"You must not call yourself a slave, Arisa," answered Jacopo.

"What am I, then? You bought me with your good gold from Aristarchi the
Greek captain, in the slave market. Your steward has the receipt for the
money among his accounts! And there is the Greek's written guarantee,
too, I am sure, promising to take me back and return the money if I was
not all he told you I was. Those are my documents of nobility, my
patents of rank, preserved in your archives with your own!"

She spoke playfully, smiling to herself as she stroked his hair. But he
caught her hand tenderly and brought it to his lips, holding it there.

"You are more free than I," he said. "Which of us two is the slave? You
who hold me, or I who am held? This little hand will never let me go."

"I think you would come back to me," she answered. "But if I ran away,
would you follow me?"

"You will not run away." He spoke quietly and confidently, still holding
her hand, as if he were talking to it, while he felt the breath of her
winds upon his forehead.

"No," she said, and there was a little silence.

"I have but one fear," he began, at last. "If I were ruined, what would
become of you?"

"Have you lost at play again to-night?" she asked, and in her tone there
was a note of anxiety.