That bland sweet weather changed to truculent At sunset, and through all the winter night Raged with wild wind and sleet of rain and hail. The roofs, the doors, the casements, of the house
Where Felix and Drusilla sojourned, shook As toward dilapidation of its frame. Drusilla lay in terror of her life Tossing upon her couch and could not sleep.
Brief intervals and lulls of tempest came; But images of distant danger then Mixed with the imminent menaces of the night. So with the earliest morning — furious yet
The unabated rack of elements — Drusilla sent for Simon, rallied now Out of his low estate, and, tremulous With weakness, through that very weakness made
More searchingly clairvoyant than his wont. Untimely roused, and unrefreshed with sleep, And shaken as still she was with panic fears, The Jewess, ever conscious of herself
And proudly the more conscious now before One whom she fain would hold her vassal, sat Like a queen giving audience, well-arrayed, Yet artfully in speaking seemed to plead.
“Simon,” she said, “be once more my resource.” “Not once more, but an hundred hundred times, Liege lady,” Simon said, “if mine art serve.” “But, Simon, will it serve for no reward?”
Drusilla, not without some pathos, said; Yet also not without some scrutiny Of Simon, which that deep dissembler bore Flinching, but scarcely flinching, as he said:
“My fortune I account bound up with thine.” “Yea, Simon, what through thee I gain,” she said, “Reckon that thou no less gainest through me. As has been, is, our pact; art thou content?”
“More than content, most thankful,” Simon said; “I pray thee of conditions now no more, But speak thy wishes; they shall be commands.” “Well, faithful Simon,” wheedling now she spoke,
“That proud Drusilla thou once knewest in me, Is abject in sheer sense of helplessness. My lord is broken in spirit with lack of hope: I stay him up, as best I may, to show
The world some front of kingly boldness yet, But truth is, I am broken with staying him. What can we do at Rome? How mend our case? Friends have we few, and on the fallen thou knowest
Enemies swarm like flies on rotting flesh. All is for sale at Rome, but who can buy That goes barehanded thither, as do we? Thou hast the truth; now, Simon, like the rest,
Leave us, as rats forsake a dooméd ship!” “Thou pleasest to be facetious, O my queen,” Said Simon; “thou barehanded never art, Go where thou wilt, with beauty such as thine,
Such beauty, and such wit to use it well.” With pregnant ambiguity he spoke, And deeply read the features of her face. Those features molded nobly fair, but now
Through their disfiguring discomposure wronged, Slowly regained the aspect clear and calm Wherein the proud possessor long before Learned that her sumptuous beauty best prevailed
To make her sovereign of the hearts of men: Habit, with reminiscence of her past Triumphs, usurped her mind that she forgot Simon, the raging storm, her doubts and fears.
Simon considered his mistress at his ease; He saw she was not flattered by his words To be a childlike plaything in his hands; He saw she was too haughty to resent,
Too haughty to acknowledge by word or sign, Perhaps too haughty even to recognize In her deep mind, much more in heart to feel, Hint as conveyed by him in what he said
That in the marriage markets of the world Such charms as hers were merchantable ware; And that he Simon abode at her command Loyally ready to renew for her,
On some august occasion still to seek, That intermediary office his Which once from King Azizus parted her To make her of the Roman Felix spouse.
Drusilla in no manner made response; But not less Simon knew his wish was sped; He knew the Venus Victrix heart in her Was flattering to the height her sense of power.
He could not err by over-audacity In tempting this presumptuous woman's pride. He ventured: “It were loyal service done Thy husband, to whom loyal service thou
Already even to sacrifice hast done In being his consort, thou a queen before, And he” —‘ but lately raised from servile state,’ Simon would fain have said outright, to ease
The pressure of hate and scorn he felt for Felix, But knew he must no more than thus arrest That word upon the point of utterance caught — “It were I say, well-weighed, a service to him
If thou shouldst wake the matchless power thou hast Of kindling admiration and desire, To exercise it in supreme assay At the tribunal where he must be judged,
Making the judge himself thy willing thrall!” The subtle sorcerer watched with wary eye Askance, to see his mistress give at this Some sign of pleased and startled vanity:
Impassible placidity he saw — Serene, withdrawn, uninterrupted muse. A little disconcerted, he bode mute, Half glad in hope that he had not been heard.
