"O rash one! Thou art lost! What am I to thee any more? Am I not the slave of the procurator of Judea? Thou art not my Lysias; thou art but a rider of horses."
In her face was a great struggle of pain, nevertheless, and in his was a whiteness, for he fell upon the floor and lay there moaning.
"Foolish boy!" she said, stooping over him. "I love thee, but I am not now thine, nor can I be. The past is dead, and the gods have bidden us eternal separation. Destroy me not and destroy not thyself. Go lest the sword find thee here! The scourge is close to thee, and sudden death both for thee and me."
"I care not for the scourge or the sword," said Lysias, slowly rising and gazing at her. "I care only for thee, O false one! Hast thou utterly changed away from me?"
"What I was that I am not," she said. "What thou art thou knowest. Art thou mad, also, to cast thyself against the power of Pontius? Leave me lest I call for help! I will not die on thy account. I love life, and life is full of love for such as I am. What need have I of thee, O lost lover?"
Anger was in her eyes now, and greater fear, for that which she said was true.
"Kiss me!" he said, faintly, "and I will go. The gods have abandoned me!"
Then stepped she forward and kissed him on the lips and a spasm shook him from head to foot, shaking her also.
"Let thy love die within thee," she said, "and trouble me no more, for I live happily in this palace, where all are my friends. Make me not thine enemy, for in this thou art a robber."
"That am I," he murmured. "I will go. I came far and risked all to see thee. I knew nothing concerning women. Now that I know thee, what thou art, I have no need of thee. Love will die, for all else is dead. Sing thou thy song, but be sure that all thy roses will wither on thy bosom."