“Polemo, for reasons of his own, did not make himself known to his daughter. Whether he now had any affection for her whom, as a babe, he had idolized, it is hard to say; one thing became clear to him; he saw in the daughter an instrument for the humiliation of the mother. If he could persuade Crispus to marry Vashti, and to keep the matter hidden from the world, the fond, enamored Berenice would be pursuing Crispus for months in the vain endeavor to win him to her arms, while he--Polemo--could look on in malicious enjoyment, as knowing that her wiles were foredoomed to failure. “Such was Polemo’s reason for keeping the wedding a secret--a reason unknown to me at the time; I have learned it since from Zeno. Vashti, too, was required to keep the matter hidden, even from her adopted mother, Miriam. Vashti, being my ward, was compelled to take for her husband the man of my choice, and though she long resisted the notion of wedding a heathen Roman, I overcame her scruples at last by persuading her that her intended bridegroom was far more virtuous than many a Jew. She therefore accompanied me by night to Beth-tamar, not knowing that he who presided over these nuptials was her father, not knowing his name even, nor that she had been destined by him to wear the crown of a queen. “All this was to come upon her later as a delightful surprise. “My story is all but finished. It was Polemo’s intention to stand beside Berenice either upon Mount Olivet when the temple was burning, or at some palace window in Rome when the triumphal procession was sweeping past, carrying the sacred spoils of the temple--to stand beside her and to tell her in fierce, exultant tones that all this was _his_ work; he would watch her agony; she was to be the victim of his laughter, of his mockery, of his scorn! “But this supreme and thrilling moment of revenge--this triumph that he had so long worked for, was not to be his; he died ere the day of his vengeance came. “Cæsar, my tale is said.” There was a long silence in that chamber after Josephus had finished his narration. Titus looked at Berenice as if desiring her to say something. The breast of that princess was the seat of a wild tumult of contending passions, but among them there was neither pity nor love for her newly found daughter. “It seems,” said she, with a superbly disdainful air, “it seems, if the story of Josephus be true, that I am to be presented with a daughter, but I care not for the gift. I should be a hypocrite were I to feign love where love is not. No; I cast her away in infancy that thereby I might save her soul; by becoming a Nazarene she has chosen to destroy her soul; let her still remain a castaway. Let her keep to her own path as I shall keep to mine. I have no daughter; that is my answer to her.” Vashti was willing for reconcilement, but this cold repudiation kept her dumb. With divine pity in her eyes, she looked at her mother, and sighed. Crispus made reply for her.