“A ship from Rome has just arrived in harbor with the tidings. Everybody on board is talking about it. Our greatest proselyte is dead, killed by a blow from Nero’s foot, and she with child! Kicked to death by him whom you would have had us worship last night as a god,” she added, her lip wreathing in scorn. Florus was thunderstruck at the tidings, foreseeing a quick end to his rule now that there was no Poppæa to stand between him and the punishment justly due for his misdeeds. He knew full well that as soon as the Jews received the news they would send to Rome an embassy praying for his removal. They would certainly mention that little deal with the Zealots, not to speak of various other little peccadillos. “And in ceasing to be procurator,” said he, wrathfully, “I, of course, cease to be of interest to you?” “Unless you should become Cæsar, in which case send for me, and I will come to you--yea, fly! As empress of the world I could do the holy nation better service than as queen of Judæa.” Empress of the world! She spoke lightly, little dreaming how narrowly she was to miss gaining the imperial throne. “You think only of your people, and of your superstition,” muttered Florus. “Only of my people, and of my--superstition. You have hit off my character.” “You have been playing with me for your own ends,” said he, his great coarse cheek reddening with anger. “And now you cast me off as one casts off a sandal that has outlived its use.” “O Florus, have done!” she said with a wearied air. “We have both been acting. Let us drop the mask. ’Tis not Berenice herself that is the charm, but her gold with which you hope to cancel past debts and to continue your infamous orgies. And I, divining your motives, have likewise played the hypocrite, feigning a love I never felt, if by so doing I might benefit Judæa. Strangely have you mistaken my nature in thinking that, apart from your procuratorship, you could ever have held any interest for me. My lord Florus, I bid you farewell.” And with that she left him. The face of Florus was as the face of a demon as he watched her walking scornfully away with never a backward glance of pity or remorse. Love for her had now altogether vanished from his heart; no other feeling there but a big black hatred that transformed him to the elemental savage. His only thought now was to revenge himself upon her. But how? Death? It were a somewhat difficult matter to compass the end of a Jewish princess. True, he might hire the daggers of the Sicarii, even as the procurator Felix had hired them to assassinate the high priest Jonathan--he fell at the very altar--but suspicion would attach itself to him, and this was a thing to be avoided, if possible. Besides, a death like that were too light a punishment; one sharp pang, and all would be over. His vengeance must take a more subtle, a more protracted form. How to accomplish it was the question, and thus thinking, he walked meditatively back to the Prætorium.