darted forward, picked up the sistrum, and forgetting the danger in which
he was placing himself, held it out to the princess.

Tachot looked at him earnestly before taking the golden sistrum from his
hands, and then said, in a low voice, which only he could understand:
"Are you Bartja? Tell me, in your mother's name--are you Bartja?"

"Yes, I am," was his answer, in a voice as low as her own, "your friend,
Bartja."

He could not say more, for the priests pushed him back among the crowd.
When he was in his old place, he noticed that Tachot, whose bearers had
begun to move on again, was looking round at him. The color had come
back into her cheeks, and her bright eyes were trying to meet his. He
did not avoid them; she threw him a lotus-bud-he stooped to pick it up,
and then broke his way through the crowd, for this hasty act had roused
their attention.

A quarter of an hour later, he was seated in the boat which was to take
him to Sappho and to his wedding. He was quite at ease now about
Zopyrus. In Bartja's eyes his friend was already as good as saved, and
in spite of the dangers which threatened himself, he felt strangely calm
and happy, he could hardly say why.

Meanwhile the sick princess had been carried home, had had her oppressive
ornaments taken off, and her couch carried on to one of the palace-
balconies where she liked best to pass the hot summer days, sheltered by
broad-leaved plants, and a kind of awning.

From this veranda, she could look down into the great fore-court of the