"Menoplia was wrong," he said.
"How?"
"Love lives by loving."
"Then there is no cure for it?"
"Yes. Orætes found the cure."
"What was it?"
"Death."
"You are a good listener, O son of Arrius."
And so with conversation and stories, they whiled the hours away. As they stepped ashore, she said,
"To-morrow we go to the city."
"But you will be at the games?" he asked.
"Oh yes."
"I will send you my colors."
With that they separated.
CHAPTER IV.
Ilderim returned to the dowar next day about the third hour. As he dismounted, a man whom he recognized as of his own tribe came to him and said, "O sheik, I was bidden give thee this package, with request that thou read it at once. If there be answer, I was to wait thy pleasure."
Ilderim gave the package immediate attention. The seal was already broken. The address ran, To Valerius Gratus at Cæsarea.
"Abaddon take him!" growled the sheik, at discovering a letter in Latin.
Had the missive been in Greek or Arabic, he could have read it; as it was, the utmost he could make out was the signature in bold Roman letters—Messala—whereat his eyes twinkled.
"Where is the young Jew?" he asked.
"In the field with the horses," a servant replied.
The sheik replaced the papyrus in its envelopes, and, tucking the package under his girdle, remounted the horse. That moment a stranger made his appearance, coming, apparently, from the city.
