A young Syrian, the "Captain of the Guard," is talking with the page of Herodias. From a subsequent description we learn that he was handsome with the dark languorous eyes of his nation, and that his voice was soft and musical. He is in love with the Princess Salomé, the daughter of Herodias, wife of the Tetrarch of Judæa, Herod Antipas, and his talk is all of her and her beauty. The page, who seems to stand in great fear of his mistress and to be likewise oppressed with a foreboding of coming evil, tries to divert his attention to the moon, but in the moon the enamoured Syrian sees only an image of his beloved. Then the page strikes the first deep note of tragedy. To him she is like a dead woman. A noise is heard, and the soldiers comment on it and its cause--namely, the religious dissensions of the Jews. At this the young Syrian, heedless of all else, breaks in once more like a Greek chorus in praise of the Princess's beauty. (One can almost hear an imaginary Polonius exclaiming: "Still harping on my daughter.") Again the page utters a warning against the Captain's infatuation. He is certain that something terrible may happen. As if to confirm his fears the two soldiers begin discussing the Tetrarch's sombre looks. Plain, uncultured fellows these Roman soldiers, and yet, like most of the legionaries, they have travelled far afield as may be gathered from their talk of Herod's various wives. A Cappadocian joins in their conversation. He is completely _terre à terre_ and cannot understand anything but the obvious. The talk drifts on to religion, and then suddenly the voice of John the Baptist (the Jokanaan of the play) is heard from the cistern in which he is confined. There is a certain _naïveté_ in the introduction of this cistern which may well provoke a smile, especially when later we meet with the stage direction "He goes down into the cistern." Historically its introduction may be correct, but one wishes that the author had chosen any other place of confinement for the prophet, at anyrate called it by any other name. In the utilitarian days of water companies and water rates the image that the word cistern evokes is painfully reminiscent of a metal tank in the lumber-room of a suburban residence. Even Longfellow, in one of his most beautiful poems, failed to rob the word of its associations.