length he curled up on the divan sleepily. Lazily he recalled the happenings of the day. He dwelt long in thought on the thin, earnest, intense face of Saul, the Hebrew boy, who by the force of his spoken word alone had driven off the Jews who were tormenting the boy with the hat. Timoleon's last waking thought was, "Could I bear myself as he did, as one of years and authority, I might free myself from this coil. Now the gods must help me, for my own wits are of no use."

CHAPTER III

TIMOLEON wakened in the morning to find himself alone the first of many lonely days. His meals were served regularly and the servants saw that he wanted nothing, but they would not talk to him; and though Clion frequently ate at the same table in the evening, the boy could not bring himself to do more than answer briefly when the man spoke. He was not sullen and stubborn in the ordinary manner of a boy ten years old; he simply was self-contained, reserved, silent, bearing himself with the watchful dignity of a man thrice his years. His attitude was strangely unchildlike; but life had not given Timoleon childhood. From a home-sheltered babyhood he had gone directly to youth, and was thus early matured by constant travel with his father's caravan.

Left now to his own devices, Timoleon spent many hours on the roof of Clion's house, looking at the outstanding buildings of Tarsus and recalling all he knew of each. In eight months a waif in the streets of the city could learn

much, and Timoleon knew the city better than most boys born there. The four years spent constantly with his father had quickened his perceptions and kindled an active curiosity concerning the world about him that forced the boy's education and made him uncannily wise. By encouraging Timoleon to ask questions his father had fostered this inquiring attitude of mind. Though but a traveling merchant, he revered learning. An ardent patriot, he knew many details of his country's history. By the campfire and on the road he told Timoleon many a story of Greece in the days of her glory. At the khans where they camped and in the towns where they traded Timoleon heard much political talk, which he afterward discussed with his father. In such manner had the boy's natural acquisitiveness been developed and his mind trained to classify its facts. Timoleon's memory, too, his father had cultivated by many devices: games that beguiled many weary hours of travel had made it much more retentive than that of the average man.

So Timoleon, a prisoner in Clion's house, did not lack for resources to pass the hours. But no diversion held him longer than looking at some section of the city, picturing its

streets, and recalling its most striking features. None held his fancy more often than the Jewish quarter in the southern part of Tarsus. There was a mystery about this strange people that fascinated him. Exactly, in the order of their happening, he set up before his mind's eye pictures of events connected with the Hebrews as he knew them. His father had helped to outline the first one; for just after they had come to Tarsus, late one afternoon in October, a company of Jews had passed through the market place. Timoleon saw the scene distinctly. All carried boughs of trees: olive branches, great bundles of feathery willow wands, short, broad limbs from myrtle and fir trees.

He recalled his own words to his father, "They must be trying to bring the woods to town."

His father laughed: "Truly, they are a strange race. They worship but one God: they know nothing of the myriad gods that people the forests, yet it is their custom yearly, at this season, to keep a feast unto their one God by living in little houses built of leaves and branches and hung about with fruits."

"Where do they build these houses? In their courtyards?"

"No, no, my Timoleon! In the streets of their quarter. They do not like strangers, else we would go to see these booths. It is a pretty sight. They build the little green tents against the house walls, and in front of them they set great branches or young trees. Across the street, from wall to wall, they hang long ropes of flowers. For seven days they live in these shelters, giving thanks for the harvest it is said—a strange custom for a people who know not Demeter, the giver of all bounty in the field!"

Soon another company went by, each man burdened with leaves and boughs. Timoleon's curiosity led him to ask a boy of his own age, "What festival do you keep?"

The boy drew back a little, but replied briefly, "The Feast of the Tabernacles."

Timoleon persisted. "But what is its meaning?"

"To keep in remembrance the time when our people lived in tents," called the boy over his shoulder as he hurried after his companions.

The next picture was set in the early days of his sorrow over the loss of his father. He saw himself in the Hebrew quarter one gray afternoon in November. The streets were nar