[Illustration:  Philadelphus looked down upon his prize.]

Philadelphus looked down at his prize.

She had not flinched from him when she had found him beside her, with Julian threatening her.  But now her wide open eyes fixed upon his brimmed with an agony of appeal.  Innocent of the world’s wickedness, she could only sense supreme peril in this mysterious game without understanding the stake.  Momus was not in sight—­dead for all she knew—­and the desert was an ally against her.  Over her, now, bent a face characteristic of a great spirit, yet one which was coeval with the times—­times of violence and the supremacy of force.  His lips were thin, the contour of his face angular at the jaw, the nose straight and long, his brows black and low over dark blue eyes of a fathomless depth, the forehead strongly molded, and marked with deep perpendicular lines between the eyes.  He was dark, heavy-haired, young, lean, broad and of fine height even as he knelt beside her.  Laodice did not note any of these things.  She was only conscious of the immense power her terror and her helplessness had to combat.  Back of all this iron selfishness, she hoped that somewhere was a gentleness, even if inert and useless.  All her strength was concentrated in the effort to bring it to life.

He gazed at her, apparently unconscious of the desperation in the face lifted to him.  The slow smile that presently grew again in his eyes was none the less unthoughted.  He slipped his hand under a strand of her rich hair that had fallen and drew it out, slowly, at full length.  Slowly his eyes followed it as inch by inch it slipped through his fingers.  Old memories seemed to struggle to the surface; old tendernesses; recollection of pure hours and holy things; paganism dropped from him like a husk and the spiritual hauteur of a Jew brought the expression of the unhumbled house of Judah into his face.  Through a notch in the hills a golden beam shot from the sun and penetrating this inwalled valley lay like an illuminating fire on the man’s face and glorified it.  Laodice’s breath stopped.

Slowly his fingers slipped along the fine silken length of that shining strand until his arm extended to the full; and the end of the lock yet rested on her breast.  Thus might have been the hair of that Rahab, who was no less a patriot because she was frail; thus, the hair of Bathsheba, who was the mother of the wisest Israelite though she sinned; thus the hair of that mother of Samson, who slew armies single-handed!  Badge of Judah, mark of the haughty strength of the oldest enlightenment in the world!  He would not initiate his succor of Israel with violence against its purest type.

He smiled slowly; slowly let the strand fall through his fingers.  He looked into her eyes and she saw a sudden light immeasurably compassionate and tender grow there.  A weakness swept over her; she felt that she had been longing for that light.  Then he rose quickly and moved away.