“Serpents, murderers, children of the devil!” he roared.  “Soon shall your souls wander in hell and your bodies rot in the valley of Hinnom.  Take them to the torture, and make it slow for such as give us no further knowledge.  Away with them!  Let their food be fear and their drink be the sweat of agony and their end be death at the games of Caesar!”

The will of that graceful and voluptuous maiden had been well if only partially expressed.

A guard of soldiers led the unfortunate men away.

Herod, now weak and trembling, took the arm of Vergilius.

“To my palace!” said he, and they made their way to his litter.

“It will do no good to put them to torture,” said Vergilius.  “You have heard all.  They have met in darkness and the leaders have disguised their voices.  No member could be sure of the identity of any save himself.  Only two or three, perhaps, could have betrayed other members of the order.”

“Fool! were they not sure of Vergilius, the commander of the cohorts?” said Herod.

“But the plot is uncovered, and now, great sir, I implore you, try the remedy of Caesar.”

Herod ceased muttering and turned with a look of inquiry.

“Forgive them,” Vergilius added.

The king answered with curses.  Then from his chamber, where they had now arrived, he drove all save the young Roman.  “Long ago I discovered evidence of the treachery of the prince,” said he.  “To Antipater—­foul son of Doris—­I despatched this letter.”

He spread a sheet of vellum before Vergilius, bidding him read.  It was the copy of a letter addressed to his “dutiful and affectionate son Antipater.”  It recited that, whereas he (Herod) was now become ill and weary under his many cares, and needed the companionship of them he loved, Antipater should ask, in the name of his father, for a goodly escort of cavalry and proceed at once to Jerusalem, there, shortly, to receive his inheritance.

“Foul son of Doris!” the king growled, hoarsely, as the young Roman turned.  Then his voice broke into a shrill, piping laugh.  “Ha, ha!  He is coming—­even now he is coming to take the crown of his loving father!”

Then he loaned forward with a savage leer, as if he saw the object of his wrath.  His lips were parted, his mouth open, his breath came hissing from his throat.

“Foul son of Doris!” he repeated, beating the floor with his feet.  “Your lies have drowned me in the blood of those I love.  Swamp plant! creeping asp!  Soon shall I put my foot upon you!”

Turning to Vergilius, he continued, presently: 

“Be ready, my tribune, to go down to the sea with a cohort.  There meet him, as he comes, and let him fall quickly from his height of greatness, and chain him, hand and foot, and bring him hence.  You may go now.”

Vergilius bowed and left the home of Herod.  As he went away he fell to thinking of that girdle’s end in his bosom.  Although it was past the middle hour of night, he hastened to the palace of Manius.  The assessor, distraught and pale, started as he met him, and Vergilius saw at once that an end of the other’s girdle had been cut away.  The young tribune drew that piece of braided silk from under his tunic.