She looked at him with beseeching eyes.  How was she to regard herself in this matter?  A partizan of the man she hated, or a sympathizer with this stranger who had already given her too much joy?  Was she never to know any good of this man to whom she was wedded?  For a moment losing sight of her concern for Judea and her resolution that her father should not have died in vain, she was rejoiced that another woman had taken her place by his side.  The quasi liberty made her interest in this stranger at least not entirely sinful.

“Who are you?” he demanded finally.

How, then, could she tell him that she was the wife of the man who had treacherously attempted his life?  How, also, since she was denied by every one in that house, expect him to believe her?  The bitterness of her recent interview with Amaryllis rose to the surface again.

“I am nothing; I have no name; I am nobody!” she cried.

He was startled.

“What is this?  Are you not welcome in this house?” he demanded.

“Yes—­and no!  Amaryllis is good—­but—­”

“But what?”

She shook her head.

“Surely, thou canst speak without fear to me,” he said gently.

“There is—­only Amaryllis is kind,” she essayed finally.

He laid his hand on her wrist.

“Is it—­the woman from Ascalon?” he asked, his suspicion lighting instantly upon the wife whom he had expected to meet.

She flung up her head and gazed at him with startled eyes.  He believed that he had touched upon the fact.

“So!” he exclaimed.

“She has deceived Philadelphus—­” she whispered defensively, but he broke in sharply.

“Whom hath she deceived?”

She closed her lips and looked at him perplexed.  Certainly this was the companion of Philadelphus, who had told her freely half of her husband’s ambitions, long before he had come to Jerusalem.  She could not have betrayed her husband in thus mentioning his name.

“Your companion of the journey hither—­whom you even now accused—­Philadelphus Maccabaeus.”

There was a dead pause in which his fingers still held her wrist and his deep eyes were fixed on her face.  He was recalling by immense mental bounds all the evidence that would tend to confirm the suspicion in his brain.  He had told her his own story but had invested it in Julian of Ephesus.  His wallet, with all its proofs, was gone; the Ephesian had examined him carefully to know if any one in Jerusalem would recognize him; and lastly, without cause, Julian had stabbed him in the back.  Could it be possible that Julian of Ephesus, believing that he had made way with the Maccabee, had come to Jerusalem, masquerading under his name?

While he stood thus gazing, hardly seeing the face that looked up at him with such troubled wonder, he saw her turn her eyes quickly, shrink; and then wrenching her hands from his, she fled.