Still as a statue stood the young Greek, and none who came or went dared ask him whence he came, but suddenly an arm was around his neck and a kiss was upon his cheek.
"I am here, beloved, but I may not linger. I will see thee often. I am still thy Sapphira."
He stirred not, spoke not, nor did he turn to see, but there was a grating of teeth.
"O Lysias! O love!"
"Speak not of that which is dead," he said to her. "Go thou thy way. This is no place for the foolishness of unfaithful women. I will indeed meet thee again, but thou art a slave and I am a free warrior. Go!"
White was now the face of Sapphira and her lips were quivering, but she whispered:
"Scorn me not! I was frightened, and so I was cruel. I do love thee; and thou wilt need me in this place, which is as a spider's web. I go. Follow me not!"
"Follow thee?" laughed Lysias, scornfully. "I did follow thee from far, but now I am as a weapon in the hand of the procurator. I shall serve not thee, but him."
"Ha!" muttered one who heard. "This is, then, the trusted one. Him we must slay."
Well for that speaker if his lips had been closed, for in the shadow behind him stood Pontius the Spearman.