"I assure you," Maraton replied, "that I can."

She was trembling slightly. She had never seemed to him so tall. Her
eyes now were ablaze. She had indeed the air of a prophetess.

"They are ignorant men, they who sent you that letter," she continued,
pointing to it, "but they have the truth. Do you know what they are
saying?"

Maraton inclined his head gravely. He felt that he knew very well what
they were saying. She did not give him time, however, to interrupt.

"They are saying that you are to be bought, that that is why you are
here, that Mr. Foley will pay a great price for you. They are saying
that all those hopes we had built upon your coming, are to be dashed
away. They say that you are for the flesh-pots. I daren't breathe a
word of this to Aaron," she added hurriedly, "or I think that he would
go mad. He is blind with passionate love for you. He does not see the
danger, he will not believe that you are not as a god."

Maraton looked past her into the gardens, away into the violet sky. The
nightingale was singing now clearly and wonderfully. Perhaps, for a
moment, his thoughts strayed from the great battle of life. Perhaps his
innate sense and worship of beauty, the artist in the man, which was the
real thing making him great in his daily work, triumphed apart from any
other consideration. The music of life was in his veins. Soft and
stately, Elisabeth, standing a little apart, was looking in upon them,
an exquisite figure with a background of dark green trees.