"I pray thy pardon," he said, with a sincerity beyond the formality of his words. "I am an intruder. But--the Essenes do not keep their beds long." "Neither do all Alexandrians," she said, recovering herself. "Thou art welcome, for I would speak with thee." She put up one of the mattings by a pull at a cord, and sat down on a taboret. She laid the silk across her lap and folded her hands upon it. "I pray thee, be seated. I have not said all that I would say concerning last night. Art thou well--unhurt?" The morning lay faintly on her face and he saw that she was paler and sadder of eye than was natural for one so young and so round of cheek. He was touched, and his answer was a tender surprise to him. "Thou seest me," he said, making a motion with his hands, "but thou--I would there were less of last night in thy face!" "I am well," she said, as her eyes fell. "For that I give thee thanks, and for the security of my fame among my friends--and--the sacrifice thou madest to preserve it!" She meant his evasions that had kept the true story of her rescue secret. He was glad she touched so readily upon the subject. It gave him opportunity to relieve his soul of part of its burden. "I was glad," he assured her. "Now, that thou art still safe, I pray thee, lady, preserve thyself. None in all the world is so able to understand thy peril as I!" She looked at him, remembering that Agrippa had told them that he had been accused of apostasy. "Are--are these--thy people?" she asked in a whisper. "No; but dost thou remember why I went with such haste to Nazareth?" he asked. "To save a life, thou saidst." "Even so, I failed." She caught her breath and her eyes grew large with sympathy. "I failed," he continued. "I went to save a friend who had gone astray after the Nazarene Prophet. But they stoned him before mine eyes." Her lips moved with a compassionate word, more plainly expressed in all her atmosphere. "They cast me out of Judea," he went on, "because I was his friend. Wherefore I have tasted the death and have died not; I have suffered for their sin, yet sinned not!" He had never told more of his story than that, but her eyes, filled with interest, fixed upon him, urged him to go on. Believing that he might deliver her if he told more, he proceeded, but the sense of relief, the lifting of his load that followed upon the course of his narrative were results that he had not expected in confiding to this understanding woman. At first he felt a little of the embarrassment that attends the unfolding of a personal history, but ere long the fair-brown eyes urged him, with their sympathy, and consoled him with their comprehension. He left the outline and plunged into detail, and when he had made an end, the glory of the Egyptian sunshine was flooding Alexandria.