Now, when we were seated together at lunch she turned to me suddenly and said, half laughing, half serious,— “Genius, whom do you consider the greater sufferer—myself or Christ?” “It is a subject I would not discuss,” I decided drily. “You are wise,” she affirmed tauntingly. “Ignorance should always be silent.” But to this I gave no answer, and soon she changed the conversation. From that time onward I remained in the palace, unconscious of the passage of time, except that day followed day in monotonous routine and weariness. Vestné was interesting, and at times even gracious. I have known occasions when she would sacrifice her own inclinations, and even pleasures, to my convenience. She rarely intruded upon me after the first day, unless there was reason for it. If anything, she was more guarded in her conversation, more distant in her manner, and at times would leave me alone for days together in the vast palace. On one of these occasions she had asked me if I cared to join her in going away, but I answered in the negative. She laughed. “It may be as well,” she remarked. “To speak frankly, I must admit some of my friends have found rather amusing nick-names for you. It’s very impolite, I know, but you should never have paid such a lengthy visit in the possession of only one garment.” But press other raiment upon me as they might I always refused it. Never could I bring myself to wear it, however the obsequious, wretched slave might beg or bow. I remembered the remark which had been passed by Plucritus about his punishment in case of failure, but even this threat had not the power to turn me, though it pressed heavily on me every day. Thus the time passed, heavily, wretchedly; I was alone. Never once did I breathe the pure clear atmosphere of hope and light. In the midst of heartless enemies I walked a stranger, becoming daily more accustomed to the jeer and scoffs that met me at every turn. The very slaves eyed me with baffled cunning, hate and greed, longing doubtless for the day of which their master had spoken, when the last ray of hope expired on earth. You, Deborah, should also have to join me in this drear abode. And, besides, the dream spirit of unreality encompassed me about. Everything was misty and despondent, even as the light of day, and earth, and all its shapes, and forms, and joys, and pleasures are to the broken-hearted. CHAPTER IV I remember one afternoon wandering through the grounds alone, hating my empty existence, yet having no power to alter it, when I was interrupted by Vestné coming to me. In her eyes there gleamed that curious, brilliant light which characterised them at times, when stung to answer or excited by some emotion. She did not speak till near me, and then she said, quickly and distinctly,—