Withal her presence intimated
tremendous primal charm and the mystery of undiscovered
potentialities. And she was royal! No mere upstart of an impostor
could have assumed that perfect hauteur, that patrician bearing.
But the pretended Philadelphus was not impressed by this beauty.
"How now, Salome?" he demanded. "What play is this?"
The Ephesian actress motioned toward the shittim-wood casket.
"For that," she said calmly.
Her voice became, instantly, her foremost charm. It was a deep voice;
the profoundest contralto with an illimitable strength in suggestion.
"Where is--what is that?"
"Two hundred talents."
Philadelphus took a step toward her.
"What!" he exclaimed evilly. "Whose two hundred talents?"
"Mine."
There was silence in which the man's fingers bent, as if he felt her
throat between them. Then he recovered himself.
"But--this woman--where is she?"
The actress lifted her shapely shoulders.
"Where is the Maccabee?" she asked in return.
He made no answer.
"Did you get that treasure here--since yesterday?" he asked at last
querulously.
"No, by Pluto! I got it in the hills near to Emmaus. You would have
had it in another day." She laughed impudently, in spite of the
murderous blackening in his face.
"Then, since you are such a shrewd thief, why did you come here at
all, since you had the gold?" he demanded, astonished in spite of his
rage.
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