A few words sufficed to tell him all that she cared to have him know—that she had fled for her life; had fallen among friends; had not dared to return to Jerusalem before this, fearing some repetition of the insults such as Apollonius had once offered her. But that now the Governor was gone, she had come again to be under the care of her natural and legal guardian, "and, God willing," she said, "that the house of Elkiah may again be graced by the presence of woman and child."
Glaucon's manner evidenced much restraint. He was not at ease in expressing even the kindliness and affection he felt, for he had felt so little of these emotions that he had no words in readiness to convey them. There was the difference between his brotherly welcome and that given by the old servants that there is between the shaduff, toilsomely lifting its bucket of water at a time, and a fountain pouring out its welcome to the upcoming flowers. Very soon the sentimental part of the interview was past, and Glaucon proceeded to the practical.
"If, my sister, you are to abide at home, since the King is extremely jealous of the loyalty of the old Jewish families, it would be well to adopt a name less clannish than your present one."
"Call me what you will, brother. I will know myself only by the name my mother gave me. I can, however, quickly interpret any other word into that."
Glaucon's mind was opaque to the fine sarcasm of his sister; he proceeded:
"Berenice is a beautiful name among the Greeks. You know the story of Queen Berenice? No? Then I will tell it to you as I have heard the Princess Helena tell it. I think the Princess has hair like Berenice's, soft and silky as glistening light. You must come to know the Princess."
"But the story of Berenice?" interjected Deborah, wearily.
"It is a fair story as she told it to me," replied he. "Berenice was the wife of King Ptolemy of Egypt; he who was called Euergetes, which means Benefactor. Berenice was the loveliest of women. Her eyes gleamed with starlight, and her hair flowed about her shoulders like the mingling rays of the sun and moon.
"Once, when the King was warring in Syrian lands, his queen made a vow to the gods that, if they would return her lord safely to her arms, she would cut off her hair, and consecrate it in a temple in Cyprus. The gods were tempted by this gift, and gave Ptolemy wondrous victories and a speedy return. Berenice fulfilled her vow. But such was the beauty of her locks that they dazzled the eyes of the beholders who came into the temple. Whereupon the gods hung Berenice's hair in the sky, and there it is still. You may see it any night. It is gathered into seven nodes which seem to be stars. All of our Greek astrologers know of the constellation of Berenice's hair. The charming poet, Callimachus, made a hymn in praise of this new beauty of the heavens. I will sing it to you."
"No, no," said Deborah, "the story is fine enough as you have told it. Do not sing it. But my black threads do not suggest the starry brightness of Berenice's locks. The name would better fit some fair-haired woman. But call me what you will, my brother. And how shall we know the child? Caleb means 'God's dog.' What will that be in Greek?"