CHAPTER III

THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY

Now, while telling his story, Crispus had become suddenly alive to the presence of a very beautiful girl sitting at an adjoining triclinium. It was not so much her beauty, however, that attracted him as the attention she had paid to his words. She was by far the keenest and most attentive of his listeners, seeming to hang breathless upon his lips during the whole recital; of all the assembly, she seemed to be the only person to receive the story with pleasure.

“Rufus,” whispered he, “who is that girl with the lovely golden tresses? To the left of us--on the next triclinium?”

Rufus turned in leisurely fashion to survey the maid in question.

“I know not her name, or who she is. She came hither accompanied by him who reclines beside her. As I see no likeness betwixt the two, I take it he is not her father.”

The man referred to was evidently a Hebrew, and distinguished both by his noble features and rich attire.

“Her father? Not he!” said Tertullus. “That is Josephus, a Jew, and yon damsel, I’ll swear, is no Jewess. There is a grace and beauty about her that is quite Ionic.”

“Who is this Josephus?” asked Crispus.

“He is a priest of the first of the twenty-four courses,” replied Tertullus, “and a rabbi so wondrously wise from his cradle upwards that when he was only fourteen, aged priests and venerable sanhedrists would consult him on points of the law too hard for their own understanding.”

“What’s your authority for that story?” said Rufus dryly.

“The best authority--his own.[3] He hath told me so many a time. At the mature age of seventeen he had exhausted the whole course of philosophy, and had decided that Pharisaism is the road to heaven. But though a Pharisee, he cultivates Grecian literature, has literary aspirations, and is said to be writing at the present time a treatise that shall prove us Greeks and Romans to be in the matter of antiquity mere children of yesterday when compared with the Jews.”

Josephus did not much interest Crispus, but the young girl did, and he continued to watch her. This was probably her first experience of a Gentile banquet, and she seemed ill at ease amid her new surroundings. And no wonder! If the naked statuary and voluptuous paintings to be seen around, the immodest Coan robes worn by the women, and the shameless license of their language were distasteful even to the pagan Crispus, how much more so to a young maiden trained in the pure and lofty principles of Judaism? Berenice, alas! reared in the atmosphere of a decadent court, could learn in the Prætorium of Florus little that was new in the shape of wickedness, but the case was far different with a young and innocent girl.

“If this Josephus be her guardian, he is not exercising much discretion,” thought Crispus. “The banquet-hall of Florus is not the place to bring a young girl to.”

At this point Ananias, the ex-high pontiff of the Jews, and Theomantes, the priest of Zeus Cæsarius, created a diversion.

“Ay, ay,” muttered Rufus, “I knew that they’d be quarreling ere long.”

The two representatives of antagonistic religions were holding an animated dispute; as the controversy waxed hotter their voices rose proportionately, till at last they attracted general attention. Everyone else in the assembly left off talking to listen to the disputants.

“Mercury a thief?” cried Theomantes. “So be it, then! And is it not written in your foolish scriptures that while Adam slept God stole from his side a rib which He fashioned into the first woman? What else, then, is _your_ God but a thief?”

Ananias’ reply was anticipated by the Princess Berenice, ever quick to defend her ancestral religion.

“I will answer you,” said she to Theomantes. “Last night some thieves broke into my house, and stole a silver vase.” She paused for a moment, then added, “But they left a golden one in its stead.”

The Jewish guests greeted Berenice’s little parable with loud applause.

“Jupiter!” laughed Florus, “I wish such thieves would come every night.”

Theomantes returned to the attack. Holding his serpent close to the face of Ananias, and causing the reptile to give a hiss that made the Hebrew priest start, he laughed and said:

“My God is greater than yours.”

“Prove it,” sneered Ananias.

“Is it not written that when your God appeared in the burning bush, Moses drew near, but when he saw the serpent, which is my god, he fled?”

“True,” replied Berenice, answering for the silent Ananias, “and a few steps sufficed to put him beyond reach of the serpent. But how can one flee from _our_ God, Who fills all space, Who at one and the same time is in heaven and in earth, on sea and on land?”

Theomantes, about to continue the dispute, was checked by a gesture from Florus, so the heathen priest, with a somewhat dark look at Berenice, subsided into silence.

“You have here,” commented Rufus, “a specimen of what is always happening in Cæsarea when Jew and Gentile meet. But, ah! here cometh the wine.”

