But we must leave our nobler guests for more humble scenes, and follow Syra from the time that she left her young mistress’s apartment. When she presented herself to Euphrosyne, the good-natured nurse was shocked at the cruel wound, and uttered an exclamation of pity. But immediately recognizing in it the work of Fabiola, she was divided between two contending feelings. “Poor thing!” she said, as she went on first washing, then closing and dressing, the gash; “it is a dreadful cut! What did you do to deserve it? How it must have hurt you, my poor girl! But how wicked you must have been to bring it upon yourself! It is a savage wound, yet inflicted by the gentlest of creatures! (You must be faint from loss of blood; take this cordial to support you): and no doubt she found herself obliged to strike.” “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. This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little parlor opposite the porter’s room, where the higher slaves could see their friends. She held in her hand a basket covered with a napkin. The moment she entered the door a light step came bounding across the room to meet her. It was that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in the poorest attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms round Syra’s neck with such a bright countenance and such hearty glee, that a bystander would hardly have supposed that her sightless eyes had never communed with the outer world. “Sit down, dear Cæcilia,” said Syra, with a most affectionate tone, and leading her to a seat; “to-day I have brought you a famous feast; you will fare sumptuously.” “How so? I think I do every day.” “No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a dainty dish from her table, and I have brought it here for you.”