TO

GLADYS CHRISTIAN A DWELLER IN THE EAST THIS EASTERN TALE IS DEDICATED BY HER OWN AND HER FATHER'S FRIEND
THE AUTHOR

Ditchingham:
September 14, 1902.

PEARL-MAIDEN



CHAPTER I

THE PRISON AT CÆSAREA

It was but two hours after midnight, yet many were wakeful in Cæsarea
on the Syrian coast. Herod Agrippa, King of all Palestine--by grace of
the Romans--now at the very apex of his power, celebrated a festival
in honour of the Emperor Claudius, to which had flocked all the
mightiest in the land and tens of thousands of the people. The city
was full of them, their camps were set upon the sea-beach and for
miles around; there was no room at the inns or in the private houses,
where guests slept upon the roofs, the couches, the floors, and in the
gardens. The great town hummed like a hive of bees disturbed after
sunset, and though the louder sounds of revelling had died away,
parties of feasters, many of them still crowned with fading roses,
passed along the streets shouting and singing to their lodgings. As
they went, they discussed--those of them who were sufficiently sober--
the incidents of that day's games in the great circus, and offered or
accepted odds upon the more exciting events of the morrow.

The captives in the prison that was set upon a little hill, a frowning
building of brown stone, divided into courts and surrounded by a high
wall and a ditch, could hear the workmen at their labours in the
amphitheatre below. These sounds interested them, since many of those
who listened were doomed to take a leading part in the spectacle of
this new day. In the outer court, for instance, were a hundred men
called malefactors, for the most part Jews convicted of various
political offences. These were to fight against twice their number of
savage Arabs of the desert taken in a frontier raid, people whom
to-day we should know as Bedouins, mounted and armed with swords and
lances, but wearing no mail. The malefactor Jews, by way of
compensation, were to be protected with heavy armour and ample
shields. Their combat was to last for twenty minutes by the sand-
glass, when, unless they had shown cowardice, those who were left
alive of either party were to receive their freedom. Indeed, by a
kindly decree the King Agrippa, a man who did not seek unnecessary
bloodshed, contrary to custom, even the wounded were to be spared,
that is, if any would undertake the care of them. Under these
circumstances, since life is sweet, all had determined to fight their
best.

In another division of the great hall was collected a very different
company. There were not more than fifty or sixty of these, so the wide
arches of the surrounding cloisters gave them sufficient shelter and
even privacy. With the exception of eight or ten men, all of them old,
or well on in middle age, since the younger and more vigorous males
had been carefully drafted to serve as gladiators, this little band
was made of women and a few children. They belonged to the new sect
called Christians, the followers of one Jesus, who, according to
report, was crucified as a troublesome person by the governor, Pontius
Pilate, a Roman official, who in due course had been banished to Gaul,
where he was said to have committed suicide. In his day Pilate was
unpopular in Judæa, for he had taken the treasures of the Temple at
Jerusalem to build waterworks, causing a tumult in which many were
killed. Now he was almost forgotten, but very strangely, the fame of
this crucified demagogue, Jesus, seemed to grow, since there were many
who made a kind of god of him, preaching doctrines in his name that
were contrary to the law and offensive to every sect of the Jews.

Pharisees, Sadducees, Zealots, Levites, priests, all called out
against them. All besought Agrippa that he would be rid of them, these
apostates who profaned the land and proclaimed in the ears of a nation
awaiting its Messiah, that Heaven-born King who should break the Roman
yoke and make Jerusalem the capital of the world, that this Messiah
had come already in the guise of an itinerant preacher, and perished
with other malefactors by the death of shame.

Wearied with their importunities, the King listened. Like the
cultivated Romans with whom he associated, Agrippa had no real
religion. At Jerusalem he embellished the Temple and made offerings to
Jehovah; at Berytus he embellished the temple and made offerings there
to Jupiter. He was all things to all men and to himself--nothing but a
voluptuous time-server. As for these Christians, he never troubled
himself about them. Why should he? They were few and insignificant, no
single man of rank or wealth was to be found among them. To persecute
them was easy, and--it pleased the Jews. Therefore he persecuted them.
One James, a disciple of the crucified man called Christ, who had
wandered about the country with him, he seized and beheaded at
Jerusalem. Another, called Peter, a powerful preacher, he threw into
prison, and of their followers he slew many. A few of these were given
over to be stoned by the Jews, but the pick of the men were forced to
fight as gladiators at Berytus and elsewhere. The women, if young and
beautiful, were sold as slaves, but if matrons or aged, they were cast
to the wild beasts in the circus.

