“That was why I came to ask your permission, Princess! They are of the new Christian band that gave such trouble to all the Herods. One is a great figure of a man dressed in white with a flowing beard and train of servants bound for the Isles of Greece. His name is Apollos. I saw him in Rome, where he was held in honor, before Nero took the head of the prophet, Paul! The other is a young presbyter, whatever that may be, blue eyes, gold hair, who I could swear as slave served Paul in Rome. His name has slipped my mind; but they came in great state with the protection of Rome and ask lodgings in the Sun Temple till the heat of day passes.” “Onesimus,” exclaimed Bernice. “Yes, as I mind now, Lady, that was his very name; but he has grown a powerful man, fair as the angels of Gaul—but this Apollos as I questioned him, seemed a follower of the mad Hermit, John Baptist, ’gainst whose ghost the Queen Herodias raves at night. If they did not bear permission from Rome, I’d bid them pack to save trouble; but—” the old Idumean scratched his thatch of whitening hair. Drusilla laughed insolently. “Bid them take quarters in the Temple of the Sun but avoid the Palace here! Excuse us! Explain the Queen’s illness prevents our receiving them with becoming honor! Send down the best of provisions and bid them enjoy the full freedom of garden and baths after their journey. Begone—” she peremptorily clapped her hands. Drusilla turned with a cynical laugh to her sister. “You get your wish, Sister! You can join their caravan and go to Jerusalem and plead our case with Titus; but this must be kept from Aunt Herodias. If this Apollos be a follower of the raving Hermit, John, whose bloody head she sees every night in her dreams, she’ll be for a potion of poison on him and ditch our plans deeper than the moat beneath the walls. I’ll take care of the older man in the flowing white, ’spite of his beard, if you’ll beguile the young one with the golden locks. Now to the Temple of the Sun to make offerings to Istarte and Venus and Astoreth and all the goddesses of love under the Evening Star! Herodias cannot be moved while this madness is on her; but we can escape. You get your wish, Sister.” But Bernice had turned white as the cyclamen of snow which brushed the royal purple of her silk vesture. “Yes,” she repeated. “I get my wish! A curse upon it! Must Herod’s daughters always, always be pawns in Rome’s royal game?” “What matter, if we are winning pawns?” smiled the other. “Cheer up, Sister! Throw away regret! Cast off fear! We can escape. Herodias has lived her life and won, and lost, and sits like an old fool drooling over her loss; but we are young yet! Let us eat, drink and be merry; for to-morrow we die.” “You said, yourself, but a moment ago, you thanked Jupiter your slave husband Felix was the only one who had left a Herod daughter safe—”