He handed to Crispus a gold ring. It was set with a ruby, upon whose surface there was graven, with beautiful and marvelous art, a device that caused a quick look of surprise to pass over the face of Crispus. As he slowly and mechanically turned the ring over in his hand the ruby darted forth sparkles that caused what was sculptured on the gem to vanish as if in a blaze of fire. At that sight Crispus gave a great start, and darted an inquiring look at the king, who replied by a smile full of a hidden meaning. Titus, who took due note of all this, was naturally not a little puzzled; he refrained from comment, however, believing that Crispus would enlighten him later. “Follow me,” said Polemo, and, lifting a curtain, he led the way to another chamber so dimly illumined by one lamp only that the parts remote from the light were scarcely discernible, an arrangement obviously due to Polemo’s determination that Crispus should see as little as possible of his bride. In the semi-darkness two waiting figures, both deeply veiled, were faintly visible. Of the one that stood a little in the rear Crispus took no note, she being obviously an attendant. It was the other upon whom his eyes were set. Slender and of medium stature, she wore the usual dress of a Roman bride, the _tunica recta_, a long white robe with a purple fringe, and girt at the waist with a zone. The _flammeum_, or veil, which effectually concealed her features, was bright yellow in color, as were likewise her dainty little shoes. The bride’s hair with the point of a spear, was dispensed with on this occasion, her head being covered with a coif, so well disposed that not a single tress was visible. So completely was her person hidden that, let her dress be changed, and there was nothing by which he could identify her, if he should meet her again that same night. Though Crispus could not see her eyes, he knew full well that she was watching him as keenly as he was watching her, a scrutiny in which the advantage was all on her side. She stood, wordless and motionless, evidently awaiting the king’s pleasure. “Athenaïs,” said he, “this is your husband.” She made a little obeisance to Crispus, a simple act, yet performed with a grace that charmed him. He did not know in what relation Polemo stood to the bride, but his way of speaking implied a quasi-authority over her, and since it was the fashion in those days for parents and guardians to arrange marriages with very little regard for the feelings of the two most concerned in the affair, Crispus could not help wondering whether pressure had been put upon this Athenaïs to induce her to consent to the union. He would find out. “Lady,” he said, “I am willing to marry, but only on the understanding that you come to me without compulsion. Therefore, if you take me of your own free will, testify the same--since you are forbidden to speak--by coming forward two paces.”