sparks of desire, his mouth a thin, cruel line under a dark beard. As he met the eyes upturned to him and saw the olive depths of them, the white oval of the face with its full rose mouth enticingly curved, all framed round by hair tawny like a flame, he bent to her ear and whispered: "Fruit of the clove, come, thou art mine." And at his words a slow smile flooded her eyes until she drooped her long lashes, and her mouth parted in a maddening ellipse.

They cast hurried glances about them on both sides of the road for a path across the fields. Finding one that seemed to lead to a small grove of aloes about a thousand paces to the left, they started toward it.

But they stopped and remained standing, rigidly expectant. For from the center of the turmoil there emerged three words, three sharply distinct words which, over-riding the babel by sheer force of concentrated energy, imposed their will: "Silence! The Master!"

And there was made a great quiet. Not a whisper arose from the many. They stood as if painted against a background of green-gold, yellow, and opal.

Then came a voice, low at first but resonant and of an ineffable sweetness; and increasing in volume from word to word it penetrated throughout the whole gathering.

"I am the bread of life," it began; "he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth on me shall never thirst."

At the first words the woman shook off the hands that clasped her. She crept back to the edge of the circle of listeners and remained unnoticed by them. The expression in her face had changed; what a few moments before had been the face of one long given over to the flesh became as that of a child eager to learn-the eyes opened wide, losing their hardness, the mouth threw off its las

civiousness and assumed a gentle curve, the lines pencilled around mouth and eyes by debauch had been erased. She bent slightly forward, an air of fascinated interest suffusing her whole figure.

The voice continued: "For I came down from heaven, not to do mine own will, but the will of him that sent me. "And this is the Father's will that hath sent me, that of all which he hath given me I should lose nothing, but should raise it up again the last day."

The face of the woman took on the seeming of one inspired. She fell on her knees and lifted her hands, gripped tightly together, to the level of her bowed head.

"And this is the will of him that sent me, that everyone which seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may have everlasting life: And I will raise him up the last day."

And the woman-hearing-threw herself face downward in the dust of the road, weeping as from a heart overflowing. The crowd began to disperse and would have trampled upon her unwittingly, but the man, who during the teaching had held himself aloof, a sneer of disdain sharpening his ruthless countenance, sprang to her and, lifting her up, led her once more out of the confusion.

Shaker from her trance-like mood by being thus picked up and placed upon her feet, her first realization was that of abhorrence for the man beside her. She shuddered with revulsion, feeling his arm about her. She struggled free of him and plunged into the human current ebbing toward Nahum.

II

Evening was wrapping the village in its scented folds of dusk as she passed the first houses. Lights had

begun to spring up through windows and open doors. From the house tops came the sound of voices. Laughter reached her. Along the lanes leading down from the hills trooped herds of goats on their way to be milked. She walked on alone now, the company having for the most part scattered, some disappearing at crossroads, some at foot-paths, into fields, toward the seashore, and into the various houses of the village.

She continued her way along the narrow, winding street until she came to her own lodging, a small house hemmed about, almost entirely hidden by close-set balsam trees. At the entrance she paused and looked up at the new moon high riding above a flying bank of scud. And as she looked there stole into her mind sweet remembrances of her childhood among the pastures by the Waters of Meron. The moon had seemed to shine more brightly there, and her mother had often taken her down to the lake to see the reflection of the light upon the water, the while she sang old songs of her fathers, the shepherds. Tears started in her eyes at thought of the harsh days and brutal nights that had unrolled in endless array since then, and she would have succumbed to a racking paroxysm of weeping had not suddenly all thought of self been stricken from her brain by sound of the word "Nazarene" spoken in sneering tones not fifteen paces away.

She strove to peer through the fast gathering dark. Her sight becoming finally adjusted, she made out the figures of three men standing within the shadow of an immense almond tree that grew somewhat to the right of her house. One was extremely short but of an amazing breadth of shoulder, with a round head set down close to his body; the second was somewhat taller and by no

means so thick-set, his chief distinguishing feature being enormous mustaches and a heavy beard-the pointed ends of the former, although the man faced directly away from her, were plainly visible. Both men bore the attitude of listening intently to words of a third, who was by far the largest of the three. Allowing her gaze to center upon this last, the woman clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry; for she knew him at once to be the one to whom she had almost yielded herself three hours before there was the same dark beard, and as he turned from one to the other of the men, allowing himself to come into the moonlight, she could see the same black, piercing eyes and the same cruel mouth.

Cautiously, noiselessly she moved a few steps nearer that she might overhear. In a dry, hard voice the tall man was addressing him with the beard. "Go, thou, Makaz," he was saying, "to the High Priest at Jerusalem and tell him to expect me tomorrow, that I will carry out his wishes this night. And see, also, that thou remindest him of the mina of gold he has promised." Then turning to the other he went on but in a tone almost menacing. "And, Jehoash, wait thou for me at the khan of Soshoh whither I shall come directly before the third watch. The Nazarene is a slight man as thou hast seen; take heed, therefore, that thou seekest not to augment thy strength at the wine-skin. Thy wit was never sharp; see that thou dost not dull it further. Go thy ways.' And he started to walk briskly toward the center of the village.

The woman had heard every word. A great fear rose in her heart. For the space of two seconds she plumbed confusedly for means of frustrating the designs she had thus fortuitously stumbled upon. A thought pierced her

brain, sharp as a needle, and she flung herself madly in pursuit.

Before coming abreast of him she followed, however, she slackened her pace and overtook him without the semblance of haste. She plucked at his robe. "Hast forgotten me?" she asked, and her heart knocked at her throat, her soul turned sick within her, but she brought a slow smile bravely to her eyes.

He brushed her angrily to one side as if he thought her a beggar. But in a glance he remembered and his face flared up with passion. "Ah, fruit of the pomegranate, hast thou followed me hither to offer again what thou didst so strangely deny me," he said; "come, we will go to thy house and sup. is work before me tonight. I must be gone in an hour." Once more he swept his powerful arm about her beautiful body, and they turned upon their steps.

But we must haste; there

The new moon brightened, whitening the weather dulled houses of Nahum. The people slept. Along the road into Jerusalem plodded a solitary figure, his feet sinking inches deep in the heavy dust. Within the khan of Soshoh there lay a man in a drunken stupor, his head upon the table in front of him, an empty wine-skin under his hand. But through the door of the house beneath the trees of balsam there issued no man forth.

III

Day broke, and the sun, a disk of burnished copper, hung just clear of the horizon. And in the fields along the highway out of the village a hundred sickles flashed in the early morning light.

At the first cross-road, not two thousand paces beyond