She had ceased long ago to debate idly on the actual identity of the
man who had called himself Hesper of Ephesus. There was another
question that absorbed her. Of late, it had been brought home to her
that the charm of Laodice for the stranger from Ephesus, to whom the
Greek knew the girl had fled, had been her purity. Why should it
matter so much about virtue? she had asked herself. Why should it
weigh so immeasurably more than the noble gifts of wit and beauty and
strength and charm? Behold, she was wise enough to educate a barbarous
nation, beautiful enough to bewitch potentates--for a time--strong
enough to take a city; yet Hesper, who best of all could appreciate
the value of these things, had turned from her to Laodice, who was
merely chaste.
The greater part of the jealous and bitter passion that had shaken her
then was dumb regret that the measure of charm was so irrational--and
that she had not believed in it, in time, in time!
Now, however, since she had become convinced that Laodice had gone to
Hesper for refuge, hope had awakened in her, but so filled with
uncertainty and lack of confidence in another's weakness that it was
little more than a torture to her.
If Laodice had gone to this winsome stranger, either claiming to be
the wife of Philadelphus or acknowledging the imposture, there was now
no difference between Laodice and herself!
But, she asked herself, was it not possible that this lovely girl who
had shown signs of illimitable fortitude, could live in the shelter of
the captivating Hesper as uprightly as she had lived under the roof of
the man she called her husband?
In one exigency, the hopes of Amaryllis budded; in the other, her
intuitive belief in the strength of Laodice discouraged her.
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