Such was the fate, indeed, that was reserved for these poor victims in
the prison on this very day of the opening of our history. After the
gladiators had fought and the other games had been celebrated, sixty
Christians, it was announced, old and useless men, married woman and
young children whom nobody would buy, were to be turned down in the
great amphitheatre. Then thirty fierce lions, with other savage
beasts, made ravenous by hunger and mad with the smell of blood, were
to be let loose among them. Even in this act of justice, however,
Agrippa suffered it to be seen that he was gentle-hearted, since of
his kindness he had decreed that any whom the lions refused to eat
were to be given clothes, a small sum of money, and released to settle
their differences with the Jews as they might please.

Such was the state of public feeling and morals in the Roman world of
that day, that this spectacle of the feeding of starved beasts with
live women and children, whose crime was that they worshipped a
crucified man and would offer sacrifice to no other god, either in the
Temple or elsewhere, was much looked forward to by the population of
Cæsarea. Indeed, great sums of money were ventured upon the event, by
means of what to-day would be called sweepstakes, under the
regulations of which he who drew the ticket marked with the exact
number of those whom the lions left alive, would take the first prize.
Already some far-seeing gamblers who had drawn low numbers, had bribed
the soldiers and wardens to sprinkle the hair and garments of the
Christians with valerian water, a decoction which was supposed to
attract and excite the appetite of these great cats. Others, whose
tickets were high, paid handsomely for the employment of artifices
which need not be detailed, calculated to induce in the lions aversion
to the subject that had been treated. The Christian woman or child, it
will be observed, who was to form the /corpus vile/ of these ingenious
experiments, was not considered, except, indeed, as the fisherman
considers the mussel or the sand-worm on his hook.

Under an arch by themselves, and not far from the great gateway where
the guards, their lances in hand, could be seen pacing up and down,
sat two women. The contrast in the appearance of this pair was very
striking. One, who could not have been much more than twenty years of
age, was a Jewess, too thin-faced for beauty, but with dark and lovely
eyes, and bearing in every limb and feature the stamp of noble blood.
She was Rachel, the widow of Demas, a Græco-Syrian, and only child of
the high-born Jew Benoni, one of the richest merchants in Tyre. The
other was a woman of remarkable aspect, apparently about forty years
of age. She was a native of the coasts of Libya, where she had been
kidnapped as a girl by Jewish traders, and by them passed on to
Phœnicians, who sold her upon the slave market of Tyre. In fact she
was a high-bred Arab without any admixture of negro blood, as was
shown by her copper-coloured skin, prominent cheek bones, her
straight, black, abundant hair, and untamed, flashing eyes. In frame
she was tall and spare, very agile, and full of grace in every
movement. Her face was fierce and hard; even in her present dreadful
plight she showed no fear, only when she looked at the lady by her
side it grew anxious and tender. She was called Nehushta, a name which
Benoni had given her when many years ago he bought her upon the
market-place. In Hebrew Nehushta means copper, and this new slave was
copper-coloured. In her native land, however, she had another name,
Nou, and by this name she was known to her dead mistress, the wife of
Benoni, and to his daughter Rachel, whom she had nursed from
childhood.

The moon shone very brightly in a clear sky, and by the light of it an
observer, had there been any to observe where all were so occupied
with their own urgent affairs, could have watched every movement and
expression of these women. Rachel, seated on the ground, was rocking
herself to and fro, her face hidden in her hands, and praying.
Nehushta knelt at her side, resting the weight of her body on her
heels as only an Eastern can, and stared sullenly at nothingness.

Presently Rachel, dropping her hands, looked at the tender sky and
sighed.

"Our last night on earth, Nou," she said sadly. "It is strange to
think that we shall never again see the moon floating above us."

"Why not, mistress? If all that we have been taught is true, we shall
see that moon, or others, for ever and ever, and if it is not true,
then neither light nor darkness will trouble us any more. However, for
my own part I don't mean that either of us should die to-morrow."

"How can you prevent it, Nou?" asked Rachel with a faint smile. "Lions
are no respecters of persons."

"Yet, mistress, I think that they will respect my person, and yours,
too, for my sake."

"What do you mean, Nou?"

"I mean that I do not fear the lions; they are country-folk of mine
and roared round my cradle. The chief, my father, was called Master of
Lions in our country because he could tame them. Why, when I was a
little child I have fed them and they fawned upon us like dogs."

"Those lions are long dead, Nou, and the others will not remember."

"I am not sure that they are dead; at least, blood will call to blood,
and their company will know the smell of the child of the Master of
Lions. Whoever is eaten, we shall escape."

"I have no such hope, Nou. To-morrow we must die horribly, that King
Agrippa may do honour to his master, Cæsar."

"If you think that, mistress, then let us die at once rather than be
rent limb from limb to give pleasure to a stinking mob. See, I have
poison hidden here in my hair. Let us drink of it and be done: it is
swift and painless."

"Nay, Nou, it would not be right. I may lift no hand against my own
life, or if perchance I may, I have to think of another life."