Now, it was the fashion of that day to begin the drinking with an invocation to the reigning emperor, and hence Florus, looking around upon his guests, lifted his cup as a sign for them to do the like, saying at the same time:

“Friends, a libation to the god Nero!”

The _god_ Nero!

Though to the pagan portion of the assembly the words conveyed no impiety, the case was otherwise with the Jews, but those present were of the worldly-wise class that sacrifices religion to policy, and hence most of them, including the Sadducee Ananias and the Pharisee Josephus, shamelessly prepared to join with Florus in offering to the wickedest man of that age a libation as to a god.

Now, pagan though Crispus was, there was one thing in the Roman religion that he, in common with many others, could not approve, and that was the deification of the living emperor, especially when the deification extended to such a one as Nero. And yet to refrain from joining in the libation was dangerous, being tantamount to the guilt of _læsa majestas_; and of all crimes, the greatest, in the eyes of the buffoon then at the head of the empire, was the refusal to acknowledge his divinity.

Come what might, Crispus determined to have no part in the libation, and while there was on all sides a preparatory lifting of cups, his own remained untouched. He found a companion in Rufus, and some others, including the unknown maiden, whose eyes were eloquently expressive of abhorrence.

He and those of like thought were rescued from an embarrassing situation by the action of the Princess Berenice. With a pale face and agitated air she had risen to her feet, and in a voice trembling with suppressed emotion she addressed the wondering assembly.

“There once reigned,” she began, “and in this very city, a king who, on a set day, made an oration to his people; and they cried, ‘It is the voice of a god, and not of a man!’ And because he rebuked not their words the hand of heaven smote him there that he died. And that king,” she added, with a catch in her voice, “that king was my father!”

The fate of Agrippa the Elder was well known to all the guests, some of whom, indeed, had been present at that divine judgment--pronounced by the smitten king himself to be divine--and the memory of the event, added to the impressive words and solemn manner of his fair daughter, caused a thrill to pervade the assembly.

“And now, O Florus, do you desire the like fate for Nero? To call him god is to draw upon him the wrath of that eternal One, Who will not permit His glory to be given to another.”

As she sat down amid a murmur of approval from the better-minded, it became suddenly apparent to Florus that he had made a big blunder. All-desirous as he was of winning the favor of Berenice, he had strangely overlooked the fact that the libation in the form proposed by him might be distasteful to the religious ideas of the Jewish princess. He gladly seized the opportunity of extricating himself from an awkward situation by endorsing the words of Crispus, who said:

“The princess hath spoken well. Let us, O Florus, not give to a mortal, however highly placed, the honor that belongs only to the immortals.”

“Be it as the princess wishes,” said the procurator. “We will change the phrasing to one in which all may join.” With that he added, “To the health of the Emperor Nero!” and plashed upon the tesselated pavement a few drops of the ruddy wine, an example in which he was followed by the rest of the guests, Jew and Gentile alike.

“A beautiful cup, O Florus,” remarked Tertullus, attentively eyeing the goblet from which the procurator had made his libation. “I am quite charmed by it. May one ask for a closer look?”

The cup in question was one of those myrrhine vases imported from the far East, vases whose delicate semi-transparent material was as much a mystery to the ancient Romans as it is to the modern antiquary.

“Mark my word,” whispered Tertullus to Rufus, “if we shall not find on one side of that cup a natural vein of purple curving into something like the shape of a Grecian lyre.”

Florus, always glad to have the excellency of his treasures acknowledged, addressed a slave.

“Girl, pass this cup to the noble Tertullus. A judge of art, he will know how to appreciate such a work. By the gods, have a care how you carry it!”

The girl, thus bidden, conveyed the vessel to Tertullus. Its chief beauty consisted in the great variety of its colors, and the wreathing veins which here and there presented shades of purple and white, with a blending of the two. As Tertullus had said, one of these veins bore considerable resemblance to a lyre.

“I never thought to see thee again,” muttered Tertullus to himself, apostrophizing the cup. “How come you here in the hands of Florus? A rare work of art,” he added aloud, as he returned the cup to the procurator. “You have had it long?”

“These seven years.”

“Seven days, you mean,” murmured Tertullus; then aloud, “It must have cost an immense sum.”

“Thirty talents,” replied Florus with a careless air, as though the amount were a mere trifle. “There are but two vases of this kind in all the empire; they were brought to Rome by a Parthian merchant. Petronius purchased the one, I the other.”

“What a liar you are!” thought Tertullus; and then, as if dismissing the matter altogether from his mind, he said in a low tone to Rufus:

“Doth Simon the Black still linger in his dungeon?”

