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 chant that stopped the revels of
Antipater:


"Lift up my soul; let me not be ashamed---I trust