"If you die, the unborn child must die also. To-night or to-morrow,
what does it matter?"

"Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Who knows? To-morrow
Agrippa may be dead, not us, and then the child might live. It is in
the hand of God. Let God decide."

"Lady," answered Nehushta, setting her teeth, "for your sake I have
become a Christian, yes, and I believe. But I tell you this--while I
live no lion's fangs shall tear that dear flesh of yours. First if
need be, I will stab you there in the arena, or if they take my knife
from me, then I will choke you, or dash out your brains against the
posts."

"It may be a sin, Nou; take no such risk upon your soul."

"My soul! What do I care about my soul? You are my soul. Your mother
was kind to me, the poor slave-girl, and when you were an infant, I
rocked you upon my breast. I spread your bride-bed, and if need be, to
save you from worse things, I will lay you dead before me and myself
dead across your body. Then let God or Satan--I care not which--deal
with my soul. At least, I shall have done my best and died faithful."

"You should not speak so," sighed Rachel. "But, dear, I know it is
because you love me, and I wish to die as easily as may be and to join
my husband. Only if the child could have lived, as I think, all three
of us would have dwelt together eternally. Nay, not all three, all
four, for you are well-nigh as dear to me, Nou, as husband or as
child."

"That cannot be, I do not wish that it should be, who am but a slave
woman, the dog beneath the table. Oh! if I could save you, then I
would be glad to show them how this daughter of my father can bear
their torments."

The Libyan ceased, grinding her teeth in impotent rage. Then suddenly
she leant towards her mistress, kissed her fiercely on the cheek and
began to sob, slow, heavy sobs.

"Listen," said Rachel. "The lions are roaring in their dens yonder."

Nehushta lifted her head and hearkened as a hunter hearkens in the
desert. True enough, from near the great tower that ended the southern
wall of the amphitheatre, echoed short, coughing notes and fierce
whimperings, to be followed presently by roar upon roar, as lion after
lion joined in that fearful music, till the whole air shook with the
volume of their voices.

"Aha!" cried a keeper at the gate--not the Roman soldier who marched
to and fro unconcernedly, but a jailor, named Rufus, who was clad in a
padded robe and armed with a great knife. "Aha! listen to them, the
pretty kittens. Don't be greedy, little ones--be patient. To-night you
will purr upon a full stomach."

"Nine of them," muttered Nehushta, who had counted the roars, "all
bearded and old, royal beasts. To hearken to them makes me young
again. Yes, yes, I smell the desert and see the smoke rising from my
father's tents. As a child I hunted them, now they will hunt me; it is
their hour."

"Give me air! I faint!" gasped Rachel, sinking against her.

With a guttural exclamation of pity Nehushta bent down. Placing her
strong arms beneath the slender form of her young mistress, and
lifting her as though she were a child, she carried her to the centre
of the court, where stood a fountain; for before it was turned to the
purposes of a jail once this place had been a palace. Here she set her
mistress on the ground with her back against the stonework, and dashed
water in her face till presently she was herself again.

While Rachel sat thus--for the place was cool and pleasant and she
could not sleep who must die that day--a wicket-gate was opened and
several persons, men, women, and children, were thrust through it into
the court.

"Newcomers from Tyre in a great hurry not to lose the lions' party,"
cried the facetious warden of the gate. "Pass in, my Christian
friends, pass in and eat your last supper according to your customs.
You will find it over there, bread and wine in plenty. Eat, my hungry
friends, eat before you are eaten and enter into Heaven or--the
stomach of the lions."

An old woman, the last of the party, for she could not walk fast,
turned round and pointed at the buffoon with her staff.

"Blaspheme not, you heathen dog!" she said, "or rather, blaspheme on
and go to your reward! I, Anna, who have the gift of prophecy, tell
you, renegade who were a Christian, and therefore are doubly guilty,
that /you/ have eaten your last meal--on earth."

The man, a half-bred Syrian who had abandoned his faith for profit and
now tormented those who were once his brethren, uttered a furious
curse and snatched a knife from his girdle.

"You draw the knife? So be it, perish by the knife!" said Anna. Then
without heeding him further the old woman hobbled on after her
companions, leaving the man to slink away white to the lips with
terror. He had been a Christian and knew something of Anna and of this
"gift of prophecy."

The path of these strangers led them past the fountain, where Rachel
and Nehushta rose to greet them as they came.

"Peace be with you," said Rachel.

"In the name of Christ, peace," they answered, and passed on towards
the arches where the other captives were gathered. Last of all, at
some distance behind the rest, came the white-haired woman, leaning on
her staff.

As she approached, Rachel turned to repeat her salutation, then
uttered a little cry and said:

"Mother Anna, do you not know me, Rachel, the daughter of Benoni?"

