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helpless.
    Antipas stepped forward to greet her. He took both her hands in his and smiled down into her timidly upraised eyes. It was an experienced smile that skilfully appraised and evidently approved. For a moment the silence in the tent grew oppressive as they waited for an opinion from the beautiful young Princess. Presently she gave a shy, tremulous smile—and the suspense lifted. They all breathed freely again; and, with the exception of Aretas, exchanged glances of relief and satisfaction. Herod drained his goblet and smacked his lips. It was good wine. And—what was still better—by this time tomorrow the alliance would be an attested fact and he would be ready—if need be—to confront Tiberius.

Chapter II
    Now that the month of Tishri had come and the trees were taking on rich colours, Arnon's homesickness became almost insupportable. Jerusalem was slowly strangling her. But for the understanding sympathy and tenderness of Queen Mariamne, she would have died or gone mad.
    Nature had not intended that Arnon should be surrounded by walls. Because her own people were of necessity nomadic they had built no cities. Indeed, the Arabians were contemptuous of cities, considering them pestilent prisons, stultifying to both body and spirit.
    Every morning, in the far away and long ago, Arnon had risen at dawn to breathe deeply of the invigorating mountain breeze and rejoice in the peace of a silence broken only by the distant tinkle of camel bells. But here in Jerusalem she felt stifled, caged. Late in the morning she would struggle back to consciousness, finding herself hungry for clean, bracing air. The beautifully wrought antique tapestries which curtained her luxurious bed gave off a sickening odour of mould and the exquisite mosaics leaked the sour stench of disintegrating plaster.
    Added to the tomblike atmosphere of her spacious bed-chamber was a conglomeration of city smells seeping in from the outside, smells of old and decaying things: old walls, old towers, old markets, old stables, old cobbled streets. There were plenty of distasteful sights, sounds, and scents in this ancient city, but the worst thing of all was the stagnant, fetid air.
    Every day now, Arnon woke nauseated; though the servants—who found nothing wrong with the air—graciously assured the foreign Princess that her morning sickness was due to her condition, always adding, piously, 'For which the Lord God of Israel be praised!'
    On this tenth day of Tishri, Arnon tugged herself loose from a nostalgic dream of riding swiftly beside her father in a noisy mountain storm, galloping, galloping hard, quite out of breath, with big splashes of warm rain pelting them. Half-suffocated and drenched with perspiration, she gazed up dully into the smiling eyes of the Queen.
    Mariamne was the most beautiful woman Arnon had ever seen. She was in her early fifties, but seemed much younger, for by her abstemiousness she had retained a youthful figure. She had all the traditional dignity of a queen, but none of the arrogance. Arnon had known from the first moment of their meeting that she was going to like Mariamne. The Queen had no daughter and Arnon had never known a mother. Their friendship was instant and mutual.
    But in spite of the affection she felt for her charming mother-in-law, Arnon had extended no confidences. Her father had warned her to guard her tongue in the presence of these people. 'Spies are always friendly, and free to share their secrets with you.' Sometimes it had been difficult to observe this reticence, her intuition assuring her that Mariamne's devotion to her was sincere.
    'How are you, my child?' asked the Queen gently.
    'Very warm,' mumbled Arnon; 'and a bit sick, as usual. I shall feel better when I've had something cold to drink. You are up early, Your Majesty. Have you had your breakfast?'
    Summoning a servant to bring the Princess a goblet of cold pomegranate juice, Mariamne sat down on the edge of the bed.
    'I am not to have