In spite of the marks of grief that had exhausted her
tears, the fatigue and discomfort, she seemed, to the Maccabee's eyes,
more than ever lovely. He was angry with the hieratic banishment that
sent her out to subsist by the roadside for seven days in early
spring; angry with the harsh inhospitality of the hills; and angrier
that he could not change it all. He looked at the old mute to see that
he was carefully putting away the remnants of a meal of durra bread
and curds. The primitive gallantry of the original man stirred in the
Maccabee. He had come unseen; with silent step he departed.
A little later he stepped boldly into the circle of light from their
camp-fire. To Laodice, in her lowly position, he seemed superhumanly
big and splendid. Without mantle or any of the accessories that would
show preparation against the cold, his bare arms and limbs and dark
face, tanned, hardy and resolute, seemed to be those of a strong
aborigine, sturdy friend of all of nature's rougher moods.
He did not look at Momus, who got up as quickly as he might at the
intrusion of the big stranger. His dark eyes rested on Laodice, who
sat transfixed with her sudden recognition of the visitor.
He held in one hand a brace of fowls, in the other a skin of wine.
When he spoke the polish of the Ephesian andronitis in his voice and
manner destroyed the primitive illusion.
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