"Rachel!" she answered, starting. "Alas! child, how came you here?"

"By the paths that we Christians have to tread, mother," said Rachel,
sadly. "But sit; you are weary. Nou, help her."

Anna nodded, and slowly, for her limbs were stiff, sank down on to the
step of the fountain.

"Give me to drink, child," she said, "for I have been brought upon a
mule from Tyre, and am athirst."

Rachel made her hands into a cup, for she had no other, and held water
to Anna's lips, which she drank greedily, emptying them many times.

"For this refreshment, God be praised. What said you? The daughter of
Benoni a Christian! Well, even here and now, for that God be praised
also. Strange that I should not have heard of it; but I have been in
Jerusalem these two years, and was brought back to Tyre last Sabbath
as a prisoner."

"Yes, Mother, and since then I have become both wife and widow."

"Whom did you marry, child?"

"Demas, the merchant. They killed him in the amphitheatre yonder at
Berytus six months ago," and the poor woman began to sob.

"I heard of his end," replied Anna. "It was a good and noble one, and
his soul rests in Heaven. He would not fight with the gladiators, so
he was beheaded by order of Agrippa. But cease weeping, child, and
tell me your story. We have little time for tears, who, perhaps, soon
will have done with them."

Rachel dried her eyes.

"It is short and sad," she said. "Demas and I met often and learned to
love each other. My father was no friend to him, for they were rivals
in trade, but in those days knowing no better, Demas followed the
faith of the Jews; therefore, because he was rich my father consented
to our marriage, and they became partners in their business.
Afterwards, within a month indeed, the Apostles came to Tyre, and we
attended their preaching--at first, because we were curious to learn
the truth of this new faith against which my father railed, for, as
you know, he is of the strictest sect of the Jews; and then, because
our hearts were touched. So in the end we believed, and were baptised,
both on one night, by the very hand of the brother of the Lord. The
holy Apostles departed, blessing us before they went, and Demas, who
would play no double part, told my father of what we had done. Oh!
mother, it was awful to see. He raved, shouted and cursed us in his
rage, blaspheming Him we worship. More, woe is me that I should have
to tell it: When we refused to become apostates he denounced us to the
priests, and the priests denounced us to the Romans, and we were
seized and thrown into prison; but my husband's wealth, most of it
except that which the priests and Romans stole, stayed with my father.
For many months we were held in prison here in Cæsarea; then they took
my husband to Berytus, to be trained as a gladiator, and murdered him.
Here I have stayed since with this beloved servant, Nehushta, who also
became a Christian and shared our fate, and now, by the decree of
Agrippa, it is my turn and hers to die to-day."

"Child, you should not weep for that; nay, you should be glad who at
once will find your husband and your Saviour."

"Mother, I am glad; but, you see my state. It is for the child's sake
I weep, that now never will be born. Had it won life even for an hour
all of us would have dwelt together in bliss until eternity. But it
cannot be--it cannot be."

Anna looked at her with her piercing eyes.

"Have you, then, also the gift of prophecy, child, who are so young a
member of the Church, that you dare to say that this or that cannot
be? The future is in the hand of God. King Agrippa, your father, the
Romans, the cruel Jews, those lions that roar yonder, and we who are
doomed to feed them, are all in the hand of God, and that which He
wills shall befall, and no other thing. Therefore, let us praise Him
and rejoice, and take no thought for the morrow, unless it be to pray
that we may die and go hence to our Master, rather than live on in
doubts and terrors and tribulations."

"You are right, mother," answered Rachel, "and I will try to be brave,
whatever may befall; but my state makes me feeble. The spirit, truly,
is willing, but oh! the flesh is weak. Listen, they call us to partake
of the Sacrament of the Lord--our last on earth"; and rising, she
began to walk towards the arches.

Nehushta stayed to help Anna to her feet. When she judged her mistress
to be out of hearing she leaned down and whispered:

"Mother, you have the gift; it is known throughout the Church. Tell
me, will the child be born?"

The old woman fixed her eyes upon the heavens, then answered, slowly:

"The child will be born and live out its life, and I think that none
of us are doomed to die this day by the jaws of lions, though some of
us may die in another fashion. But I think also that your mistress
goes very shortly to join her husband. Therefore it was that I showed
her nothing of what came into my mind."

"Then it is best that I should die also, and die I will."

"Wherefore?"

"Because I go to wait upon my mistress?"

"Nay, Nehushta," answered Anna, sternly, "you stay to guard her child,
whereof when all these earthly things are done you must give account
to her."



