“Small wonder that he is so delinquent in the wilderness, with such square-shouldered righteousness awaiting him in town!  Forgive him, lady, for his iniquities now, for he will be a good man after he reaches Jerusalem; by my soul, you may be sure he will be good!”

Laodice gasped under the pressure of astonishment and indignation.  It was bad enough to be pictured thus unprepossessing, but to be suddenly made aware of her husband in a man whom she feared, was desperate.  She stared with frank and horrified eyes at her tormentor.

“But—­but—­” she stammered.

“True,” he sighed.  “One can not know what calamity forces another into misdeeds.  Now were I my unfortunate friend, perhaps I should afflict you with my hunger for sweetness also.”

And that smooth, insinuating, violent pagan was Philadelphus Maccabaeus!  But what had her father said of him, as a child?  “Quick in temper, resourceful, aye, even shifty, stubborn, cold in heart, hard to please!” And to this man she must present herself, late, penniless and unhelpful.  Panic seized her!  How could she go on to Jerusalem!

That long graceful figure stretched on the sand was speaking.  What was it in his voice that drew her so mightily from any terror that possessed her at any time?

“Sit down, sit down!  I have more to say,” he was urging her.

She obeyed him numbly.

“He gets worse as he approaches the city.  I think I ought to leave him.  It will not be safe to be near him when his moneyed lady claims him for her own!”

“She—­she—­” Laodice burst out, “is—­may be such a woman!”

“Such a woman as you!  No; she will not be.  That is what makes him bad.  And now that I bethink me, perhaps it is just as well that you proceed to Jerusalem.  He may comfort himself with a sight of you, now and then.”

“I?  I comfort him?” she exclaimed.

“By my soul I know it!  What blunders Fortune makes in bestowing wives!  Perchance your husband could have got on as well without so radiant a spouse, while my poor beauty-loving friend must needs be paired with a—­Alas! there is too much marrying in this world!”

There was a ring of genuine dejection in his voice and when she looked down at him, she saw that his eyes were larger and more sorrowful than she believed they could be.  He was hurting himself with his own deceit.  She looked away hastily, frightened at the sudden tenderness that his pathetic gaze had wakened in her.

“Alas!” he went on.  “The greatest sacrifice and the frequentest in this world of cross-purposes never gets into poetry.  I—­” he halted a moment and looked away, “I ought to be sorry for her, too.  She is not getting the best of men.”

“Verily!” she exclaimed impulsively.

He whirled his head toward her, stared; then with a flash of intense expression in his eyes burst into a ringing laugh that shook him from head to foot.  He flung out his hand and catching hers passed it across his lips without kissing it, and let it go before he regained composure enough to speak.