Rufus replied in the affirmative.

“May one ask,” smiled Crispus, “who is this Simon the Black?”

“You are a stranger in Judæa, or you would not have to ask that question,” returned Rufus. “Simon the Black was till lately the chief of a robber-band of Zealots, whose haunt was among the almost inaccessible crags that overhang the Red Way, the famous pass that leads from Jerusalem to Jericho. The Jew was allowed to traverse the pass in safety; the ordinary Gentile was taken captive and held to ransom; but as to the Roman, woe to him if caught!--it being the way of Simon to hang all such without the alternative of a ransom. Hence he is called by those of the Jews who hate our rule, ‘The Scourge of the Romans,’ and is regarded by them as a patriot.

“The curious part of it all is that Florus, though often appealed to both by the Romans and Greeks of Cæsarea, refrained for a long time from sending a military expedition against this nest of robbers, and when at last he yielded to public pressure, and dispatched my Italian Cohort on the errand, his parting words to me were, ‘I do not want to be troubled with prisoners.’ I declined to take the hint, however, and brought back Simon alive, much, it would seem, to the mortification of the procurator. And here at Cæsarea the fellow lies in a dungeon, Florus strangely refusing to put him on trial.

“It’s galling to think,” added Rufus, “that my work will have to be done all over again. The pass hath been seized by another bandit--Manahem, a son of that notorious Judas of Galilee, who drew away much people after him in the days of the taxing. More catholic in his views, he plunders and slays Jews and Gentiles alike. And now again Florus--odd, is it not?--is thwarting me in my wish to proceed against this new malefactor.”

“Not at all odd,” remarked Tertullus, “if my suspicion be correct; and, by Castor! I’ll try to verify it before twenty-four hours be past.” And then, speaking aloud, he turned and addressed the procurator.

“O Florus, do you take your place on the bema to-morrow? ’Tis a court day.”

The governor frowned at this introduction of business into the midst of pleasure.

“What cases are there to try?”

“There is the case of Simon the Black. The Romans and Greeks of Cæsarea are clamoring for his trial.”

“Let them clamor.”

“The long delay over this matter hath so enraged them that they swear if Simon be not brought to justice by the next court day, which is to-morrow, they will storm the prison, and will themselves bring him forth to execution.”

“And should they make the attempt,” remarked Rufus gravely, “I doubt very much, O Florus, whether we can depend upon the fidelity of our cohorts to prevent it. This Simon hath slain so many Romans that military and civilians alike are desirous of seeing him brought to justice.”

Florus, looking very ill at ease, was silent for a moment.

“You are convinced that our captive is really the Simon the Black, and that he hath committed the crimes attributed to him?”

“Quite,” replied Tertullus. “I have documents and witnesses enough to prove his guilt twenty times over.”

“Why, then, need we go to the trouble of a public trial? Since you are certain of his guilt, I will do as did Antipas with him that was called ‘The Baptist’--send an executioner to his cell. How say you? Speak the word, and within an hour you shall have his head here upon a charger.”

“Antipas’ act is a bad precedent,” returned Tertullus. “Your predecessor Festus, as Ananias there can testify, was more equitably minded. ‘It is not the manner of the Romans,’ said he, ‘to deliver any man to die, before that he which is accused have the accusers face to face, and have license to answer for himself concerning the crime laid against him.’”[4]

“Words deserving to be written in letters of gold,” commented Crispus, to the manifest displeasure of Florus.

“Moreover,” observed Rufus, “the people will never believe Simon dead if he be secretly executed.”

“They will, when they see his head over the Prætorium gate.”

“His crimes have been open and public,” said Tertullus, “let his trial be so.”

“To-morrow?” said Florus. “Why not the next day?”

“The day after to-morrow is a sabbath,” replied Tertullus. “The Jewish witnesses will refuse to attend court on that day.”

“The sabbath! the sabbath!” repeated Florus pettishly. “Why is the sabbath greater than any other day?”

“Why are you greater than other men?” asked Berenice gently.

“Because, princess, it hath pleased Cæsar to make me so.”

“Well, then, it hath pleased the Lord to make the Sabbath a greater day than any other,” smiled Berenice, never at a loss for an answer where her religion was concerned.

“Will not the noble Florus,” said Crispus, “state the reasons for his delay in bringing this prisoner to trial?”

The noble Florus did not reply to this pointed question. He frowned, and hesitated; but, with a son of the all-powerful Legate of Syria present as a witness of his irregularities, he felt he could not do otherwise than grant the just request of Tertullus.