CHAPTER II

THE VOICE OF A GOD

Of all the civilisations whose records lie open to the student, that
of Rome is surely one of the most wonderful. Nowhere, not even in old
Mexico, was high culture so completely wedded to the lowest barbarism.
Intellect Rome had in plenty; the noblest efforts of her genius are
scarcely to be surpassed; her law is the foundation of the best of our
codes of jurisprudence; art she borrowed but appreciated; her military
system is still the wonder of the world; her great men remain great
among a multitude of subsequent competitors. And yet how pitiless she
was! What a tigress! Amid all the ruins of her cities we find none of
a hospital, none, I believe, of an orphan school in an age that made
many orphans. The pious aspirations and efforts of individuals seem
never to have touched the conscience of the people. Rome incarnate had
no conscience; she was a lustful, devouring beast, made more bestial
by her intelligence and splendour.

King Agrippa in practice was a Roman. Rome was his model, her ideals
were his ideals. Therefore he built amphitheatres in which men were
butchered, to the exquisite delight of vast audiences. Therefore,
also, without the excuse of any conscientious motive, however
insufficient or unsatisfactory, he persecuted the weak because they
were weak and their sufferings would give pleasure to the strong or to
those who chanced to be the majority of the moment.

The season being hot it was arranged that the great games in honour of
the safety of Cæsar, should open each day at dawn and come to an end
an hour before noon. Therefore from midnight onwards crowds of
spectators poured into the amphitheatre, which, although it would seat
over twenty thousand, was not large enough to contain them all. An
hour before the dawn the place was full, and already late comers were
turned back from its gates. The only empty spaces were those reserved
for the king, his royal guests, the rulers of the city, with other
distinguished personages, and for the Christian company of old men,
women and children destined to the lions, who, it was arranged, were
to sit in full view of the audience until the time came for them to
take their share in the spectacle.

When Rachel joined the other captives she found that a long rough
table had been set beneath the arcades, and on it at intervals, pieces
of bread and cups and vases containing wine of the country that had
been purchased at a great price from the guards. Round this table the
elders or the infirm among the company were seated on a bench, while
the rest of the number, for whom there was not room, stood behind
them. At its head was an old man, a bishop among the Christians, one
of the five hundred who had seen the risen Lord and received baptism
from the hands of the Beloved Disciple. For some years he had been
spared by the persecutors of the infant Church on account of his age,
dignity, and good repute, but now at last fate seemed to have
overtaken him.

The service was held; the bread and wine, mixed with water, were
consecrated with the same texts by which they are blessed to-day, only
the prayers were extempore. When all had eaten from the platters and
drunk from the rude cups, the bishop gave his blessing to the
community. Then he addressed them. This, he told them, was an occasion
of peculiar joy, a love-feast indeed, since all they who partook of it
were about to lay down the burden of the flesh and, their labours and
sorrows ended, to depart into bliss eternal. He called to their memory
the supper of the Passover which had taken place within the lifetime
of many of them, when the Author and Finisher of their faith had
declared to the disciples that He would drink no more wine till He
drank it new with them in His kingdom. Such a feast it was that lay
spread before them this night. Let them be thankful for it. Let them
not quail in the hour of trial. The fangs of the savage beasts, the
shouts of the still more savage spectators, the agony of the quivering
flesh, the last terror of their departing, what were these? Soon, very
soon, they would be done; the spears of the soldiers would despatch
the injured, and those among them whom it was ordained should escape,
would be set free by the command of the representative of Cæsar, that
they might prosecute the work till the hour came for them to pass on
the torch of redemption to other hands. Let them rejoice, therefore,
and be very thankful, and walk to the sacrifice as to a wedding feast.
"Do you not rejoice, my brethren?" he asked. With one voice they
answered, "We rejoice!" Yes, even the children answered thus.

Then they prayed again, and again with uplifted hands the old man
blessed them in the holy Triune Name.

Scarcely had this service, as solemn as it was simple, been brought to
an end when the head jailer, whose blasphemous jocosity since his
reproof by Anna was replaced by a mien of sullen venom, came forward
and commanded the whole band to march to the amphitheatre.
Accordingly, two by two, the bishop leading the way with the sainted
woman Anna, they walked to the gates. Here a guard of soldiers was
waiting to receive them, and under their escort they threaded the
narrow, darkling streets till they came to that door of the
amphitheatre which was used by those who were to take part in the
games. Now, at a word from the bishop, they began to chant a solemn
hymn, and singing thus, were thrust along the passages to the place
prepared for them. This was not, as they expected, a prison at the
back of the amphitheatre, but, as has been said, a spot between the
enclosing wall and the podium, raised a little above the level of the
arena. Here, on the eastern side of the building, they were to sit
till their turn came to be driven by the guards through a little
wicket-gate into the arena, where the starving beasts of prey would be
loosed upon them.

