The City of Delight

At the forefront rode a young general; on either side a tribune.

Behind came a detachment of six hundred horse.

The sheep huddling in the way were swept like a scurry of leaves out

into the meadow alongside the road, and one of the tribunes and the

general turned in their saddles to look at the confiscated flock. The

second tribune observed their interest in this trivial incident with

disgust. The young general, whose military cloak flaunted a purple

border, called the decurion boyishly: "Well done, Sergius! A samnos of wine for your company to-night for

this."

The decurion saluted.

"Where did you get them?" the tribune demanded.

The shepherd who had withdrawn to the side of the road on the approach

of the column looked at the questioner with resentful eyes from which

the moisture had not vanished.

"From me!" he said.

Both the purple-wearing young general and his tribune looked at him

amusedly.

"How many killed and wounded, Sergius?" the tribune asked.

The silent and disapproving tribune, observing that the commanding

officer had not given an order to halt, brought the six hundred to,

lest they ride their general down.

"You!" the general exclaimed with his eyes on the young shepherd.

The boy looked up into the face of the Roman who sat above him on a

snow-white horse.

It was a young face, tanned by the sun of Alexandria, but bright with

an emanation of light that somehow was made tangible by the flash of

his teeth as he talked and the sparkle of his lively eyes. For a

soldier exposed to the open air and the ruffian life of the camp and

burdened with the grave task of subduing a desperate nation, he was

free of disfigurements. His brows were knitted as if to give his full

soft eyes protection and the frown, with the laughing cut of his

youthful lips, gave his face a quizzical expression that was entirely

winning. In countenance and figure he was handsome, refined and

thoroughly Roman. The little shepherd was won to him instantly.

Without knowing that the world from one border to the other had

already named this charming young Roman the Darling of Mankind, the

little shepherd, had his lips been shaped to poetry, would have called

him that.

So Joseph, the shepherd, son of Thomas, the Christian, and Titus, son

of Vespasian, Emperor of the World, looked at each other with perfect

fellowship.

"Those are sheep from Pella," Joseph said soberly, "in my care. They

were taken from me because," he paused till a more tactful statement

should suggest itself, but, lacking it, drove ahead with spirit,

"there was not more of me to stop your soldiers."

"I believe you," Titus replied heartily. "But that is the fortune of

war. Still, you Jews have a habit of refusing to accept defeat

rationally."