“That is he!”
Judah looked, and saw—Messala.
“What, the assassin—that?” said a tall man, in legionary armor of beautiful finish. “Why, he is but a boy.”
“Gods!” replied Messala, not forgetting his drawl. “A new philosophy! What would Seneca say to the proposition that a man must be old before he can hate enough to kill? You have him; and that is his mother; yonder his sister. You have the whole family.”
For love of them, Judah forgot his quarrel.
“Help them, O my Messala! Remember our childhood and help them. I—Judah—pray you.”
Messala affected not to hear.
“I cannot be of further use to you,” he said to the officer. “There is richer entertainment in the street. Down Eros, up Mars!”
With the last words he disappeared. Judah understood him, and, in the bitterness of his soul, prayed to Heaven.
“In the hour of thy vengeance, O Lord,” he said, “be mine the hand to put it upon him!”