It was now the hour before sunrise, and the moon having set, the vast
theatre was plunged in gloom, relieved only here and there by stray
torches and cressets of fire burning upon either side of the gorgeous,
but as yet unoccupied, throne of Agrippa. This gloom seemed to oppress
the audience with which the place was crowded; at any rate none of
them shouted or sang, or even spoke loudly. They addressed each other
in muffled tones, with the result that the air seemed to be full of
mysterious whisperings. Had this poor band of condemned Christians
entered the theatre in daylight, they would have been greeted with
ironical cries and tauntings of "Dogs' meat!" and with requests that
they should work a miracle and let the people see them rise again from
the bellies of the lions. But now, as their solemn song broke upon the
silence, it was answered only by one great murmur, which seemed to
shape itself to the words, "the Christians! The doomed Christians!"

By the light of a single torch the band took their places. Then once
more they sang, and in that chastening hour the audience listened with
attention, almost with respect. Their chant finished, the bishop stood
up, and, moved thereto by some inspiration, began to address the
mighty throng, whom he could not see, and who could not see him.
Strangely enough they hearkened to him, perhaps because his speech
served to while away the weary time of waiting.

"Men and brethren," he began, in his thin, piercing notes, "princes,
lords, peoples, Romans, Jews, Syrians, Greeks, citizens of Idumæa, of
Egypt, and of all nations here gathered, hearken to the words of an
old man destined and glad to die. Listen, if it be your pleasure, to
the story of One whom some of you saw crucified under Pontius Pilate,
since to know the truth of that matter can at least do you no hurt."

"Be silent!" cried a voice, that of the renegade jailer, "and cease
preaching your accursed faith!"

"Let him alone," answered other voices. "We will hear this story of
his. We say--let him alone."

Thus encouraged the old man spoke on with an eloquence so simple and
yet so touching, with a wisdom so deep, that for full fifteen minutes
none cared even to interrupt him. Then a far-away listener cried:

"Why must these people die who are better than we?"

"Friend," answered the bishop, in ringing tones, which in that heavy
silence seemed to search out even the recesses of the great and
crowded place, "we must die because it is the will of King Agrippa, to
whom God has given power to destroy us. Mourn not for us because we
perish cruelly, since this is the day of our true birth, but mourn for
King Agrippa, at whose hands our blood will be required, and mourn,
mourn for yourselves, O people. The death that is near to us perchance
is nearer still to some of you; and how will you awaken who perish in
your sins? What if the sword of God should empty yonder throne? What
if the voice of God should call on him who fills it to make answer of
his deeds? Soon or late, O people, it will call on him and you to pass
hence, some naturally in your age, others by the sharp and dreadful
roads of sword, pestilence or famine. Already those woes which He whom
you crucified foretold, knock at your door, and within a few short
years not one of you who crowd this place in thousands will draw the
breath of life. Nothing will remain of you on earth save the fruit of
those deeds which you have done--these and your bones, no more. Repent
you, therefore, repent while there is time; for I, whom you have
doomed, I am bidden to declare that judgment is at hand. Yes, even
now, although you see him not, the Angel of the Lord hangs over you
and writes your names within his book. Now while there is time I would
pray for you and for your king. Farewell."

As he spoke those words "the Angel of the Lord hangs over you," so
great was the preacher's power, and in that weary darkness so sharply
had he touched the imagination of his strange audience, that with a
sound like to the stir of rustling trees, thousands of faces were
turned upwards, as though in search of that dread messenger.

"Look, look!" screamed a hundred voices, while dim arms pointed to
some noiseless thing that floated high above them against the
background of the sky, which grew grey with the coming dawn. It
appeared and disappeared, appeared again, then seemed to pass downward
in the direction of Agrippa's throne, and vanished.

"It is that magician's angel," cried one, and the multitudes groaned.

"Fool," said another, "it was but a bird."

"Then for Agrippa's sake," shrilled a new voice, "the gods send that
it was not an owl."

Thereat some laughed, but the most were silent. They knew the story of
King Agrippa and the owl, and how it had been foretold that this
spirit in the form of a bird would appear to him again in the hour of
his death, as it had appeared to him in the hour of his triumph.[*]

[*] See Josephus, "Antiquities of the Jews," Book XVII., Chap. VI.,
Sec. 7; and Book XIX., Chap. VIII., Sec. 2.

Just then from the palace to the north arose a sound of the blare of
trumpets. Now a herald, speaking on the summit of the great eastern
tower, called out that it was dawn above the mountains, and that King
Agrippa came with all his company, whereon the preaching of the old
Christian and his tale of a watching Vengeance were instantly
forgotten. Presently the glad, fierce notes of the trumpets drew
nearer, and in the grey of the daybreak, through the great bronze
gates of the Triumphal Way that were thrown open to greet him,
advanced Agrippa, wonderfully attired and preceded by his legionaries.
At his right walked Vibius Marsus, the Roman President of Syria, and
on his left Antiochus, King of Commagena, while after him followed
other kings, princes, and great men of his own and foreign lands.


