Lycabetta shrugged her beautiful shoulders and her gleaming raiment rippled in little waves of changing color.
"Sick or well, living or dead, you will find no father here, nor mother neither; but I will be your sister, if you please, sweet simplicity."
Perpetua looked at her with brave, quiet eyes of dislike.
"Who are you?" she asked, holding her senses well together in the presence of unsuspected danger.
Lycabetta answered her, languidly amused.
"I am everything and nothing. There are poets who rhyme me the Rose of the World. There are priests who name me the Strange Woman. I am Lycabetta."
"Lycabetta!" Perpetua repeated the name almost unconsciously, and Lycabetta saw that it had no meaning to her ears.
"Has no love-wind ever blown my name to your sky-nest?" she asked. "Has your royal lover never named my name? For I, too, am one of the King's darlings."
Perpetua started at the mention of the King's name, and looked around again at the gorgeous cage.
"The King! the King! Is this the King's house?" she asked, with wider eyes and clinched fingers.
"Every house in Sicily is the King's house, and my poor roof is as loyal as the best. This is my house and yours, for now you dwell in it at the King's pleasure."
"Then I will leave it at my own pleasure, instantly." She knew that she was snared, but she showed no sign of fear.
Lycabetta shook her head and smiled evilly.
"I think you will stay. Every door is guarded, every bolt driven home. My frightened bird, you cannot escape from this cage."
She knew that the girl was at her mercy and began to find stealthy delight in the thought. Perpetua faced her boldly, holding her head high. Pagan and Christian faced each other with bright eyes.
"I do not fear you," Perpetua said, calmly. "You dare not hold me here against my will. The King himself has no power over a free woman. If you restrain me, I will call for help, and every honest hand in Syracuse will be raised to set me free."
Lycabetta laughed again, and her laughter seemed to run over her in waves of colored fire as her thin garments trembled on her body.
"My gardens are deep and dim and quiet. No sound from here would reach the world outside. No, not the death-cry nor the shriek of tortured flesh."