“Their separation,” remarked Crispus, “does not appear to have left much bitterness behind, for, at a banquet given by my father to all the kings of the East, Polemo and the Princess Berenice sat side by side, seeming to be on excellent terms with each other. And, what struck me as strange, their glances were so often cast in my direction that I could not help wondering whether I were the subject of their talk. Were there any children born of this marriage?” “One--a daughter, said to have died in infancy.” “And you would woo this Herodian princess? Do you frequent this lonely shore in order to sigh out vows to Venus?” said Crispus, pointing to love’s planet that sparkled like an eye in the blue depths above. “I come here hoping to have the pleasure of a few words with her as she returns to Cæsarea. An hour ago, so I am told, she drove this way in her chariot.” “You do right, then, in retracing your steps, for I can certify that no chariot has passed me.” “Then she must have turned aside, and gone inland,” said Titus, looking to the left as if meditating a diversion among the hills in quest of the fair princess. With a sigh he resigned the project, and strode onward beside Crispus, whose frequent questions on all that fell within the sphere of his vision showed that he was treading the shore of Palestine for the first time. “How name you yon house?” he asked, pointing ahead to an edifice perched upon a crag that overlooked the shore road. “I am told that it is called ‘Beth-tamar.’” “And that, being interpreted, meaneth ‘The House of Palms,’” remarked Crispus, and smiling at Titus’ look of surprise. “O, I know something of the speech of these barbarians, having learned it in childhood from one of my father’s favorite slaves, a captive Jew; and so long as the fellow kept to his language, well and good, but when he tried to make me a proselyte to his superstition, he was promptly scourged, and put at a distance from me.” “Hebrew!” commented Titus. “You have the better of me. Would that I could speak it, for then it might dispose Berenice to look with a more favorable eye upon me. As it is, I have to say with Ovid: ‘_Barbarus hic ego sum, quia non intelligor ulli._’” What more he would have said was checked by a command delivered in an authoritative voice: “Halt!” Instinctively the two friends paused, and glanced aloft. Standing upon a lower spur of the crag above them, and clearly defined against the star-lit sky, was a tall figure in a flowing robe. “Who are you that bid two Romans halt?” demanded Titus, haughtily. “The servant of a king,” was the answer, delivered in the Latin language, though not with the true Latin accent. “Your master’s name?” asked Titus, suspiciously. “Polemo, King of Pontus.” At this Crispus and Titus looked at each other, deeming it odd to be brought thus in connection with the monarch about whom they had just been talking.