When at length she, that queenly creature, broke, Herself, with speech the growing spell of awe He felt upon him cast by her supreme Beauty suspense in its august repose,
Its silence and reserve and mystery, Then Simon knew that she had been before Him with the soaring thought of Nero led — The emperor of the world in triumph led —
A captive at Drusilla's chariot wheels! A flash of light invaded Simon's mind: ‘ Were there not hidden here the way long sought To free himself from the abhorréd yoke
Of Felix? This bold woman would not stick At putting such an obstacle as was A husband such as he, out of her path — This by whatever means — a path that led
Steep to enthronement by the emperor's side.’ Thenceforward Felix's worst foe was one Of his own household at his table fed. “The emperor is a bloody man, if true
Be all, be half, that they report of him —” Drusilla thus, as in soliloquy Rather than in discourse to ear addressed, Spoke slowly — “he, the latest story goes
Sped like a shudder of horror around the world, Has got his mother slain, bunglingly drowned By accident forsooth, at his command — Accident such as asks design to chance,
A vessel foundering in a placid sea, On a serene and starry summer night — And after all not drowned, even awkwardly, But rescued to be stabbed, with mother's cry
First from her lips,‘ I never will believe This of my son!’ but then with,‘ Strike me here!’ Confessing that she knew it was her son! And his young queen Octavia, silly sweet,
And good, and pure, and fair, and amiable, And in short all a Roman emperor's spouse Should not be — she, they say, leads a slave's life, Or worse, amid her husband's palace scorned,
And happy if at last only with death And not with shame he rid her from his side.” Thus speaking, his bold mistress, Simon knew, Called up deterrent thoughts so formidable,
Not to succumb before them shocked, appalled, But to confront them fairly, know them well, Then with defiance triumph over them. Still, with slant thrust at Felix in his thought,
He dared a word of double-edged reply: “Emperors, and those however now ill-placed Yet worthy to be empresses, are free To seek their consorts, consorts true I mean,
Wherever they can find them in the world; And obstacles must not be obstacles To them; their pathway must somehow be cleared. Such, one may all too easily judge amiss.
Wait till thou see the emperor fitly wed! That emperor-mother Agrippina balked Her boy too often of his wish. She would Be empress of the emperor of the world;
Her blood in him made this impossible: It was her folly and crime invoked her fall. As for that young Octavia — thou hast said.” “Poppæa” — so Drusilla had resumed,
But Simon rashly took the word from her: “Poppæa is a rival to be weighed Doubtless — highborn, and beautiful, and deep In cunning, and sure mistress of herself —
As art not thou too, and full equally?— But then she has a husband in the way, And is she of the stuff to deal with him?” Simon's hatred of his lord had pricked him on
Beyond the mark of prudence; he recoiled From his own words before Drusilla spoke, And added, for diversion of her thought: “But doubtless thou wilt need to buy thy way
To opportunity at Rome; betimes Prepare thee bribes to drop along thy path. Our Gentile brethren have a pretty tale” — And Simon with sarcastic humor leered —
“Of how a runner once upon a time Won him a famous race by letting fall Gold apples on the course too tempting bright Not to delay his rival gathering them.
Provide thyself with apples of gold to drop, While thou art speeding featly to thy goal.” “Gold, Simon!” Drusilla said, “thou teasest me, Too well thou knowest I have no gold; our store
Was swallowed all in that devouring sea.” “I speak in figure, my lady,” Simon said; “I mean neither literal apples nor literal gold.” “Pray, no more parable to me,” severe
With air resumed once more of queen enthroned, Drusilla answered, and, with only look, As haughtily disdaining further word, Demanded that he make his meaning plain.
Simon, with indirection sly, replied: “Hast thou remarked the daily opening bloom Of beauty in the face, and in the form, Of that Eunicé, our young countrywoman?”
Drusilla gave a fiercely jealous start — On Simon, eagerly alert, not lost, Brief though it was, and instantly subdued; It was as instantly interpreted —
A welcomed effect, though calculated not. She had recalled what late she overheard Hinted from Felix to the prisoner Paul, “Unless indeed thy pretty countrywoman” —
And construed it as meaning that his eye, Her husband's, had been levying on the maid. “Women are not like men to note such things,” Drusilla answered with a frigid air,
Yet not as with unwillingness to learn What sequel there might be in Simon's thought. That sequel Simon changed to suit the case He had now created unexpectedly.
He would torment Drusilla's jealous mind, And whet her temper to the proper edge For helpful quarrel with that spouse of hers So hateful to him.
