"So much the better," said the old woman. "Uarda would be just the wife for you, she is good and steady, and no one knows--"
"What?" said Nemu.
"Who her mother was--for she was not one of us. She came here from foreign parts, and when she died she left a trinket with strange letters on it. We must show it to one of the prisoners of war, after you have got her safe; perhaps they could make out the queer inscription. She comes of a good stock, that I am certain; for Uarda is the very living image of her mother, and as soon as she was born, she looked like the child of a great man. You smile, you idiot! Why thousands of infants have been in my hands, and if one was brought to me wrapped in rags I could tell if its parents were noble or base-born. The shape of the foot shows it--and other marks. Uarda may stay where she is, and I will help you. If anything new occurs let me know."