“He—­when Philadelphus—­you remember that Philadelphus told you what happened—­”

“That he tossed a coin with a wayfarer in the hills for you?” the Greek asked.

Laodice dropped her head painfully.

“This Hesper let me go then, and afterward—­”

“He has repented of that by this time.  It is not safe to try him a second time.  Besides, if you must risk yourself to the protection of men, why turn from him whom you call your husband for this stranger?”

The question was deft and telling.  Laodice started with the suddenness of the accusation embodied in it.  And while she stood, wrestling with the intolerable alternative, the Greek smiled at her and went her way.

Laodice stood where Amaryllis had left her, at times motionless with helplessness, at others struck with panic.  On no occasion did homelessness in the war-ridden city of Jerusalem appear half so terrible as shelter under the roof of that hateful house.

The little golden-haired girl from the chamber of artists beyond skipped by her.

“Hast seen Demetrius?” she called back as she passed.  “Demetrius, the athlete, stupid!”

Laodice turned away from her.

“Nay, then,” the girl declared; “if I have insulted you let me heal over the wound with the best jest, yet!  John hath written a sonnet on Philadelphus’ wife and our Lady Amaryllis is truing his meter for him.  Ha!  Gods!  What a place this is for a child to be brought up!  I would not give a denarius for my morals when I am grown.  There’s Demetrius!  Now for a laugh!”

She was gone.

Where was that ancient rigor of atmosphere in which she had been reared? thought Laodice.  Had it existed only in the shut house of Costobarus?  Was all the world wicked except that which was confined within the four walls of her father’s house?  Could she survive long in this unanimously bad environment?  But she remembered Joseph of Pella, the shepherd; even then his wholesomeness was not without its canker.  He was a Christian!

Philadelphus was at her side.

She flinched from him and would have fled, but he stopped her with a sign.

“My lady objects to your presence in this house,” he said.  “You have not made it worth my while to insist on your shelter here.”

“Your lady,” she said hotly, “is two-fold evilly engaged, then.  She has time to ruin you, while she furnishes John with all the inspiration he would have for sonnets.”

“So she refrains from furnishing John with my two hundred talents, I shall not quarrel with her.  You have your own difficulties to adjust, and mine, only in so far as they concern you.”

His voice had lost none of its smoothness, but it had become hard and purposeful.

“I have come to that point, Philadelphus, where my difficulties and not yours concern me,” she replied.  “I had nothing to give you but my good will.  You have outraged even that.  Hereafter, no tie binds us.”