"Regio Judaeorum!" cried a woman under foot, filling her basket with fish entrails. "What say you, Gesius? Who, these? Look, Alexandrians, what tinsel and airs are hunting the Regio Judaeorum!" "Purple, by my head!" the man exclaimed. "Roman citizens with the bent nose of Jerusalem!" "Agrippa, or I am a landsman!" a sailor shouted. "Fugitive from debtors, or I am a pirate!" "Jews!" another woman screamed; "coming to collect usury!" A howl of rage, threatening and lawless, greeted this cry, out of which rose the sailor's voice with a shout of laughter. "Usury! Ha, ha! He has not a denarius on him that is not borrowed!" The Jewish prince had lived a life of diverse fortune, but never until then had he been the object of popular scorn. A surprise was aroused in him as great as his indignation; he stood transfixed with emotion. Cypros, thoroughly terrified, came out from among her servants and clung to his arm. On her the eyes of the fishwives alighted. [Illustration: Cypros, thoroughly terrified, clung to his arm (missing from book)] "Look! Look!" they cried. "Sparing us our husbands by hiding her beauty! The rag over her face! Bah! for a plaster of mud!" "Fish-scales will serve as well," another cried, snatching up a handful and throwing it at the princess. "Have mine, too, Bassia! Thou art a better thrower than I!" a third shouted, handing up her basket. "Be sure of your aim, Bassia!" The uproar became general. "A handful for the simpering hand-maid, too!" "Don't miss the she-Herod!" "Fall to, wives; don't leave it all to Bassia!" "'Way for the proconsul!"--a distant roar came up from the water's edge. "Bilge-water in my jar, there, mate; it will mix their perfumes!" "'Way for the proconsul!" the distant roar insisted. "Don't soil the proconsul, women!" "'Ware, Bassia! The proconsul is coming!" "Perpol! he will not see! He is the best Jew-baiter in all Alexandria! Sure aim, O Phoebus of the bow!" "'Way for the proconsul!" "Pluto take the legionaries; here they come!" "One more pitch at them, though Caesar were coming!" "No privileges exclusive for thyself, Bassia! _Habet_! More scales!" "Scales; shells; water! Scales; sh--" "Fish-heads! _Habet_!" "Entrails--" "'Way for the proconsul!" "Directly, comrades! Shells, water!" "Ow! You hit a soldier!" "Bad aim, Bassia!" "The legionaries! Scatter!" The centurion at the head of a column now appeared, with his brasses dripping with dirty water, threw up his sword and shouted. The column flung itself out of line and went into the mob with pilum butt or point as the spirit urged.