“Have, then, your way,” said he. “In the morning Simon shall be put upon his trial.”

And with that he resumed his conversation with Berenice.

“He’ll be sorry for that concession,” laughed Tertullus quietly; and then, turning to Rufus, he added, “See that Simon’s guards sleep not to-night. Florus is quite capable of taking him off secretly.”

“You mean----”

“I mean,” whispered Tertullus, “that the deferring of the trial is due to the fact that this Zealot, if brought into open court, could say something to the detriment of Florus; what, I would fain find out. Therefore, I say again, look well to the prisoner to-night.”

Rufus promised that he would see to the matter.

At this point the ears of the guests were attracted by a sound like that of cords passing over pulleys, and looking whence it came, they saw a curtain that draped a wide archway ascend, revealing behind it a stage.

And now, while the palate of the guests was being regaled with the choicest of wines, their eyes were gratified by a series of beautiful tableaux drawn from the domain of classic mythology. The last of these represented the Judgment of Paris; by a trifling departure from the original story, the prize of the fairest goddess was to be a golden zone.

Paris, apparently unable to come to a decision as to which of the three diaphanously-attired goddesses was the fairest, made the award dependent upon their dancing. At this there followed _pas seuls_ of such a character that the modest maiden who sat by Josephus was compelled to avert her gaze.

Venus, having received the award from the hand of the Dardan shepherd, advanced to the edge of the stage, and surveyed the audience.

“Alas!” she cried with a sudden sigh, “Paris has made a mistake, for I see one here more lovely than myself. Let the gift be hers, and let her be hailed as Queen of Beauty.”

With that she unclasped the golden cestus and flung it into the middle of the hall just as the curtain was falling upon the tableau.

A slave, picking up the fallen zone, carried it to Florus.

“‘ΚΑΛΛΙΣΤΗ’--‘for the fairest,’” said he, reading the sapphire letters set in the golden cestus. “The question is,” continued Florus, looking round upon a bevy of ladies who had drawn near to view the zone, and it was well worth viewing for its beautiful workmanship, “the question is, who _is_ the fairest?”

But, however fair each lady might secretly deem herself, as there was not found any bold enough to come forward and claim this title, it became clear that, if the zone must be bestowed at all, it would be necessary to appoint an umpire to decide this ticklish matter.

The ladies, entering with a zest into the scheme, were quite willing, so they averred, to submit their charms to adjudication.

“A pretty little tableau, this,” whispered Rufus to Crispus, “prearranged by Florus for the purpose of flattering the vanity of Berenice. His liking for her is so well known that whoever is appointed umpire--unless he be a very independent character--will lack the courage to decide for any but the princess.”

A proposal on the part of Tertullus to appoint the umpire by lot was received with acclamation. Crispus, somewhat against his will, was forced by Rufus to take his place among the candidates for the office, and, what is more, when his turn came for putting his hand into the balloting urn he drew forth the tessera inscribed with the decisive word, “_Judex_.”

He compressed his lips, much preferring that the honor should have fallen upon some other.

Rufus now made a proposition.

“Methinks it is but fair,” said he, “that the lady round whose waist the zone is clasped should bestow a kiss upon the adjudicator.”

This was laughingly made one of the conditions of the contest.

And now, amid much mirth, about twenty of the ladies began to prepare for the event. The rest, either from modesty or distrustful of their charms, drew aside, content to look on.

Among those who would fain have withdrawn, not only from the contest, but also from the palace itself, was the young girl who had so much attracted the notice of Crispus.

“Let us go,” she whispered in a distressed voice to Josephus. “This is no place for me.”

But he sought gently to persuade her, by dwelling upon the value and beauty of the jeweled zone, the ease with which it was obtainable, the pride and pleasure she would feel in being hailed as the Queen of Beauty.

“The zone will not fall to _me_,” said she. “Look, and see how many beautiful women there are around.”

“None so beautiful as you, Vashti.”

She shook her golden tresses at what she deemed his partiality. In the end, however, she consented to let her will be overborne by his.

The fair contestants were now moving to the place of judgment, a spacious hemicycle at one end of the banqueting hall. Among them were the Princess Berenice, and the Syrian Asenath, the favorite of Ananias.

As Vashti moved forward, her air of innocence and purity seemed to give secret offense to the wanton dancing-girl; her lip curled with contempt, and resolving to strip the other of her veil of modesty, she came out with a proposal of a malicious and daring character.

