XXXIIArtos sat in his gilded chair, dressed now in a purple vestment that hung about him richly, like the robes of an emperor. At his sandalled feet lay a little greyhound, its neck encircled by a narrow golden collar. A young man smoothed the Count’s hair, which he had now allowed to grow longer again, rubbing his scalp gently with heavy-scented unguents. A slave-girl knelt beneath the heavily embroidered wall hangings, drawing her fingers with slow rhythmic movements across the strings of a harp.
Artos stared at her thick-red gold hair, which hung glistening to her waist. He admired the slim beauty of the arms, the long sensitive fingers, the full and ivory whiteness of the naked breasts. The dark gold rings and armbands which he had given her seemed part of her colouring. The great eme
