The other, though with no great avidity, took a second pull at the pitcher.
“Nay,” said she, “my daughter, I will not tax your hospitality so far. Nor have I need. There is lore enough left under these faded locks of mine, to turn the foulest cesspool in Rome as clear as crystal. Ay, to change this tasteless draught to wine of Lebanon, and the pitcher that contains it to a vase of gold.”
Mariamne shrank from her with a gesture of dismay. Believing implicitly in their power, her religion forbade her to hold any intercourse with those who professed the black art. The other marked her repugnance.
“My child,” she continued, in soothing tones, “be not afraid of the old woman’s secret gifts. Mine is but a harmless knowledge, gained by study of the ancient Chaldæan scrolls, such as your own wise king possessed of old. It is but white magic, such as your high-priest himself would not scruple to employ. Fear not, I say—I, who have pored over those mystic characters till mine eyes grew dim, can read your sweet pale face as plain as the brazen tablets in the Forum, and I can see in it sorrow, and care, and anxiety for him you love.”
Mariamne started. It was true enough, but how could the wise woman have found it out? The girl looked wistfully at her companion, and the latter, satisfied she was on the right track, proceeded to answer that questioning glance.
“Yes,” she said, “you think he is in danger or in grief. You wonder why you do not see him oftener. Sometimes you fear he may be false. What would you not give, my poor child, to look on the golden locks, and the white brow, [pg 223]now, at this very moment? And I can show them to you if you will. The old woman is not ungrateful even for a draught of the Tiber’s muddy stream.”
The blood mounted to Mariamne’s brow, but the light kindled at the same time in her eyes, and the soft gleam swept over her face that comes into every human countenance when the heart vibrates with an allusion to its treasure as though the silver cord thrilled to the touch of an angel’s wing. It was no clumsy guess of the wise woman, to infer that this dark-eyed damsel cherished some fair-haired lover.
“What mean you?” asked the girl eagerly. “How can you show him to me? What do you know of him? Is he safe? Is he happy?”
The wise woman smiled. Here was a bird flying blindfold into the net. Take her by her affections, and there would be little difficulty in the capture.
“He is in danger,” she replied. “But you could save him if you only knew how. He might be happy too, if he would. But with another!”