"Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. He stepped quickly towards her. Then, naturally, I went on talking. His head bent down, intent on kissing her underneath the showerhead. But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack. We have met before.
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