"Ask me that again," he commanded her suddenly. "I did not understand."
She hesitated and closed her lips. Her husband had stabbed this man in the back! Because of her? No! Philadelphus had refused to believe her. Why then should he have committed such a deed?
"So you are not ready to believe it of this–Philadelphus?" he asked, venturing his question on an immense surmise that was forcing itself upon him.
She looked at him with beseeching eyes. How was she to regard herself in this matter? A partizan of the man she hated, or a sympathizer with this stranger who had already given her too much joy? Was she never to know any good of this man to whom she was wedded? For a moment losing sight of her concern for Judea and her resolution that her father should not have died in vain, she was rejoiced that another woman had taken her place by his side. The quasi liberty made her interest in this stranger at least not entirely sinful.
"Who are you?" he demanded finally.
How, then, could she tell him that she was the wife of the man who had treacherously attempted his life? How, also, since she was denied by every one in that house, expect him to believe her? The bitterness of her recent interview with Amaryllis rose to the surface again.
"I am nothing; I have no name; I am nobody!" she cried.
He was startled.
"What is this? Are you not welcome in this house?" he demanded.
"Yes–and no! Amaryllis is good–but–"