Kyría Agatha closed her eyes again, but Zoë still watched her. The conviction grew in the girl that the real danger was over, and that the delicately nurtured woman only needed care and warmth and food. That was all, but that was the unattainable, since there was nothing left that could be sold; nothing but Zoë's rare and lovely self. A hundred golden ducats were a fortune. In old Nectaria's hands such a sum would buy real comfort for more than a year, and in that time no one could tell what might happen. A turn of fortune might bring the Emperor John back to the throne. He had been a weak ruler, but neither cruel nor ungrateful, and surely he would provide for the widow of the Commander of his Guards who had perished in torment for being faithful to him. Then Zoë's freedom might be bought again, and she would go into a convent and live a good life to the end, in expiation of such evil as might be thrust upon her as a bought slave. This she could do, and this she must do, for there was no other way to save Agatha's life, and the lives of the little boys. 'A little more milk,' said the sick woman, opening her eyes again. Nectaria crouched over the embers, and warmed what was left of the milk. Zoë, watching her movements, saw that it was the last; but Kyría Agatha was surely better, and would ask for more during the night, and there would be none to give her; none, perhaps, until nearly noon to-morrow. Nectaria took the pan of coals away to replenish it, going out to the back of the ruined house in order to light the charcoal in the open air. The sick woman closed her eyes again, being momentarily satisfied and warm. Zoë sank upon her knees beside the bed, forgetting that she was cold and half-starved, as the tide of her thoughts rose in a wave of despair. The fitful night breeze wafted the words of the mad woman's crooning along the lane, 'Eleeison! Eleeison!' And Zoë unconsciously answered, as she would have answered in church, 'Kyrie eleeison!' 'Blessed Michael, Archangel, give us meat, we starve!' came the wild song, now high and distinct. 'Kyrie eleeison!' answered Zoë on her knees. Then she sprang to her feet like a startled animal. Some one had knocked at the door. With one hand she gathered her thin rags across her bosom, the other unconsciously went to the sick woman's shoulder, as if at once to reassure her and to bid her be silent. Again the knocking came, discreet still, but a little louder than before. Nectaria was still away and busy with the pan of coals, and the sick woman heard nothing, for she was sound asleep at last. Zoë saw this, and drew her bare feet out of her patched slippers before she ran lightly to the door. 'Who knocks?' she asked in a very low tone, clasping her tattered garment to her body. The Bokharian's smooth voice answered her in oily accents. 'I am Rustan,' he said. 'I am suddenly obliged to go on a journey, and I start at dawn.'