The City of Delight

The idler in the exedra, meanwhile, was awaiting the speech of her

visitor.

"Art thou she whom I seek?" Laodice asked. "Amaryllis, the Seleucid?"

"I am called by that name."

"I was bidden," Laodice continued, "by one whom we both know, to seek

asylum with thee."

"So? Who may that be?"

Laodice whispered the name.

"Philadelphus Maccabaeus."

The Greek's eyes took on a puzzled look. Then she surveyed the girl

and as a full conception of the beauty of the young creature before

her formed in the Greek's mind, the perplexity left her expression.

Her air changed; a subtle smile played about her lips.

"He sent you to me for protection?"

"Until he arrives in Jerusalem," Laodice assented.

"But he is already here."

It was the moment that Laodice had avoided fearfully ever since she

had gathered from that winsome stranger by the roadside that his

companion was her husband. Although, after that fact had been made

known to her, she had felt that she ought to join Philadelphus and

proceed with him to the Holy City, she had endured the exposure of the

hills, the want and discomfort of insufficient supplies and the

affronts of wayfarers, that she might spare herself as long as

possible her union with the unsafe man who had become even more

hateful by comparison with the one who had called himself Hesper.

"Perchance thou wilt lead me to him," Laodice said finally.

Amaryllis made no immediate answer. It would have been a natural

impulse for her to wish to inquire for the girl's business with the

man that the Greek as hostess was expected to conceal. But Amaryllis

had her own explanation for this visit. It had been plain to less

observant eyes than hers that the newly arrived Philadelphus was not

delighted with the bride he had met.

The Greek summoned a servant.

"Go summon thy master, Prisca; and haste. I doubt not I have for him a

sweet relief."

The woman bowed.

"If it please thee, madam, the master is without in the vestibule,

returning from the city." Amaryllis signed to the ivory chair before

her.

"Sit, lady," she said to Laodice. "He will come at once."

The young woman dropped into the seat and gazed wistfully at her

hostess. Instinctively, she knew that in this woman was no relief from

the darkened life she was to lead with her husband. The Greek's face,

palely lighted by a thoughtful smile, vanished in sudden darkness.

Laodice saw instead an image of a strong intent face, brightening

under the sunrise, saw it relax, soften, grow inexpressibly kind, then

pass, as a tender memory taking leave for ever.

She was brought to herself by the Greek's rising suddenly. The

Ephesian appeared at the arch, tossing mantle and kerchief to the

porter as he entered. Laodice rose to her feet with difficulty. It was

he, indeed!