As she sat down amid a murmur of approval from the better-minded, it became suddenly apparent to Florus that he had made a big blunder. All-desirous as he was of winning the favor of Berenice, he had strangely overlooked the fact that the libation in the form proposed by him might be distasteful to the religious ideas of the Jewish princess. He gladly seized the opportunity of extricating himself from an awkward situation by endorsing the words of Crispus, who said: “The princess hath spoken well. Let us, O Florus, not give to a mortal, however highly placed, the honor that belongs only to the immortals.” “Be it as the princess wishes,” said the procurator. “We will change the phrasing to one in which all may join.” With that he added, “To the health of the Emperor Nero!” and plashed upon the tesselated pavement a few drops of the ruddy wine, an example in which he was followed by the rest of the guests, Jew and Gentile alike. “A beautiful cup, O Florus,” remarked Tertullus, attentively eyeing the goblet from which the procurator had made his libation. “I am quite charmed by it. May one ask for a closer look?” The cup in question was one of those myrrhine vases imported from the far East, vases whose delicate semi-transparent material was as much a mystery to the ancient Romans as it is to the modern antiquary. “Mark my word,” whispered Tertullus to Rufus, “if we shall not find on one side of that cup a natural vein of purple curving into something like the shape of a Grecian lyre.” Florus, always glad to have the excellency of his treasures acknowledged, addressed a slave. “Girl, pass this cup to the noble Tertullus. A judge of art, he will know how to appreciate such a work. By the gods, have a care how you carry it!” The girl, thus bidden, conveyed the vessel to Tertullus. Its chief beauty consisted in the great variety of its colors, and the wreathing veins which here and there presented shades of purple and white, with a blending of the two. As Tertullus had said, one of these veins bore considerable resemblance to a lyre. “I never thought to see thee again,” muttered Tertullus to himself, apostrophizing the cup. “How come you here in the hands of Florus? A rare work of art,” he added aloud, as he returned the cup to the procurator. “You have had it long?” “These seven years.” “Seven days, you mean,” murmured Tertullus; then aloud, “It must have cost an immense sum.” “Thirty talents,” replied Florus with a careless air, as though the amount were a mere trifle. “There are but two vases of this kind in all the empire; they were brought to Rome by a Parthian merchant. Petronius purchased the one, I the other.” “What a liar you are!” thought Tertullus; and then, as if dismissing the matter altogether from his mind, he said in a low tone to Rufus: “Doth Simon the Black still linger in his dungeon?” Rufus replied in the affirmative. “May one ask,” smiled Crispus, “who is this Simon the Black?”