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between smoky lashes. Auburn hair, streaming thickly past her shoulders to her waist, glowed in the lamplight.
    Impulsively, Lucas swept off his bonnet and bowed.
    A ghost of a smile touched her. “No, Messer,” she demurred in her lame Genoese. “I am the one who should--” She was about to prostrate herself before him. He caught her around the middle and held her. A slow blush went upward from her bosom. He let her go again, but felt a delighted grin crease his cheeks.
    “Well, this proves virtue is indeed rewarded,” he said. “Assuming that I have been virtuous. Who are you, besides the Queen of Elfland?”
    “Djansha.” She began to tremble once more.
    “That sounds Circassian. Are you?”
    “So you call us.” Quick pride lifted her head. “ We say the Adygei. My father was Aoublaa of the Chipakou.” He knew those wild mountaineers in the Caucasus had long furnished the most high-priced slaves. To calm her, he said merely, “I am Lucas Greco, of nowhere in particular,” and filled a cup for her from the wine crock. “Welcome, Djansha.”
    She gulped thirstily. He refilled the cup, took a few swallows, gave her the rest, and sat down on the floor, looking quizzically up at her.
    “I’m not certain of the best thing to do,” he said. “My impulses have often gotten me into trouble.”
    She spilled half the wine, staining her dress as if with blood, and cried: “You will not give me back to him?”
    “Um-m-m . . . there’s a question of law, you know.” Lucas scratched his head. “Where were you going?”
    She stared out the window. “He said to a feast. And afterward, he thought, a brothel.” She drained the cup in a draught, picked up the crock, and shakily helped herself.
    Lucas nodded. “A vile business! “
    She said something in her own language. He raised inquiring brows. She snarled the meaning: “May Shible the Just smite them with thunderbolts! “
    “But you knew why you were being transported,” he said. “I never heard concubinage was accounted a disgrace among your people.”
    “It is not.” She spoke more quickly now, slurring a trifle as the wine took hold. “But I had hoped--My father was an uork , Lucas. A noble, you would say? My brothers warriors. I thought I would go to a Turk. Or a ... a warrior. A man to give me children ... and my sons would be free warriors again--” She emptied her cup and dashed it to the floor. “A brothel!” she yelled.
    Lucas rose. She flung herself against his breast and wept. He held her close, stroked the bronze hair and made promises that no reasonable man should have uttered.
    Until at last she stepped back and laughed up at him through the tears. She fumbled with her girdle. It fell, and she pulled the dress over her head and stood naked.
    “You are a warrior,” she said. “You have won me. Take me.”
     

Chapter II
     
    The room which the visiting Knights of St. John shared, near the Church of the Holy Apostles, was long, clean, and airy. An open window overlooked a descending hill covered with houses, multitudinous domes, and finally the Bosporus, sparkling blue under a sky where the wind chased little white clouds. Blue as Djansha’s eyes, thought Lucas dreamily.
    “My brothers are out on their business,” said Hugh. “We can talk in private.”
    “Eh?” Lucas regained awareness with a start. “Oh. Yes.” Hugh studied him carefully. “Before I say anything more,” he continued, “I must know why Gasparo Reni sought your life.”
    “Only God can tell!” The steady gaze speared him. Lucas’ ears grew hot. “Oh, very well. The same reason which drove me from Venice in the first instance. He found his wife and I were lovers, and took it ill.”
    “As well he might,” said Hugh severely.
    “Was it such a great matter?” Lucas defended himself. “Affairs of that sort are taken lightly enough by most Venetians. And I was a mere boy. And name of God, that was fourteen years ago!”
    Still Hugh watched him, until he