Julian of Ephesus was then the husband that she was to join in Jerusalem! Small wonder she had been indignant when he, the Maccabee, in the spirit of mischief, had laid a wife to Julian's door and had described her as most unprepossessing. And that was why her terror of Julian had been so abject! That was why she had flown to him, a stranger, rather than be left alone with a husband who, it seemed, would be rid of her that he might pursue his ends the better! "What think you of it!" he exclaimed aloud, but to himself. "And I never saw in all my life such pretensions of probity!" the Greek continued. "She is outraged by any little word that questions her virtue; she holds herself aloof from me as if she were not certain that I am fit for her companionship; and she flies with fluffed feathers and cries of rage in the face of the least compliment that comes from any lips--even Philadelphus!" The Maccabee continued to gaze at the Greek. He did not see the woman's search of his face for an assent to her speech. He was struggling with a desire to tell her that he was eager to exchange his wife for Julian's. "Perchance she is right," he said instead. "What know we of this paganized young Jew? He has been separated from his lady from childhood. It is right easy to marry, once we fall into the way." "No, no! Her claim is hopeless. She confesses it. But she maintains the assumption, nevertheless." "Absolutely? No little sign of lapse among thy handsome servants, here?" "I do not see her when she is with the servants," she said astutely. "What will you do with her?" he asked. "She is beautiful, unique, and so eligible to my collection of arts and artists under this roof. She shall stay till fate shows its hand for all of us." "You have housed Discord under your roof, then," he said. "Laodice, the wife to this Philadelphus, will not be a happy woman; and I--I shall not be a happy man. Let me return favor for your favor to me. I will take her away." She laughed, though it seemed that a hard note had entered her voice. "You will permit me, then, to surmise for myself why you came to Jerusalem. You seem to have known this girl before. I shall not ask you; in return for that promise that I may conclude what I will." "If you are too discerning, lady," he answered, while his eyes sought down the corridor for a glimpse of the one he had come to see, "you are dangerous." "And what then?" "I must devise a way to silence you." She lifted her brows. In that very speech was the portrait of the Maccabee that she had come to love through letters. "There is something familiar in your mood," she said thoughtfully. "It seems that I have known you--for many years." He made no answer. He had said all that he wished to say to this woman. She noted his silence and rose. "I shall send the girl to you." "Thou art good," he answered and she withdrew.