'I was in that boat,' she said simply, 'dying of thirst, as you yourself said, and the reason I let myself slip into the water was to make an end the sooner.'

'You had not seen Yorgo and his boat?'

'I was past seeing anything. There was something red, but I thought it was only another mirage. Do you know what it means to die of thirst?'

The woman shook her head but there had been a revealing tremor in Marianne's voice on the last words, and she lay back, white-faced. The stranger frowned and rose quickly.

'Are you still thirsty?'

'And hungry…'

'Wait, then… You shall talk afterwards.'

A few minutes later, after swallowing a little cold fish, some goat cheese, bread, grapes and a cup of a remarkably heady wine, Marianne felt restored to life and able to satisfy her hostess's curiosity, in so far as that was possible without running into fresh perils.

The woman was Greek, an inhabitant of a country under Turkish occupation, and she herself was an envoy sent to those same Turks with the object of reviving the ties of friendship between their two nations. Marianne hesitated a moment, not knowing quite how to begin her story. In the end, she asked a perfectly natural question which, besides allowing her more time for thought, would also test the ground a little.

'Can you tell me, if you please,' she asked softly, 'where I am? I have no idea…'

But the woman refused to be drawn.

'Where did you come from, with your boat?'

'From a ship bound for Constantinople, from which I was set adrift on the open sea a little before dawn. That must have been three days ago.' Marianne sighed. 'We had sailed past Cythera that morning…'

'Of what nationality was this ship? And what had you done to make them set you adrift like that? And in your nightgown?'

The woman's tone was deeply suspicious and Marianne thought wretchedly that her story was really rather improbable and it would not be easy to make anyone believe it. However, the truth was always likelier to ring true than any made-up tale, however well-intended.

'The vessel was American. A brig, out of Charleston, South Carolina. Captain – Captain Jason Beaufort.'

It was all she could do to utter the name. It came out as a kind of strangled sob, but had at least the unexpected advantage of making the woman's stern face relax a little. The heavy eyebrows, so dark they might have been drawn in Indian ink, rose slightly.

'Jason? A fine Greek name for an American. But it seems to cause you pain. Are you by any chance the Medea to this Jason? Was it he who abandoned you?'

'No – not him!'

The cry of protest sprang straight from Marianne's heart. Her face clouded and she went on in a deadened voice: 'There was a mutiny on board… I think Jason is probably a prisoner – but he may be dead, and my friends with him.'

Omitting only her own adventures in Venice which could do nothing but add to the unlikelihood of her whole situation, she told the story of the Sea Witch's fatal voyage as best she could. She told how Leighton, to obtain possession of the ship for use in the slave-trade, had done his utmost to set Jason against her, how, in so far as she had been able to reconstruct the course of events, he had succeeded in getting hold of the ship and, finally, how he had set her adrift in an open boat, without food or water, and with no possible hope of rescue. She told of her fears for those she had left on board: for Jolival, Gracchus, Agathe, and for Kaleb who had been flogged for trying to rid the vessel of the devil who coveted it.

She must have put enough real passion into her account of the experiences of those dreadful days for it to carry conviction, because, as she talked, the look of suspicion faded from the other woman's face and was replaced by curiosity. She sat with her long legs crossed, her elbow on her knee and her chin resting on her hand, listening with the deepest interest but in complete silence.

At last, unnerved by this lack of speech, Marianne ventured to ask:

'Does it – does it seem to you very improbable? I know my story must sound like a novel – but it is the truth, I swear it.'

The woman shrugged.

'The Turks have a saying that the truth floats and will never be put down. Yours has a strange sound, like all truth, but do not be alarmed. I have heard far stranger stories than this of yours. You have only to tell me now what is your name, and what was your business at Constantinople?'

