As he beheld the stern faces of his staff Titus saw the imperative necessity of revoking his too hasty judgment upon Crispus. He could not afford to lose his bravest officers with that terrible stronghold of Zion--the goal of all his labors--still untaken. Moreover, there was Vespasian to think of; he would not be pleased at the execution of one for whom he had always entertained a fatherly affection. “Summon Crispus to our presence,” said he moodily, addressing a centurion. The messenger departed, and presently returned with a grave face. Crispus, it seemed, had been carried forth from the previous night’s battle so slashed with wounds that his recovery was a matter of doubt. “He was endeavoring,” stated the centurion, “to save from slaughter an aged widow, named Miriam, who had taken refuge at the altar--an action on his part that so incensed some of those Syrian allies who, if Cæsar will pardon me for saying it, are the curse of our army, that they dared to turn their arms against him--a Roman tribune!” “By Castor, if he can point them out, they shall be crucified!” exclaimed Titus. “Well, since he cannot come to me, I must go to him. O, fear not, brave captains,” he added, observing their dubious looks, “my resentment is over. You have my word for it that Crispus shall come to no hurt through me.” So saying, he followed the centurion, and came to the castellum, or fort, where upon a pallet lay Crispus, swathed in bandages, and looking more dead than alive. The sight of the pallid figure disarmed all Titus’ anger, and in sympathetic tones he expressed his sorrow at seeing Crispus in such state. “It is better thus,” said Crispus, believing his end to be at hand. “Berenice will be free.” “Now by the gods!” exclaimed Titus, his better nature flashing out, “a plague on these women who set friend and friend at variance. If Berenice is to be won only at the cost of your life, may she never be won, say I. But as to this matter, do you know that Berenice denies that she was the veiled lady of Beth-tamar?” “But you do not believe her?” Titus’ silence would seem to show that he was of the same opinion as Crispus. He spoke a few more cheering words, and then took his departure. Making his way to the ruins of the temple, he was hailed with loud cries of “_Ave, Imperator!_” by the soldiery, who, assembled before the blackened eastern gate, were offering incense and prayers to the eagles, the gods that, in their superstitious fancy, had given them the victory. “‘Imperator!’” said Titus scornfully, recalling their disobedience of the previous night. “Very much imperator, when ye let the temple burn contrary to my will.”