“Women that are wives,” Said Simon, “well might condescend to pay Some heed to such things! But the present need Is to have bribes in hand of the right sort
To lavish where occasion may arise When we reach Rome. Try if thou canst not gain This pretty damsel for our purposes. Play patroness to her, have her at court
Here — for wherever the true queen is, there Is court, though in a desert — flatter her, And ply her to thy will. Arrived at Rome, Where all is venal yet venal not all for gold,
Offer her as likest seems to serve thy cause. There is my scheme for thee; and thy lord will, I doubt not, wink at least to forward it.” Simon could not forbear the tempting chance
To end, as he began, with what would bait Further Drusilla's flushed and jealous mind. ‘ Is Simon playing me false in a deep game To serve lord Felix at his wife's expense?’
Drusilla wondered;‘ would he dare so far? Does he even seek to make a tool of me? Of me, Drusilla, make a pliant tool — I serve their turn forsooth against myself?
Be it so, and let them trow their plotting speeds! I will try to be as simple as they could wish.’ In secret with herself she wondered thus; But spoke aloud with cleared and brightened look:
“The storm, I see, which I had quite forgot, Thanks to the charms of thy society, Is much abated; let us break our fast, And then go thou and bid her hither to me,
That pretty child. Tell her I need her much, For I am deeply sorry for my sins, And think that, with a little guide like her To take me by the hand and lead me right,
I could forsake them all and follow with her Henceforward, a true sister in the faith. A little lure of harmless simple hope To win a wicked woman from her ways,
I think thou wilt find useful with the maid, If, as is likely, she be loth to come.” Felix, Drusilla, and the sorcerer That morning at their simple meal reclined
Together in a show of amity; But inwardly it was a state of feud Or hollow truce of armed hypocrisy. Eating in silence with small appetite,
Their breakfast soon they ended; Simon then Withdrew and did his errand. He did more; For having perforce to meet the mother too, Whose daughter was seen ever at her side,
He feigned to be himself a penitent, Protesting his belief that he was healed, Unworthy to be healed, because Paul came But near him where he lay sick in his bed;
And this although he had wickedly refused To see Paul and to suffer Paul's hands on him. He said his mistress was afraid, as he Was too, of Felix; both of them must move
Warily, no suspicion to excite In one so irritable and so violent. They therefore could not ask for Paul to come, Or indeed any man among Paul's friends.
But Ruth might safely come and bring the maid Her daughter. Simon begged the matron would Kindly indulge Drusilla's preference, Caprice perhaps it was, for making her child
And not herself — senior, and so more wise Doubtless — her chosen guide and confidant. Eunicé's youth had won Drusilla's heart. All Simon's plausible art could not prevail
To gain from Ruth the promise he desired; She only told him she would ponder well What he had said and do as wisest seemed. But Simon, cheering himself that in the end
Ruth by the tempting bait held out to her, The hope of doing good, would be enticed, Went straight to Felix, and with many a wink Of sly salacious import hinted to him
That he, his master, had quite unawares, With just his manly martial front and port, Taken captive a fair Hebrew damsel who, If all sped as he hoped, would soon appear
There at the mansion, by her mother led, To feed her fancy on his noble looks. The simple mother, she knew nothing of it, But came to visit Drusilla in the hope,
Which, naughty child! the daughter had inspired Of gaining my lady over to the faith. Should Felix condescend to speak to her The maid would be all blushes, that of course,
She coyly would insist she only came Bearing her mother company to wait Upon the mistress of the house with her. Felix would understand how much was meant,
Or rather how little, by the pretty airs And arch pretexts of feminine coquetry. It was as Simon hoped: Ruth, overcome In prudence by her generous desire
To serve a soul in need; some natural zeal Perhaps commingling to bring home such spoil Of her Eunicé's winning, a surprise And joy to Paul and all the rest — so led,
Ruth with Eunicé to Drusilla went. But not alone; Stephen their counsel shared, And he, deeply misdoubting of it all, Went with them. In the inner court he stayed,
Awaiting watchful, eye and ear, while they, Having with all obeisance been received And ushered inward by the instructed slave, Should do their errand with the mistress there.
He was disturbed, when Felix, with a scowl Askance at him, crossing the court in haste Followed the women through the selfsame door, Scarce shut behind them ere he entered too.
