wiles of feigned meekness, by despair, by appealing love. To him the daughter of Caiaphas was at present naught, and this she knew; to be loved by Lazarus one must be lovable, true, pure. Oh, she knew well, this wily daughter of the wiliest of Jews of whom no nation is more wily that she was none of the things she would appear to be, yet that she must needs seem all to win him. She felt, too, that now was her final chance. If Lazarus—Lazarus, enchained so far and kept in her presence by the claims of courtesy, should leave her now, never again would she have such a chance in such a place at such an hour. Her lips paused only to give her brain time to revolve the best means of winning him to stay. For one moment, whose madness later made her shiver, she thought of using the weapons that with others would have been so powerful. Could he resist, she wondered, the softness of her arms entwining round his neck, the sweet intensity of her soft lips, the clinging appeal in her silvery voice, the crystal tears in those speaking eyes? No, though she knew full well that Rebekah brought low in meek subjection to love, the haughty daughter of Caiaphas telling her tale of seductive passion in that secluded garden on a summer's night, would have driven most hearts in Jerusalem mad, from very love and wonderment, still to Lazarus it would be no temptation; the very boldness of it would disgust him. "Yet he must have a heart," she murmured to herself; then added, "Whereof I have not the key." Then aloud, fearful lest he should suddenly depart, she said: "I would talk to thee one moment and ask thee more of this Nazarene."