Agrippa mounted his golden throne while the multitude roared a
welcome, and his company were seated around and behind him according
to their degree.

Once more the trumpets sounded, and the gladiators of different arms,
headed by the equites who fought on horseback, numbering in all more
than five hundred men, were formed up in the arena for the preliminary
march past--the salutation of those about to die to their emperor and
lord. Now, that they also might take their part in the spectacle, the
band of Christian martyrs were thrust through the door in the podium,
and to make them seem as many as possible in number, marshalled two by
two.

Then the march past began. Troop by troop, arrayed in their shining
armour and armed, each of them, with his own familiar weapon, the
gladiators halted in front of Agrippa's throne, giving to him the
accustomed salutation of "Hail, King, we who are about to die, salute
thee," to be rewarded with a royal smile and the shouts of the
approving audience. Last of all came the Christians, a motley,
wretched-looking group, made up of old men, terrified children
clinging to their mothers, and ill-clad, dishevelled women. At the
pitiful sight, that very mob which a few short minutes before had hung
upon the words of the bishop, their leader, now, as they watched them
hobbling round the arena in the clear, low light of the dawning, burst
into peals of laughter and called out that each of them should be made
to lead his lion. Quite heedless of these scoffs and taunts, they
trudged on through the white sand that soon would be so red, until
they came opposite to the throne.

"Salute!" roared the audience.

The bishop held up his hand and all were silent. Then, in the thin
voice with which they had become familiar, he said:

"King, we who are about to die--forgive thee. May God do likewise."

Now the multitude ceased laughing, and with an impatient gesture,
Agrippa motioned to the martyrs to pass on. This they did humbly; but
Anna, being old, lame and weary, could not walk so fast as her
companions. Alone she reached the saluting-place after all had left
it, and halted there.

"Forward!" cried the officers. But she did not move nor did she speak.
Only leaning on her staff she looked steadily up at the face of the
king Agrippa. Some impulse seemed to draw his eyes to hers. They met,
and it was noted that he turned pale. Then straightening herself with
difficulty upon her tottering feet, Anna raised her staff and pointed
with it to the golden canopy above the head of Herod. All stared
upward, but saw nothing, for the canopy was still in the shadow of the
velarium which covered all the outer edge of the cavea, leaving the
centre open to the sky. It would appear, however, that Agrippa did see
something, for he who had risen to declare the games open, suddenly
sank back upon his throne, and remained thus lost in thought. Then
Anna limped forward to join her company, who once more were driven
through the little gate in the wall of the arena.

For a second time, with an effort, Agrippa lifted himself from his
throne. As he rose the first level rays of sunrise struck full upon
him. He was a tall and noble-looking man, and his dress was glorious.
To the thousands who gazed upon him from the shadow, set in that point
of burning light he seemed to be clothed in a garment of glittering
silver. Silver was his crown, silver his vest, silver the wide robe
that flowed from his shoulders to the ground.

"In the name of Cæsar, to the glory of Cæsar, I declare these games
open!" he cried.

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, all the multitude rose
shouting: "The voice of a god! The voice of a god! The voice of the
god Agrippa!"

Nor did Agrippa say them nay; the glory of such worship thundered at
him from twenty thousand throats made him drunken. There for a while
he stood, the new-born sunlight playing upon his splendid form, while
the multitude roared his name, proclaiming it divine. His nostrils
spread to inhale this incense of adoration, his eyes flashed and
slowly he waved his arms, as though in benediction of his worshippers.
Perchance there rose before his mind a vision of the wondrous event
whereby he, the scorned and penniless outcast, had been lifted to this
giddy pinnacle of power. Perchance for a moment he believed that he
was indeed divine, that nothing less than the blood and right of
godhead could thus have exalted him. At least he stood there, denying
naught, while the people adored him as Jehovah is adored of the Jews
and Christ is adored of the Christians.

Then of a sudden smote the Angel of the Lord. Of a sudden intolerable
pain seized upon his vitals, and Herod remembered that he was but
mortal flesh, and knew that death was near.

"Alas!" he cried, "I am no god, but a man, and even now the common
fate of man is on me."

As he spoke a great white owl slid from the roof of the canopy above
him and vanished through the unroofed centre of the cavea.

"Look! look! my people!" he cried again, "the spirit that brought me
good fortune leaves me now, and I die, my people, I die!" Then,
sinking upon his throne, he who a moment gone had received the worship
of a god, writhed there in agony and wept. Yes, Herod wept.

Attendants ran to him and lifted him in their arms.

"Take me hence to die," he moaned. Now a herald cried:

"The king is smitten with a sore sickness, and the games are closed.
To your homes, O people."

