The alabarch shook his head. "Flaccus betrayed only enough to show that he will concentrate his vengeance against me and thee, or me through thee, but thee of a surety, my Lydia! Yet, he was as dark and ominous as the wrath of God!"
Lydia came close to her father and he laid his arm about her shoulders.
"Lydia, that bat escaped from Sheol, Eutychus, is openly attached to Flaccus' train; once, he abode under my roof, where he could learn many things. Has he any information against thee which Flaccus could use?"
Lydia's answer was not ready. It meant too much to tell that which the alabarch groped after. Already she had surrendered until she was stripped of all but her father's confidence, and her people's respect. She could not cast off these ties to all that was desirable on earth. And Classicus, silent and smug behind her, seemed to be a prepared witness awaiting a confession. Conscience and human nature had the usual struggle, and when she replied she did not raise her head.
"My father, Eutychus will never be at a loss for information. What actualities he can not furnish, he may have from his imagination."
"Alexandria does not wait for charges against the Jews," the alabarch said.
"But what says Flaccus?" Classicus urged after a silence.
"That I have abducted Agrippa's wife; that I have been guilty of insubordination to him, my superior; that thou, my Lydia, art amenable to him and all the people of Alexandria, and that he will proceed as his information warrants, unless I produce Cypros—between sunrise and sunset, to-morrow!"
There was silence.
"What wilt thou do?" Lydia asked in a suppressed voice.