But the pretended Philadelphus was not impressed by this beauty.

“How now, Salome?” he demanded.  “What play is this?”

The Ephesian actress motioned toward the shittim-wood casket.

“For that,” she said calmly.

Her voice became, instantly, her foremost charm.  It was a deep voice; the profoundest contralto with an illimitable strength in suggestion.

“Where is—­what is that?”

“Two hundred talents.”

Philadelphus took a step toward her.

“What!” he exclaimed evilly.  “Whose two hundred talents?”

“Mine.”

There was silence in which the man’s fingers bent, as if he felt her throat between them.  Then he recovered himself.

“But—­this woman—­where is she?”

The actress lifted her shapely shoulders.

“Where is the Maccabee?” she asked in return.

He made no answer.

“Did you get that treasure here—­since yesterday?” he asked at last querulously.

“No, by Pluto!  I got it in the hills near to Emmaus.  You would have had it in another day.”  She laughed impudently, in spite of the murderous blackening in his face.

“Then, since you are such a shrewd thief, why did you come here at all, since you had the gold?” he demanded, astonished in spite of his rage.

She waved a pair of jeweled hands.

“They said that the Maccabee was strong and ambitious and forceful, that he would be king over Judea.  Knowing you, I believed he would still come to Jerusalem in spite of you.  How did you do it?  In his sleep?  Now, I,” she continued with an assumption of concern, “failed in that detail.  She was guarded by a monster.  I could not get near her.  But I got the casket.”

“She will come here then!” Philadelphus exclaimed.

“What of it!  Amaryllis does not know her; no one else does.  And I have her proofs—­and her dowry!”

After a silence in which she read the expression on his face, she rose and came near him with determination in her manner.

“You will have the wisdom not to recognize her,” she said, “lest I suddenly discover that you are not the Philadelphus I expected.”

He made rapid survey of her advantage over him, and submitted.

“But there will be no need of waiting for such an issue,” he fumed, after a silence.  “I am here and not the Maccabee, whose crown you coveted.  We shall get out of this perilous city.”

“So?” she said, lifting her finely penciled brows.  “No, we shall not.”

“Why?” he stormed.

“Because,” she answered, “John of Gischala may yet be king of Judea—­and John hath a queen’s diadem for sale at two hundred talents—­or a heart which I can have for nothing.”

There was malevolent and impotent silence in the andronitis of Amaryllis, the Greek.

Chapter IX

THE YOUNG TITUS