeno had fallen into the hands of the soldiers he had won over to the revolution; they demanded an enormous ransom, and if it was not forthcoming they would give him up to Andronicus. It was bad enough, yet it was better than it might have been, for it meant that Zeno was still alive and safe, and would not be hurt so long as his captors could be made to wait for the money they asked. 'Ten thousand ducats!' Zoë repeated. 'It is more than can ever be got together!'