Darman stood back to admire the effect of her ministrations. Darman, like Bhanar, snatched from some distant village, was short, fat and continually sniffling or weeping outright. She had often assured Bhanar, as indeed she had assured other unfortunates whom it had been her lot to serve in a like capacity, that the love and devotion which she bore her, alone prevented her from throwing herself overboard. In the present case it may well have been the truth, for Darman had conceived an utter infatuation for the beautiful Syrian. On the contrary, Darman loathed her loud-voiced master, though her abject fear of him was cause for jest with the whole crew, including Baltu himself. In spite of her threats to do away with herself Darman had now spent six years upon the Tyrian’s vessel. During this time she had prepared hundreds of timorous maidens for their first, and last, appearance upon the slave-traders’ dais. When the owner grew tired of his new plaything, like the playthings of infancy, it disappeared. No one knew whither, no one cared. Bhanar reappeared on deck to find Baltu in the act of teasing the unfortunate youth, who now lay prostrate at his feet in an agony of fear and apprehension. “Up! Dry those woman’s tears, Page of Pharaoh! Dost wish a tombkeeper to purchase thee? Queen Ataho’s page servitor to a mummy! Pull thyself together, boy! Otherwise”—Baltu closed his eyes, folded his hands across his chest and assumed the rigid pose of a mummy. As his eyes opened he caught sight of the advancing Bhanar: “Astar’s doves! Did I not tell thee Darman, ‘A robe of cream, transparent, bordered with green and gold, dainty sandals of pink and gold, a simple gold diadem and the hair parted in the center—so!’ Seen through such Syrian byssus that rosy form proclaims thee Astar’s daughter. Ah, Nebamon, what a treat for thine eyes!” Hardly waiting for the unfortunate Hittite youth to gather himself together, Baltu, trembling with excitement and cupidity, led his two victims to the long cedar gangplank. Once on shore he pushed aside the sweating carriers, and pulling along his two charges with him, started off down the street. Presently they passed the common slaver’s block. Two brilliantly painted booths were at the moment in use. Upon one stood a stolid Nubian woman and two weeping children; upon the other a troop of half-starved Amu, whom the priests of Karnak, their original owners, were now selling. Baltu’s great fist thundered at the door of the last house southward along the waterfront. He slid back the bolt and threw open the door, waving his two charges into a narrow corridor. In a stentorian voice he shouted a command or greeting to the unseen inhabitants of the dwelling and stalked off down the corridor, and then up a short flight of stairs to a room in the harem or second story.