and worn and listless. Did they tie her hands? Would they let her run
about a little--and play? But she could not play--a child could not
play in all the strangeness and sordidness. The mother had watched the
dripping rain too long. It seemed to be falling on coffins. She crept
back to the fire and held out her hands to a feeble blaze that
flickered up, and died out. Why did not Marie come back? It was three
o'clock--where was Marie? She looked about her and held out her hands to
the blaze and shivered--there was fire in her veins, and beside her
on the hearth the child seemed to crouch and shiver and reach out thin
hands to the warmth. Phil had said they would not hurt her! But what
could a man know? He did not know the sensitive child-nature that
trembled at a word. And she was with rough men--hideous women--longing
to come home--wondering why they did not come for her and take her
away... dear child! How cruel Phil was! She crouched nearer the fire,
her eyes devouring it--her thoughts crowding on the darkness. Those
terrible men had been silent seven weeks--more than seven--desperate
weeks... not a word out of the darkness--and she could not cry out to
them--perhaps they would not tap the wires again! The thought confronted
her and she sprang up and walked wildly, her pulses beating in her
temples.... She stopped by a table and looked down. A little vial lay
there, and the medicine dropper and wine glass--waiting. She turned her
head uneasily and moved away. She must save it for the night--for the
dark hours that never passed. But she must think of something! She
glanced about her, and rang the bell sharply, and waited.

"I want the Greek boy," she said, "send him to me!"

"Yes, madame." Marie's voice hurried itself away... and Alcibiades stood
in the doorway, looking in.