The Story of a Divine Tragedy

The following morning, there was a rap at the door of the chamber to
which Laodice had been led and informed that it was her own.

She had passed a sleepless night and had risen early, but the knock
came late in the morning.

She opened the door.

Without stood a ten year old girl, of the most bewitching beauty, as
barely clad as ever the children of her blood went over the green
meadows of Achaia. Her golden hair was knotted on the back of her
pretty head and held in place by an ampyx. On her feet were tiny
sheepskin buskins; about her perfect little body, worn carelessly, was
a simple chiton, out of which her dimpled shoulders and small round
arms showed pink and tender as field-flowers. Nothing could have been
more composed than her gaze at Laodice.

"We breakfast in the hall, now. You are to join us," she said.

Laodice stepped, out of the chamber into the court and followed her
little guide.

"The mistress and her guests rise late," the child went on. "That
perforce starves the rest of us until mid-morning. Eheu! It is the one
injustice in this house."

Laodice dumbly wondered if she were to be classed with the house
servants while she waited until the return of her devoted old mute.

She was led into a long narrow room, showing the same simple elegance
that marked all the house of Amaryllis, the Greek. Down the center
were two tables, separated by a cluster of tall plants that almost
screened one from the other.