"Give place!" cried Mena, bustling officiously into the crowd. "Make way for the noble Phradates!"
One of the soldiers raised the scarf long enough for the Ph[oe]nician to see the young woman's face. Her beauty evidently made a deep impression upon him, for his expression changed and he seemed hardly able to take his eyes from her.
"Where is this Chares?" he inquired, at last, staring about him.
Mena indicated the Theban with a nod, and then, noticing that all eyes were turned upon his master, he bawled out: "Make room for Phradates of the royal blood of Tyre!"
"Do you want to sell him?" asked the auctioneer.
The Ph[oe]nician's face became purple and he turned angrily upon Mena, but the alert Egyptian had slipped away to fetch the gold.
"Three talents for the girl!" Phradates cried.
The spectators, who had long ago ceased to think of bidding against the Theban, drew a deep breath and looked from one contestant to the other. Maia alone seemed indifferent. A tress of her hair had fallen upon her shoulder. She twisted it back into place. Chares had not seen her face when the soldier lifted her veil and his attention was now centred upon his opponent.
"Seven talents!" Phradates shouted, fixing his eyes defiantly upon Chares.
"Eight!" the Theban answered, without hesitation.
This was more than all the other captives in the group had brought. The crowd began to hum with excitement. Phradates looked over his shoulder and saw Mena leading four slaves who carried bags of gold.
"All bids must be paid in cash," the auctioneer said warningly.
Every face was turned toward Chares, who had called his steward and was consulting with him. "How much have we left?" the Theban asked. The man made a rapid calculation on his tablets.
"You have ten talents and thirty minæ," he replied. "That is the end."
"I bid ten talents and thirty minæ," Chares said promptly, addressing the auctioneer.
It was evident to all that he could go no further. Would Phradates be able to outbid him? The Ph[oe]nician hesitated and turned to Mena.
"He has won," the slave whispered. "You have only ten talents. If you had beaten him, we should have starved to death."
"Then we will starve!" Phradates replied. "I demand that the gold be weighed!"