“How can it be told,” cried she, “who is the loveliest, so long as we remain clothed? The robe may hide deformities. Let it be a condition, O Florus, that in this contest we appear naked.”

Speaking thus, she laid both hands upon her swelling hips ready to fling off her robes at the least encouragement.

Now, seeing that in the Floralia at Rome women were accustomed to dance quite naked, and that at Etruscan banquets the ladies often showed their fair forms without any clothing whatever, the proposal of Asenath was not quite so startling as it would be at the present day.

There were, of course, screams of dissent from the fair contestants themselves, but to the gilded and decadent youth of that assembly, Gentile and Jew alike, living only for sensuality, Asenath’s suggestion met with a ready approval. Not even the high priest, Ananias, lifted his voice against it. The Princess Berenice stood like a statue, stately and still, neither assenting nor dissenting. As for Vashti, her cheeks had become of a deathly white, her whole air and attitude were eloquent of a vivid horror at finding herself amid a circle of gilded youth who stood by waiting only the word of Florus, to assist her, _volentem_, _nolentem_, in the task of disrobing.

“What says the excellent Florus?” cried Asenath.

“The proposal seems to me to be fair, for the robe, as you say, may hide deformities. But,” he continued, becoming secretly conscious that Crispus did not favor the idea, “the question is out of my hands; it rests with the adjudicator.”

“And _he_,” replied Crispus, “decides that the ladies shall remain clothed. This is a contest for beauty, and there is no beauty where there is no modesty.”

“O good and pious youth, ascend to heaven!” said Asenath with a mocking laugh; and realizing that _her_ chance of winning the zone was gone, she stepped from the contending circle to the side of Ananias, who looked by no means pleased with the decision of Crispus. He, the priest of a religion that claimed to be purer far than any of the pagan systems, had received a tacit rebuke from a pagan--a mortifying experience, the more so as he secretly felt it to be deserved.

Compliant with the directions of Florus, the contestants took their station upon a low marble seat that lined the hemicycle; and, when so placed, presented a variety of faces so dazzling in beauty as to make the adjudicator’s task a hard one.

As if to enhance his difficulty, Crispus received at that moment a piece of news somewhat startling in character.

Touched upon the shoulder by a hand, he turned, and, to his surprise, found Polemo by his side. If the Pontic king had been present at the banquet Crispus had certainly missed seeing him, nor could he now tell from what corner he had sprung.

“_Athenaïs is among the contestants!_” whispered the king; and ere Crispus could put a question to him, Polemo had slipped among the crowd that was standing around to watch the sight, and had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, leaving Crispus in a whirl of amazement.

His wife among the contestants!

Stern justice required that the prize should be given to the fairest, but still, for all that, it would be a graceful compliment to let his wife have the honor; it would certainly please her, who was now the one woman whom it behoved him to please. But how to identify her?

There was additional embarrassment in the fact that the chosen lady, on receiving the girdle, was to bestow a kiss upon the judge that had so honored her. To be kissed, in the presence of his unknown wife, by a lady adjudged by him to be the fairest of all present! If by some good fortune the lady chosen should happen to be Athenaïs, well!--but if not, what would her feelings be? No wonder Crispus shrank from the task of selection, and thought for a moment of retiring in favor of some other umpire.

The contestants were now ready awaiting the judgment.

Permitted to adopt whatever attitude they pleased, the majority posed as if for a sculptor. A few stood or sat, but the greater part assumed a reclining posture, as being the better adapted to display the grace of their figure. Extraneous ornaments were allowed; and hence one lady, lyre in hand, posed as the muse Polyhymnia; a second, toying with a golden vase, assumed the character of a Danaïd; a third, for the purpose of showing the curve of a graceful arm, held aloft a silver lamp; while a fourth displayed a snowy limb in the feigned operation of tying her sandal; and so on of the rest, each forming in herself a living picture that would have charmed the eye of an artist.

Midway in the hemicycle sat Berenice, who, neglecting all adventitious aids, merely sat erect, as if relying solely upon her beauty, and next her came the timid Vashti, taking that place as being the only one left vacant.

Holding the girdle in his hand, Crispus went very slowly along the semicircle, passing from one fair form to another, and studying each with a critical eye.

The behavior of the ladies during this severe scrutiny offered a variety of contrasts. Some blushed, as did Vashti; others, like Berenice, sat with serene dignity, as if unconscious of the matter in hand; some sought to win favor by a caressing glance; others used the witchery of a sweet smile; and one or two there were that could not refrain from laughter.

