Titus thrust his helmet back from his full front of intensely black curls and wiped his forehead.

“The sun is hot in these hills,” he said disjointedly to the tribune he had called Carus, “and the wind is cold.  Uncomfortable climate.”

Carus said nothing.

“Is it not?” Titus demanded irritably.

“Very,” Carus observed hastily.

The little shepherd stood in the road and the six hundred were silent.

“Well,” said Titus with a tone of finality, “you never remember the wrongs the strong man endured—­wrongs that the weak man did him because of his weakness.”

“It never hurts the strong man,” Joseph said softly, “to give the weak one another chance.”

Titus closed his lips at that, and the tribune who had smiled sarcastically looked with sudden intent at Carus.  Carus silently moved his horse to the sarcastic tribune’s side with such threatening expression on his face that the other discreetly held his peace.

“Perhaps,” Titus said thoughtfully, but the boy failed to see more in that word than the simple expression.  In his search for some further plea that would give him his sheep again, the presence of the young Roman appealed to him with hope.  Surely one so young and laughing, so ready to stop an army to argue with a child, could not be beyond reach of persuasion.  With the simple frankness so innocent of guile as to make charming that which upon other lips would have been the broadest insincerity, he put that moment’s thought into words.

“I thought,” he said slowly, “because your horse is so white and your dress so golden and your face so beautiful that I would have but to ask—­and I would have my sheep again.”

Titus looked at him, not with the idea that his compliment was effective, but with the thought that the boy was yet too young to have lost faith in attractive things; that another than himself would have to teach the shepherd that lesson in disappointment.

“Have you examined these sheep for disease, Sergius?” he demanded, with a show of severity.  “I never saw a flock in this country that was not full of peril for the cavalry.”

Sergius, wisely catching excuse in this demand, saluted.

“I did not,” he replied.

“So?  Well, do it hereafter.  Go stop those legionaries and turn loose that flock.  We lost five hundred horse in Caesarea for just such negligence.”

Joseph flung up his head, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks aglow, his whole figure alive with a gratitude so potent that it was painful.  Titus, with the deep tide of a blush crawling over his forehead, scowled down at this joy.

“Look well,” he continued severely to Sergius, “and if they are healthy—­”

But Joseph laughed and stepped out of the young general’s path.

“And,” said Titus, his face clearing before that laugh as he directed his words to the little shepherd, “Jerusalem shall have another chance.”