It was of her astute design and art, Drusilla's, that her husband should have scope To show at full in act before her eyes What ground of truth there was for Simon's hints
Against his faith to her. She had hid herself, Not to be seen but see, while in the room Whither the women were ushered Felix might, Were such his mind, waylay the pretty maid,
Proving himself what Simon would have him be. “Thou with thy daughter, madam, art well come; These are dull days in Melita for us,” So, with a gross familiar air ill masked
In mock of supercilious courtesy, Felix to Ruth; who noticed with dismay That servitor and servitress at once, As if at silent signal unperceived,
Vanished from presence and left her alone, Her and Eunicé, no Drusilla seen, With Felix and his bristling insolence. Her fears were not allayed when Felix said
Further: “My lady will be glad to see Thee, madam, for she dies of weariness In this insufferable place, with naught Of new to while the endless hours away;
But as for this our pretty little maid, She shall accept my awkward offices To entertain her, while her mother waits Apart on dame Drusilla and chats with her.”
So saying, he stepped to the half-open door And clapped his hands in summons for a slave. One quickly answered, and the master said: “Where is thy mistress? Take this madam to her,”
Pointing to Ruth. Ruth in a whirl of thought Wondered,‘ Are these things all a wicked wile Of Simon's to entrap us here? Does she,
Drusilla, too, collude? Or does she know Nothing of all? Or, knowing, does she fear Felix, and therefore leave us helpless thus? How far may I abiding true to her
Involve Drusilla in a plea to him?’ She stood, not stirring at the servant's beck, And spoke in tones held clear and firm with will: “It is my daughter, sir, the errand has
With dame Drusilla. She shall go to her, And as the custom is between us twain We will together go, for twain with us Is one. Dismiss us, then, I pray, to go.”
“Thou art hard-hearted, madam,” Felix said; “One surely is enough to meet the dame Drusilla, and the other might solace me. I pay my lady's taste a compliment
In myself choosing for my company, As seems she chose for hers, thy daughter fair Rather than thee; for, without prejudice To thine own comeliness, thy daughter is,
Thou wilt confess it, madam, nay, with pride, A trifle fresher in her youthful bloom.” Eunicé standing by her mother glowed With an indignant shame sublimely fair;
It kindled up her beauty into flame Dreadful to see, had he who saw it been But capable of awe from virtue shown Lovelier with noble wrath; Felix admired
Only more fiercely and was not afraid. A flash of movement instant changed the scene. Stephen, who, through the door left open, caught Felix's first ominous words of insolence,
Had, winging his feet with his suspicious fears, Fled out into the open — whither, scarce thought — Yet with instinctive wish that went to Paul. He chanced on Aristarchus walking nigh,
In solitary muse, after his wont; Him, with such instance as spared needless words, He hurried forth to find and fetch back Paul. Returning he dashed swiftly through the court,
Avoiding who perhaps with servile sloth Reluctant might have moved to stay him there, And through the door where his Eunicé was Defenceless in that ruthless robber's den.
The youth's ear, quivering quick with jealous love, Snatched Felix's last words, his ravening eye Seized on the splendid vision of his bride Betrothed, gleaming there in her loveliness
Illumined so with virtue and with shame Beside her mother, facing such a foe! His instinct was far swifter than his thought; Counting not odds, not deeming there was odds,
He like an arrow from a bow that twanged Shot into place between his bride and him, That spoiler, and there stood. His face he turned Defiantly on Felix, lightning of scorn
In sheafs of flashes shooting from his eyes, Distended his fine nostrils with disdain, His right arm raised in gesture to forefend, And his light frame a-quiver with repose
Of purpose to dare all and to prevail. It was a duel of silence betwixt those twain, That slender youth through whose translucent flesh Blushed the bright blood of innocence and truth.
That burly man corrupt in every vein With the thick foecal currents of debauch. Ruth and Eunicé would not cower or cry: Eunicé's spirit partook of that high strain
Which was her martyr father's, and she now Triumphed to see transfigured to more fair Than ever with his glorious hardihood The youth that worthily bore her father's name
And worthily held the empire of her heart. In confidence of Stephen which subtly too Wrought to make him more confident of himself, Eunicé stood confronting the event.
Felix succumbed and was the first to speak: “Well, youngster, thou hast struck an attitude! What wilt thou? And what doest thou here? Knowest not Thou beardest thus the lion in his lair?”