The completion of his survey left Crispus undecided, and disappointed: Athenaïs, if she were really among these ladies, was evidently determined to keep her secret, since she had given no sign by which he might recognize her. Among the many sparkling rings worn by that fair bevy, there was none that he could identify as the pledge placed by him upon the finger of his bride twenty-four hours ago, the ring set with a ruby sculptured with the likeness of a temple in flames.

[Illustration: Crispus went very slowly along the semicircle]

Since his bride chose to hide her identity there remained nothing for him but to act in the spirit of strict impartiality by awarding the zone to her whose beauty in his judgment was most deserving of it, a difficult matter where all were so beautiful. Even that _arbiter elegantiarum_, Petronius (of whose friendship Florus had boasted), had he been present would have found the question a perplexing one.

Crispus recommenced his survey, amid the breathless excitement of those most immediately concerned.

“He has seen us all,” was the general thought; “now he will make his choice.”

Half-way along the line he paused--hesitated--stood still. Directly facing him were the Princess Berenice and the maiden Vashti. His glance, divided between them, showed that one of these two was to be his choice, and a little sigh of envy went up from eighteen disappointed hearts.

For some moments Crispus stood in doubt. Their beauty was equal, or nearly so.

The Princess Berenice, with her raven hair, dusky eyes, and majestic bearing, seemed like the incarnation of dark and starry night; the other, with her soft violet eyes, tresses like sunbeams, and gentle mien, was like fair Aurora sweetly stealing upon the eastern sky.

“If there were but two prizes!” murmured the unhappy Crispus.

“Why does he hesitate?” growled Florus. “Is it not plain to be seen that Berenice is the fairer?”

That girdle had cost him thirty thousand sesterces, and he did not want to see it bestowed upon a person for whom he had not intended it.

Berenice met the scrutiny of her judge with a proud glance, betokening a confidence that Crispus, who loved modesty, did not like to see; on the other hand, Vashti ventured but once to raise her eyes with a sweet, timid, wondering air that moved him strangely.

That glance decided the event!

“Lady,” said he, “what is your name?”

“Vashti, daughter of Hyrcanus,” was the reply, delivered in a low, trembling voice.

“Then Vashti, daughter of Hyrcanus, as the fairest of all present, receive this golden zone.”

Vashti was but human; it was a sweet little triumph for her. There leaped into her eyes a sudden look of pleasure, a look that was succeeded by one almost akin to fear as she glanced at the humiliated princess, whose beauty, long supreme in Judæa, was now publicly relegated to a second place.

Half pleased, half frightened, scarcely knowing what she was doing, Vashti rose to her feet, an act that gave Crispus the opportunity of girding her waist with the zone, and securing it with the clasp.

The conferring of the prize upon a Jewess occasioned dissatisfaction among some of the Gentiles; a few, too, of the Jews resented that the Herodian princess should be excluded in favor of an unknown maiden. In both parties there was, however, a majority which, more generous in sentiment, or perhaps thinking that Berenice and her beauty had queened it too long over other women, expressed its approbation by the shout:

“All hail to Vashti, the Queen of Beauty!”

“Is not the umpire, too, entitled to a reward?” asked Crispus.

Vashti started back with a burning blush that made her look the more beautiful.

“Nay, I must not forego it.”

He was so completely dazzled by her loveliness as to forget for the moment that his unknown bride was watching him. Taking Vashti by both hands he drew her gently towards him, and momentarily pressed her warm, red lips to his own, an act greeted by the company with another round of applause.

All very pretty, but what would Polemo think of it?

Becoming suddenly alive to the existence of that monarch he looked around for him, and saw him at a distance surveying the scene with a sphinx-like expression that gave no evidence as to what thoughts were passing within him. Crispus took a step in his direction, but the king, as if wishing to avoid him, vanished among the crowd, and was seen no more that night.

A little later Rufus addressed a question to Crispus.

“Did you notice Berenice’s look when you bestowed the prize of beauty upon Vashti?”

“No; how did she look?” asked Crispus absently.

“She looked--she looked,” said Rufus reflectively, as if casting about in his mind for some image to express his thoughts, “she looked the picture of sorrow. She looked--well, don’t laugh if I use this comparison--she looked as a wife who loves her husband might look when she sees him fascinated by another woman.”

Crispus started, stared strangely at Rufus, then walked away.

“Now what have I said to offend him?” muttered the wondering Rufus.