Open market-places were still busy,
though the afternoon trade was slackening.
But the Boy was too tired and faint with hunger and heavy at heart
to take an interest in these things. He turned back toward the
gate, and, missing his way a little, came to a great pool of water,
walled in wit, white stone, with five porticos around it. In some
of these porticos there were a few people lying upon mats. But one
of the porches was empty, and here the Boy sat down.
He was worn out. His cheek was bleeding again, and the drops
trickled down his neck. He went down the broad steps to the pool
to wash away the blood. But he could not do it very well. His head
ached too much. So he crept back to the porch, unwound his little
turban, curled himself in a corner on the hard stones, his head
upon his arm, and fell sound asleep.
He was awakened by a voice calling him, a hand laid upon his
shoulder. He looked up and saw the face of a young woman, dark-eyed,
red-lipped, only a few years older than himself. She was clad in
silk, with a veil of gauze over her head, gold coins in her hair,
and a phial of alabaster hanging by a gold chain around her neck.
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