perusing, pointing to a paragraph therein.
"Hebrew!" I ejaculated. "I'm sorry, but I don’t know a word of it."
"Then here is a rather free translation of it," he replied, "but I regret that you can not read the original. Some of the author's thought is always lost in the process of translation."
I accepted the proffered script and read the following:
"The secret of the identity of a certain soldier who fired the sanctuary of the holy temple of the Jews lies buried in his bosom. An associate, upon threat of exposure, bids him make record of his deed. This he has done, but so obscurely that nearly twenty centuries shall pass before the mystery shall be made clear."
"Well, that's beginning to get close," I commented, returning the paper to Lee. "Who was the old fellow that wrote that?" indicating the volume.
"That is not known," Lee Clayton replied, turning to the title-page. "It seems to be merely a collection of anonymous Hebrew manuscripts published by a German house in the early part of the Sixteenth Century."
"But why all the secrecy?" I asked. "The 'certain soldier' was merely fulfilling destiny when he obeyed an impulse to fire the sanctuary."
Young Lee Clayton shot me a swift, searching glance.
"If you believe so," he said quietly, "I will not gainsay it, but if you want my personal opinion, the 'certain soldier' was, as indeed all of us are, the captain of his own soul. He was entirely responsible for his deed. You know Shakespeare wrote,
"'The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our
stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.'"
"What if he did?" I admitted, warming to the argument. "But if I remember rightly he is also responsible for these words:
"'There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.'
"How do you reconcile the two?"
Clayton laughed pleasantly. "It seems to be a case of 'pay your money and take your choice,' friend Ebson, and my choice is made and is unchangeable."
"I admire you for your convictions," I said heartily. "I confess my own are not so unshakable."
He smiled a little pensively, then remarked, "And because I believe this 'certain soldier' to have been entirely responsible for his act of desecration, I wish to ascertain his identity. And now I am going to a curio-shop which I chanced upon yesterday. Will you come too?"
I readily consented, and together we wended our way through the busy streets of modern Rome.
Not far from the Piazza de Spania, near the end of a short and narrow street lined with native bazaars and stalls, is a curio-shop of one Antonio Salvucci, dealer in antiques. Although the place was far from cleanly and had a very cluttered appearance, it was not wholly lacking in charm. The proprietor appeared from the rear of the shop as we entered and eyed us appraisingly.
"The American gentlemen wish some Roman antiques?" questioned the Italian eagerly.
"Just looking, Mr. Salvucci," replied Clayton, and aside to me: "The museums have most of the genuine antiques, but occasionally one can pick up something good for very little money."
We walked about the little store looking at and inquiring about various objects. Most of the curios were relics of Coptic art that had been found in and about the catacombs
