Apparently Mouraki did not think the matter worth his care. He had approached very near to Phroso now, leaning down towards her as she sat on the rock. Suddenly I heard a low cry of terror, and ‘No, no,’ in horrified accents; but Mouraki, raising his voice a little, answered, ‘Yes, yes.’ I strained my ears to hear; nay, I half rose from where I sat, and sank back only under the pointed hint of a soldier’s bayonet. I could not hear the words, but a soft pleading murmur came from Phroso, a short relentless laugh from Mouraki, a silence, a shrug of Mouraki’s shoulders. Then he turned and came across to me. ‘Stand back a little,’ said he to the soldiers, ‘but keep your eyes on your prisoner, and if he attempts any movement--’ He did not finish the sentence, which indeed was plain enough without a formal ending. Then he began to speak to me in French. ‘A beautiful thing, my dear lord,’ said he, ‘is the devotion of women. Fortunate are you who have found two ladies to love you!’ ‘You’ve been married twice yourself, I think you told me?’ ‘It’s not exactly the same thing--not necessarily. I am very likely to be married a third time, but I fear I should flatter myself if I thought that much love would accompany the lady’s hand. However it was of you that I desired to speak. This lady here, my dear lord, is so attached to you that I believe she will marry me, purely to ensure your safety. Isn’t it a touching sacrifice?’ ‘I hope she’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said I. ‘Well, it’s little more than a polite fiction,’ he conceded; ‘for she’ll be compelled to marry me anyhow. But it’s the sort of idea that comforts a woman.’ He fixed his eyes on me as he made this remark, enjoying the study of its effect on me. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I never meant to marry her. I’m bound, you know. It was only another polite fiction designed to annoy you, my dear Pasha.’ ‘Ah, is that so? Now, really, that’s amusing,’ and he chuckled. He did not appear annoyed at having been deceived. I wondered a little at that--then. ‘We have really,’ he continued, ‘been living in an atmosphere of polite fictions. For example, Lord Wheatley, there was a polite fiction that I was grieved at Constantine’s escape.’ ‘And another that you were anxious to recapture him.’ ‘And a third that you were not anxious to escape from my--hospitality.’ ‘And a fourth that you were so solicitous for my friends’ enjoyment that you exerted yourself to find them good fishing.’ ‘Ah, yes, yes,’ he laughed. ‘And there is to be one more polite fiction, my dear lord.’ ‘I believe I can guess it,’ said I, meeting his eye. ‘You are always so acute,’ he observed admiringly. ‘Though the precise form of it I confess I don’t understand.’ ‘Well, our lamented Constantine, who had much experience but rather wanted imagination, was in favour of a fever. He told me that it was the usual device in Neopalia.’