rouse from
Phrygia, cranes from Melos. Slaves were kept busy bringing boar's head
and sow's udder and roasted fowls, and fish pasties, and boiled teals.
Other slaves kept the goblets full of old wine. Soon the banquet had
become a revel of song and laughter. Suddenly Antipater raised a calix
high above his head.

"My noble friends," he shouted, "I bid you drink with me to Arria,
sister of Appius, and fairest daughter of Rome--"

Vergilius had quickly risen to his feet. "Son of Herod," said he, with
dignity, "I am in your palace and have tasted of your meat, and am
therefore sacred. You make your wine bitter when you mingle it with
the name of one so pure. Good women were better forgotten at a
midnight revel."

A moment of silence followed.

"My intention was pure as she," Antipater answered, craftily. "Be not
so jealous, my noble friend. I esteem her as the best and loveliest of
women."

"Nay, not the loveliest," said the young Manius, an assessor in Judea.
"I sing the praise of Salome, sister of our noble prince. Of all the
forms in flesh and marble none compare with this beautiful daughter of
the great king."

"May fairest women be for the best men," said Antipater, drinking his
wine.

In a dim light along the farther side of the dining-hall was a row of
figures, some draped, some nude, and all having the look of old marble.
Two lay in voluptuous attitudes, one sat on a bank of flowers, and
others stood upon pedestals.

There were all the varying forms of Venus represented in living flesh.
None, save Antipater and the slaves around him, knew that under each
bosom was a fearful and palpitating heart. They were beautiful
slave-girls captured on the frontiers of Judea. In spite of aching
sinew and muscle, they had to stand like stone to escape the
observation of evil eyes. There was a cruelty behind that stony
stillness of the maidens, equal, it would seem, to the worst in Hades.

Slaves kept the wine foaming in every goblet, and fought and danced and
wrestled for the pleasing of that merry company, and the hours wore
away. Suddenly the sound of a lyre hushed the revels. All heard the
voice of a maiden singing, and turned to see whence it came. A sweet
voice it was, trembling in tones that told of ancient wrong, in words
full of a new hope. Had life and song come to one of those white
marbles yonder? Voice and word touched the heart of Vergilius--he knew
not why; and this in part is the chan