“I was wrong—­he could not have meant to slay me,” thought Vergilius.  “Not by the paws of the leopard.”

Cyran stood near the door, weeping.  Antipater rose and led her to Vergilius.

“The girl is yours,” said he.  “I am glad to be done with her.  Come, all.”

They followed him to the palace, and Vergilius bade the girl dress and be ready to join his pedisequi in the outer hall.  She knelt before him and kissed the border of his tunic.

“Oh, my young master!” said she, “I shall be of those who part the briers in your way.”  Then she hurried to obey him.

“I would speak with you, noble son of Varro,” said Antipater, beckoning.

Vergilius followed to the deep atrium of the palace, where they stood alone.

“You have one thing I desire, and I will pay you five thousand aurei to relinquish it—­five thousand aurei,” the Jew whispered.

“And what is it you would buy of me, noble prince?”

“A mere plaything!  A bouquet that will fade shortly and be flung aside.  The thing happens to suit my fancy, and—­and I can afford it.”

In the moment of silence that followed this remark a stern look of inquiry came into the face of Vergilius.

“Man, do you not know?  ’Tis the sister of Appius,” Antipater added, lightly.

“Cur of Judea!” hissed the knight, his sword flashing out of its scabbard, “I shall cut you down and fling you out to the dogs.  Fight here and now.  I demand it!”

The young Roman spoke loudly and stood waiting.  Those others had heard the challenge and were now coming near.  Antipater stood silent, glaring, as had the leopard, with an evil leer at his foe, and thinking no doubt of the warning of Augustus.  The stiff, straight hairs in his mustache quivered as he turned slowly, watchfully, towards the others, who were now standing near.  Since his funeral should occur on the same day, how could he fight with Vergilius?

“You dare not,” the latter added, fiercely; “and before these men I denounce you as a coward—­a coward who fears to raise a hand.”

His arm was extended, his finger at the face of the Jew, now white with passion.  Half a moment passed in which there was no word.

“You living carrion!” said the young knight, turning and walking away.  “I am done with you.”

He took the hand of the poor slave Cyran, and walked to the farther side of the atrium.  He turned, still white with anger as if unsatisfied.

“Pet of harlots!” said he, fiercely.  “It is time for some one to stand for the honor of good women.  If you do but speak her name again before me I will run you through.”

Receiving no answer, he departed with Cyran, while the others gathered about their host.

There was a heavy rumble in the throat of Antipater—­a tiger-like, Herodian trait—­and then a volley of oaths came out of it.  He trembled with rage and flung his sword far across the dim atrium with a shout of anger.  Like the great cats in his rage, he was like them also in his methods of attack—­sly and terrible, but with a deep regard for the integrity of his own skin.  Sure of his advantage, he could be as brave as when he faced the tiger.