Let no person stint to pay him deference;
Be not bold to strike, but keep your hearts in patience,
And to your lord keep heart of reverence,
For he, your king, has all puissance!
In the name of the law, I command you peace!
And King Herod—‘la grandeaboly vos umport.’”
The last words, spoken by the herald in a low voice and with a knowing smile, were greeted with a roar of delight, for Herod was to some extent a comic character, at whom every one might laugh and “la grandeaboly vos umport” is bad French for “the devil run away with you!”
And now Herod himself majestically strode forth, and again laughter, half derisive, half admiring, rang out, for in spite of all the boasting and stamping which every one knew was coming, he made a magnificent figure.
Dressed as a Saracen, he wore wonderful Eastern robes, and a jewelled turban. His black hair was dishevelled, his face red and angry, and with his flashing eyes, and huge flashing sword, he looked formidable enough.
“Qui status in Jude ex Rex Israel,” he began in a loud commanding tone.