“‘My beloved, you are grown old and feeble, and so am I,’ said she, ’We have pitied every child of sorrow but ourselves.’  And they rose and put their arms about each other and went into the dark valley of death, heart to heart, that very day, and were seen no more of men.  And they in the hills of Galilee, where the lovers dwelt, made much account of them, for while she had not borne the great king, still was she long remembered as the blessed mother of holy love.  Now, maidens, with youth and love and beauty strong upon them, gave all for the great hope.  And wonderful stories went abroad, and women were more sacred in the eyes of men, seeing that one of them, indeed, must be mother of the very Son of God.”

The slave-girl covered her face and her body shook with emotion.

“Cyran, why are you crying?” said Arria.

“Because,” Cyran replied, her voice trembling—­“because I can never be the blessed mother.”

“Tell me,” said Arria, “have you never felt the great love?”

Cyran rose and looked down at her mistress.

“I have felt the pain of it,” said she, sadly.  “And my heart—­Oh, it is like the house of mourning where Sorrow has hushed the Children of Joy.  But the sweet pain of love is dear to me.”

“Tell me of it.”

“Good mistress, I cannot tell you.”

“Why, dear Cyran?”

“Because—­” the slave-girl hesitated; then timidly and with trembling lips she whispered, “because, dear mistress, I—­I love you.”  She seemed to bend beneath her burden and, knelt beside her mistress and wept.

“Go—­please go,” said Appius, turning to Cyran.  “You irritate me, and I cannot understand you.”

But Arria divined the secret of the poor slave-girl, and pitied her.

Cyran rose and left them.

“The great love may come to you, and then you shall understand,” said Arria to Appius.

“The great madness!” her brother exclaimed.  “I like not these Jewish cattle.  The gods forgive me that we have fallen among them.  With a Jew for a pilot we should make a landing in Hades.”

Something in his manner alarmed the girl.

“What mean you?” she inquired.

“I will tell you to-morrow,” said her brother. “’Tis time you went to your couch and I to mine.  Have no fear.”

Now, the young Roman had begun to suspect the pilot of some evil plan.  After the girl had left him he sat drinking wine for hours.  Soon he was in a merry way, singing songs and jesting with all who passed him.  Long after the dark had come, when Tepas only remained upon deck, Appius reeled up and down, singing, with a flask in his hand.  The moon had risen.  Eastward her light lay like hammered silver on the ripples.

Appius neared the tall, rugged form of Tepas.  Against the illumined waters he could see the long, bent nose, the great beard, the shaggy brows, the large, hairy head of his pilot.  Tepas, who ruled his men with scourge and pilum, had made himself feared of all save the young Roman noble.  Appius halted, looking scornfully at the Jew.  Then he shouted: