North of Jerusalem, far as eye could see on mountain and plain, was a yellow tent city of Roman Legions grouped round one large marquee on the central ridge, above which gleamed the ensigns of the Emperor’s son, Titus, the gleaming eagle in brass on a lofty pole in front of the commander’s quarters. The woman and the soldier stood facing each other with blazing eyes before the commander’s tent. The man did not speak. If Rome won, he would not risk his head by letting her pass. If Rome failed, neither would he risk his neck by offence to an imperious mistress, who was not wont to be stopped in her will. Their eyes blazed. Both breathed hard. “Down with that lance.” The woman’s order was emphasized with a stamp. She had tossed aside her black cloak, revealing royal purple below and her right hand sought the pearl-handled dagger in the gold cord round her waist. “The Emperor sleeps, Princess,” the soldier gasped back. “One to win favor, had best not disturb the tired conqueror unannounced.” “Liar,” she said with the quick gleam of an angry comet, “drop your spear.” The tent curtain lifted. An unarmed man in royal vesture like her own emerged as if dazed from sleep. The Idumean’s lance went up with a flash in the sun, butt on ground, point in air, held by hand as of an unseeing statue. The hair of the man in the tent doorway curled unkempt and damp with night sweat on his brow. He was unshaven and bent, unlike soldier mien, as if crushed with burdens too heavy to be borne. He was still in the drowse of heavy sleep. “Bernice—Princess—Sister,” he ejaculated. “Are you ghost—or flesh? In the name of all the gods of Rome, how came you—here?” “Aye—how came her Highness here?” angrily repeated the old Idumean guard. “And my life was sworn to hold the two Princesses and the Queen Herodias safe in Machærus Fort beyond Jordan while the war lasts; but she tricked me by tale of joining some Nazarene Christians going to the Isles of Greece; and when the caravan passed this way up from the Jordan, she broke from rank and wheeled her horse affrighted by the morning trumpets straight for the General’s tent.” “Silence—fellow,” ordered the man. “Who gave you leave to speak? Come inside, my Sister!” He lifted the tent flaps, and they passed in. There was not a soul inside all the great tent but a Sabean slave laying out his master’s armor for the day. “My Brother—my King—Agrippa—last of the Herod line,” the woman opened her arms; and they embraced with the passion of the Herod line, that loved as it hated, with the hot blood of the torrid Arab strain. “You may go,” the King ordered the man. Left alone, he turned to the Princess. “What means this—mad—adventure, Sister?”