Felix's air of pride and lordliness Was ever such flatulent swell of windy words. Stephen some space disdained him loftily With dumb and blank refusal of reply;
Then grudged him this: “I into the wolf's den Enter to rend the ravin from his paw.” The youth thus having spoken half-way turned Toward the two women and with instant voice,
Low-toned yet less to be inaudible To Felix than for intimate passion of love, Said: “Haste, fly! I will follow as I may.” Ruth with Eunicé had not reached the door
When, frantic to be balked of his desire, Felix lunged after them with lusty stride Seeking to stay the damsel in her flight. For all her fear she still forbore to cry,
But could not check her impulse of appeal To Stephen, and she uttered forth his name. The eager agile stripling had no need To hear that call from his belovéd; he,
Already at her side, had, with clenched fist, Which flashing like a scimitar came down, Smitten Felix on the forearm with such might That for the moment it was numbed with pain,
And dropped as palsied from its reach for her. Eunicé with backhanded movement quick Seized, as she flew following her mother forth, On Stephen's girdle behind her and drew him,
Willingly led in that captivity, To share their flight and rescue from their foe. Beside himself with rage at his defeat, And aching still with pain from Stephen's blow,
Felix now stamped and shouted: “Slaves! What, ho! Rascals, where are ye all?” Some, trembling, came, But ere their master could possess his wits To give them orders, Paul before him stood.
Worse crazed at that sight, Felix fiercely cried: “Him! Him! Are ye all blind? Seize him, I say!” Betwixt their terror of Felix and their awe Of Paul, august in his unmovéd calm
And venerable with virtue and with age, Well-known to them besides as one who wrought With other power than mortal, the poor slaves Hung helpless to perform their master's hest.
“These do not need to seize me, here I am,” Said Paul, “and of no mind to fly; I came Hastily summoned as to some distress Here, what I know not, that I might relieve.”
“Smite him upon the mouth,” Felix broke forth, “And make him feel distress to need relief!” The freedman's truculence waxed with every word, And swaggering forward he his hand upraised
As if himself to strike the blow he bade; When, with a maniple of soldiers armed Accompanied, Julius the centurion stood Abruptly at the door.
Stephen with his charge Had met the band of soldiers on their way Just as, with circumspection looking back, He saw Paul, by a different path arrived,
And earlier, enter at Felix's abode. He quickly acted on a counsel new. For, with a farewell of, “Now ye are safe, Yet hie ye to the uttermost remove
From Felix,” to the women spoken, he Turning walked back with Julius who his pace Now slacked to listen while the stripling told What had befallen and how he feared for Paul
Imperilled in that violent house alone. “Come in good time, however hither called,” Felix to Julius said, with such a tone As seemed to ask how he was thither called.
“Thy servant Syrus begged that I would come,” Said Julius, “for the safety of thy house Endangered by two women and a boy, Who had found entrance and were threatening thee.”
In truth, that sly young slave of Felix's — For reason ill-affected toward his lord, As much enamored of the Christian folk For their fair manners, and the comely looks
Of some of them, and the beneficent Working of wonders seen or heard from Paul — Had summoned Julius in the true behoof Of Ruth with her Eunicé and of Stephen;
This, shrewdly under guise of service shown His master. Julius understood the guile And humored it, while Felix's thick wits Spread ample cover to render Syrus safe.
“Of course,” so Julius added, “it had not seemed Needful to come, but that I also heard A prisoner of my charge would here be found, For whose safe keeping I am answerable.”
Then glancing in a kindly neutral way At Stephen, he, with show of grave rebuke That could not wholly hide his lively sense Of whimsical humor in the part he played
As mediator in such case, went on: “This Hebrew youth confesses that, in haste Of spirit, he offered thee some disrespect.” With language purposely made light and vague
Thus the centurion glozed Stephen's offence, Discreetly shunning to let Felix know That he knew from the offender's own report How, for good cause, as to a happy end,
The indignant youth inflicted on him there The shame and anguish of that timely blow. “What wilt thou, my lord Felix,” Julius asked, “Wilt thou forgive the lad outright? Or pleasest
Thou rather I condignly deal with him?” It was astutely so proposed, to save Appearances to Felix and for him. Gross-witted as he was, he yet was proud,
And such end of the incident appeared At once some homage to his dignity And an escape unhoped from threatened shame. He condescended loftily to leave
The case of Stephen in the centurion's hands; And the centurion presently retired With Paul and Stephen both. Stephen he bade See to it that he never thenceforth act
Less worthily of himself than he that day Had done, and with no other reprimand Dismissed him to rejoin his company. As for Drusilla, she now had her proof;
And seeing his purpose prosper Simon was glad.
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