The difficult moment had come, when the choice must be made that might have dire consequences. From the beginning of this conversation, Marianne had been reluctant to reveal her proper identity. She had considered giving a false name, explaining her presence on board the American vessel as the flight of a woman in love, anxious to put the greatest possible distance between her guilty joys and a husband's anger, but she had been studying her hostess's grave face while she talked and found herself increasingly disliking the idea of handing her a fabrication which, love story or not, was more than likely to disgust her. In addition, Marianne knew herself to be a bad liar, and a clumsy one, like any woman not in the habit of lying. She was not even very good at keeping her feelings to herself, as the recent catastrophic end to her love had proved all too clearly.

She remembered, quite suddenly, something that François Vidocq had said to her as they journeyed back together from the coast of Brittany. 'Life, my dear, is a vast ocean strewn with reefs. We can expect to strike one at any moment. It is best to be prepared. In that way, there is often a chance of escape…'

The reef was there before her, hidden behind that broad, impenetrable brow, those enigmatic features. Telling herself that she had nothing more to lose, except for a problematical revenge, Marianne decided to drive straight at it. After all, whatever happened, it did not matter very much now, and if the woman believed that she was an enemy and killed her, it would not be so very terrible. She said clearly and steadily:

'I am called Marianne d'Asselnat de Villeneuve, Princess Sant'Anna, and I am going to Constantinople at the command of my master, the Emperor Napoleon, in order to persuade the Sultana, to whom I am related in some degree, to break off the alliance with England and resume friendly relations with France – and also to pursue the war with Russia. There, now I think you know all about me.'

The effect of this candid statement was astonishing. The woman sprang to her feet, became very red and then, as the redness faded, was left as pale as ever. She stared at the castaway, open-mouthed, as though about to speak, but then shut it again without a word. After which she turned abruptly on her heel and made for the door, as though she had suddenly been faced with a heavy load of responsibility which was more than she could bring herself to deal with. She stopped dead at the sound of Marianne's voice:

'May I remind you that, while I have told you everything you wished to know, you, on your side, have not yet answered my perfectly natural question. Where am I? And who are you?'

The woman swung round and stared at Marianne out of the black eyes which looked larger than ever.

'This is the island of Santorini, known to the ancients as Thera, the poorest of all Greek islands, where one is never sure of living until tomorrow, or even until nightfall, because it rests on the primeval fire. As for me, you may call me Sappho. I am known by that name.'

Without adding another word, the strange woman hurried from the room, stopping to lock the door carefully behind her. Marianne shrugged, resigned already to this new kind of prison. Then she picked up the peplos which Sappho – since Sappho she was – had left behind and, wrapping it round herself, lay down again on the goatskins and prepared to recoup her strength properly by a really good sleep. The die was cast now. It was out of her hands.

The early evening found her still locked in the chapel, sitting by the window, without having set eyes on a living soul. The view before her was a strange one, consisting of an expanse of ruins and ashes, in which each object seemed to partake of a peculiar silvery quality. The stumps of broken columns and fragments of walls rose from a fine dust made up of every shade of grey. All this jutted out from a wide plateau one side of which was under cultivation. The labour of the peasants had carved out great terraces which were planted with low vines, sheltered by fig trees twisted by the wind and silvered over with the ubiquitous dust. On the far side, beyond a dilapidated stone windmill with tattered sails, the plateau seemed to drop straight down into the sea.

Here and there in the distance was the white cube of a house or the shape of a donkey, so grey and still that it might have been turned to stone like everything else in that depressing landscape which, although scarcely likely to raise the spirits of one who had every reason to regard herself as a prisoner, nevertheless exerted a curious fascination over Marianne: so much so that she jumped when she heard Sappho's calm voice behind her.

'If you would care to join us,' the voice was saying, 'this is the time for us to salute the sun… Dress yourself.'

She held out a tunic like the ones Marianne had already seen on the other girls, with a pair of sandals and a fillet for her hair.

'I should like to wash,' Marianne said. 'I have never felt so dirty.'

'Of course. Wait, I will bring water for you.'

She was back in a moment with a full bucket which she set down on the worn flagstones. In her other hand she had a piece of soap and a towel.