After her divorce from Philip, she had indeed left her daughter in Rome,
hoping that, as the wife of the tetrarch, she might bear other children.
Until that moment she had never spoken to Antipas of her daughter. He
asked himself the reason for this sudden display of tenderness.

During their brief conversation several attendants had come out upon
the balcony; one slave brought a quantity of large, soft cushions, and
arranged them in a kind of temporary couch upon the floor behind his
mistress. Herodias sank upon them, and turning her face away from
Antipas, seemed to be weeping silently. After a few moments she dried
her eyes, declared that she would dream no more, and that she was, in
reality, perfectly happy. She reminded Antipas of their former long
delightful interviews in the atrium; their meetings at the baths; their
walks along the Sacred Way, and the sweet evening rendezvous at the
villa, among the flowery groves, listening to the murmur of splashing
fountains, within sight of the Roman Campagna. Her glances were as
tender as in former days; she drew near to him, leaned against his
breast and caressed him fondly.

But he repelled her soft advances. The love she sought to rekindle had
died long ago. He thought instead of all his misfortunes, and of the
twelve long years during which the war had continued. Protracted anxiety
had visibly aged the tetrarch. His shoulders were bent beneath his
violet-bordered toga; his whitening locks were long and mingled with his
beard, and the sunlight revealed many lines upon his brow, as well as
upon that of Herodias. After the tetrarch's repulse of his wife's tender
overtures, the pair gazed morosely at each other.

The mountain paths began to show signs of life. Shepherds were driving
their flocks to pasture; children urged heavy-laden donkeys along the