Chapter III

THE SHEPHERD OF PELLA


Momus drew up his camel. The woman who had followed halted. Except for
the hurried breathing of their beasts, a critical silence brooded over
the moon-silvered wilderness. The moment was tense with the agony of
human bitterness against the immitigable despatch of death. There
could be no thanksgiving for their own safety from those who were not
glad to be given life. Laodice resented her preservation; old Momus,
aside from the wound of personal loss sore in his heart, was stricken
with the realization of the grief of his young mistress, which he
could not help. He did not raise his eyes to her face when he turned
toward her; there was no speech. In the young woman's heart the pain
was too great for her to venture expression safely. The silence was
poignant with unnatural restraint.

Presently Momus inquired of her by signs if she wished to go on to the
lifeless village below the camp. She did not observe his gestures, and
Momus decided for her. He drove on and the woman, who had wrapped her
cloak about her as the biting wind of the hills heightened through the
narrow defiles to the north, followed.

But almost the next instant Momus drew up his mount so suddenly that
Laodice was roused. He turned and began to make rapid signs. Laodice
half rose as she read them and pressed her hands together.

"Seven days!" she exclaimed in dismay. There was silence.