"She died for love," the other answered as one who would have done the
same.
Vergilius looked not to right nor left. His dark, quivering plume was
an apt symbol of thought and passion beneath it. His blood was hot
from the rush and wrath of battle, from hatred of them who had sought
his life. He could hear the cry of Cyran; "Rise, rise, my beloved!"
Again, he was like as he had been there on the field of battle. He
could not rise above his longing for revenge. He hated the emperor
whose cruel message had wrung his heart; he hated Manius, who had
sought to destroy him; he despised the vile and stealthy son of Herod,
who had plotted to rob him of love and life; he had begun to doubt the
goodness of the great Lawgiver.
No sooner had he found an enemy than his God was become a god of
vengeance. The council, the continued failure of his prayers, the
cruelty of impending misfortune, the death of Cyran had weakened the
faith of Vergilius. He had begun to founder in the deep mystery of the
world. The voice of the old singer had not broken the spell of bitter
passion.
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