“That shall he not,” cried the second savagely; and, raising his pike with both hands, he drove the weapon through the breast of the boy, who, with the one word “Mother!” fell dead upon the spot. “O God!” gasped Berenice, “canst thou look on and let these men live?” Scarcely able to move for horror, she made her way up the steps of the bema, and drew near to Florus. With hands clasped at the back of his neck, and with one leg thrown carelessly over the other, the procurator was lolling at ease in his curule chair, amusing himself with the fears of a numerous body of richly-dressed captives, who were said, rightly or wrongly, by his spies, to be the very youths that, three days before, had gone about begging money for the indigent Florus. “By the way,” said he, “why don’t you Jews eat pork?” The question drew loud laughter from the senseless soldiers standing by. One of the captives ventured the remark that there were some nations that did not eat lamb. “And they are quite right,” commented Florus. “Lamb is very insipid; but pork--ah! that is one of the choicest delicacies the gods have conferred upon mankind, and I swear by Pluto that if ye will not eat of it ye shall die.” “Florus, in the name of God I adjure you to have pity upon these youths,” cried Berenice. “Refrain from further bloodshed.” The feeling of Florus was a strange mingling of love and hatred as he beheld the distressed princess in all her wild beauty, her hair loosened, her feet bare. His first mad impulse--he had been drinking heavily--was to clasp her in his arms and kiss her passionately regardless of the spectators; his next, as he recalled her scornful language at Cæsarea, was to spurn her with language equally scornful. Hatred triumphed. He had gone too far now to recede, and since he could not have the sweetness of love, he would have the sweetness of revenge. Among the captives was a beautiful youth, whose unmistakable air of fearlessness had given secret umbrage to the procurator. “Marcus, you here?” cried Berenice in dismay. He was known to her as being a worshiper in the Royal Synagogue. “Fear not for me, princess. _I_ am safe.” Self-confidence such as this moved Florus to a frenzy of wrath. “Lictors, crucify me this knave who considers himself so safe.” “Oh, no! no!” cried Berenice in an agony of grief. The youth, with a proud smile, gave utterance to words that in every province of the empire, save one, had power to stay the hand of even Cæsar himself: “CIVIS ROMANUS SUM--I am a Roman citizen!” “Ah! So _that_ is thy hope? Well, it shall not avail thee. A Roman citizen? Pah! How easy to become such nowadays! Damas the Jew is a knave, but he has two oboli to spare; so the prætor touches him with a wand, twirls him round, and lo! Damas the Jew becomes Marcus the Roman, and struts about in a toga.” And here Florus, leaping up, illustrated his words by strutting about with an air of mock dignity, amid the laughter of his satellites.