Chapter 17

The longest week that Voldi had ever spent elapsed before Felix called at the prison. It seemed doubtful that their friendship would survive.

It was after supper when he came. Twilight was settling. The dim oil-lamp had been lighted. Voldi was sitting apathetically on his bunk when he heard an argument in the corridor.

‘The Prefect isn’t going to like this, you know,’ the fat jailor was whimpering.

‘Did you have orders that no one was to see the Arabian?’ came the irritated voice of Felix.

‘N-not exactly, sir; no,’ admitted the jailor. ‘But if your father learns of it, he’ll punish me.’

‘Then you’d better not tell him. Open that door now and run along. I may be here for a couple of hours.’

There was another whine of protest from the jailor, followed by the screech of the key in the rusty old lock, and Felix entered. Voldi came to his feet and they embraced each other in silence.

‘I can’t quite make you out,’ said Felix soberly, when they were seated.

‘It must have been something very urgent indeed that would justify your excursion into forbidden territory. Obviously the Tetrarch was not the object of it, for you knew he had gone to Jerusalem.’

‘You deserve to know, Felix,’ said Voldi, ‘and I’m ready to tell you. My girl is up there, waiting to hear from me. I had to go, regardless of consequences. I didn’t succeed, but it was worth trying.’

‘Your girl, eh?’ Felix brightened with interest. ‘It was a foolhardy thing to do, though. She must be something very special. I never met a girl I would risk going to jail for… So—now—when it’s too late for anything to be done about it, you’re going to tell me…Very well: I’m listening.’

It took Voldi an hour to confide the story. At first he tried to explain—with many wide-open gaps in the tale—how and why Fara, the incomparable Jewish-Arabian, had got herself away up into Galilee. But when he saw that Felix was darkly frowning his dissatisfaction, Voldi went back to the beginning of his narrative and told it all, every detail of it: Fara’s shockingly rash vow of vengeance; her daring journey alone and in the flimsiest of disguises; the failure of her utterly impracticable mission; her refusal to return to Arabia. And when he had made an end of it, he searched the shrewd Roman eyes in an entreaty for his friend’s sympathetic understanding.

Felix exhaled a deep breath, and said, as from a distance, ‘I wouldn’t believe a word of it, Voldi, except that it’s much too fantastic ever to have been made up! Nobody could invent a tale like that! The daughter of Antipas! Vowed to assassinate the Tetrarch of Galilee! Single-handed! Sixteen-year-old girl! Still plans on doing it!…Well—she’s either crazy as a hoot-owl—or the bravest creature alive!’