Even now it filled her with pride to think that she was, in a manner, the mistress of all the troops she saw exercising before her. Recover Jerusalem they might, and would; but destroy it--never! Thanks to her influence over Titus, the holy city would be spared from dilapidation, the temple preserved from the torch. She was the new Esther destined to save the Hebrew nation from destruction--destined, too, if Titus would but exercise his ambition, to be the empress of the world, the mother, it might be, of a line of Cæsars, all adherents of the Jewish faith! And if Cæsar were once the disciple of Moses, the conversion of the world would follow. In the midst of these brilliant dreams her ear caught the sound of a quiet footfall; and, turning her head, she saw--Crispus! She gave a start, as was natural in one who supposed him dead, or at the least to be hundreds of miles away. Crispus, keenly attentive, fancied he could detect on her face an expression akin to dismay; at any rate it was an expression very different from her tender, lovable look in the Prætorium when she had avowed her wish to stay and die with him. “I have startled you, princess.” “You are as one returning from the dead,” she said with a faint smile. “And the dead are not always welcome visitors.” Then for a brief space there was a silence, during which both seemed to be reflecting. “What do you here?” she asked. “Would it surprise you, princess, were I to say that I am seeking my wife?” “Your wife?” repeated Berenice, in her eyes an odd look as of fear, at least that is how Crispus interpreted it. “Your wife?” “You did not perhaps know that I had a wife?” “If you keep the matter a secret from the world how is one to know it? What is her name?” “You do not know it?” “How should I?” replied Berenice with a touch of impatience in her voice. “I cannot tell you her name, seeing that it is unknown to me.” This answer seemed to afford some satisfaction to Berenice. “Nay, I have never yet seen my wife’s face.” “You are telling me strange things,” laughed Berenice. “I pray you, my lord Crispus, mystify me no farther, but speak plainly.” “Why, so I will.” Leaning with folded arms upon the broad brim of the chariot, and looking directly into the eyes of Berenice, who seemed helplessly fascinated by his gaze, Crispus proceeded to relate the story of his marriage. “As,” concluded he, with a glance at the distant Beth-tamar, “as it was in this neighborhood that I first met Athenaïs, I naturally turn to this neighborhood in the hope of again meeting her here.” “And you do not really know who this Athenaïs is?” “I do not. As you doubtless know, King Polemo died suddenly, a year ago; and, unfortunately for me, died without revealing the secret. But the three years’ limit is now past, and it is therefore permissible for Athenaïs to reveal herself by sending me the ring.” “And if she chooses _not_ to reveal herself, you may never know whom you wedded.” “That is so.”