For a while the multitude sat silent, for they were fear-stricken.
Then a murmur rose among them that spread and swelled till it became a
roar.

"The Christians! The Christians! They prophesied the evil. They have
bewitched the king. They are wizards. Kill them, kill them, kill
them!"

Instantly, like waves pouring in from every side, hundreds and
thousands of men began to flow towards that place where the martyrs
sat. The walls and palisades were high. Sweeping aside the guards,
they surged against them like water against a rock; but climb they
could not. Those in front began to scream, those behind pressed on.
Some fell and were trodden underfoot, others clambered upon their
bodies, in turn to fall and be trodden underfoot.

"Our death is upon us!" cried one of the Nazarenes.

"Nay, life remains to us," answered Nehushta. "Follow me, all of you,
for I know the road," and, seizing Rachel about the middle, she began
to drag her towards a little door. It was unlocked and guarded by one
man only, the apostate jailer Rufus.

"Stand back!" he cried, lifting his spear.

Nehushta made no answer, only drawing a dagger from her robe, she fell
upon the ground, then of a sudden rose again beneath his guard. The
knife flashed and went home to the hilt. Down fell the man screaming
for help and mercy, and there, in the narrow way, his spirit was
stamped out of him. Beyond lay the broad passage of the vomitorium.
They gained it, and in an instant were mixed with the thousands who
sought to escape the panic. Some perished, some were swept onwards,
among them Nehushta and Rachel. Thrice they nearly fell, but the
fierce strength of the Libyan saved her mistress, till at length they
found themselves on the broad terrace facing the seashore.

"Whither now?" gasped Rachel.

"Where shall I lead you?" answered Nehushta. "Do not stay. Be swift."

"But the others?" said Rachel, glancing back at the fighting,
trampling, yelling mob.

"God guard them! We cannot."

"Leave me," moaned her mistress. "Save yourself, Nou; I am spent," and
she sank down to her knees.

"But I am still strong," muttered Nehushta, and lifting the swooning
woman in her sinewy arms, she fled on towards the port, crying, "Way,
way for my lady, the noble Roman, who has swooned!"

And the multitude made way.



CHAPTER III

THE GRAIN STORE

Having passed the outer terraces of the amphitheatre in safety,
Nehushta turned down a side street, and paused in the shadow of the
wall to think what she should do. So far they were safe; but even if
her strength would stand the strain, it seemed impossible that she
should carry her mistress through the crowded city and avoid
recapture. For some months they had both of them been prisoners, and
as it was the custom of the inhabitants of Cæsarea, when they had
nothing else to do, to come to the gates of their jail, and, through
the bars, to study those within, or even, by permission of the guards,
to walk among them, their appearance was known to many. Doubtless, so
soon as the excitement caused by the illness of the king had subsided,
soldiers would be sent to hunt down the fugitives who had escaped from
the amphitheatre. More especially would they search for her, Nehushta,
and her mistress, since it would be known that one of them had stabbed
the warden of the gate, a crime for which they must expect to die by
torture. Also--where could they go who had no friends, since all
Christians had been expelled the city?

No, there was but one chance for them--to conceal themselves.

Nehushta looked round her for a hiding-place, and in this matter, as
in others on that day, fortune favoured them. This street in the old
days, when Cæsarea was called Strato's Tower, had been built upon an
inner wall of the city, now long dismantled. At a distance of a few
yards from where Nehushta had stopped stood an ancient gateway, unused
save at times by beggars who slept under it, which led nowhere, for
the outer arch of it was bricked up. Into this gateway Nehushta bore
her mistress unobserved, to find to her relief that it was quite
untenanted, though a still smouldering fire and a broken amphora
containing clean water showed her that folk had slept there who could
find no better lodging. So far so good; but here it would be scarcely
safe to hide, as the tenants or others might come back. Nehushta
looked around. In the thick wall was a little archway, beneath which
commenced a stair. Setting Rachel on the ground, she ran up it,
lightly as a cat. At the top of thirty steps, many of them broken, she
found an old and massive door. With a sigh of disappointment, the
Libyan turned to descend again; then, by an afterthought, pushed at
the door. To her surprise it stirred. Again she pushed, and it swung
open. Within was a large chamber, lighted by loopholes pierced in the
thickness of the wall, for the use of archers. Now, however, it served
no military purpose, but was used as a storehouse by a merchant of
grain, for there in a corner lay a heap of many measures of barley,
and strewn about the floor were sacks of skin and other articles.

Nehushta examined the room. No hiding-place could be better--unless
the merchant chanced to come to visit his store. Well, that must be
risked. Down she sped, and with much toil and difficulty carried her
still swooning mistress up the steps and into the chamber, where she
laid her on a heap of sacks.

Again, by an afterthought, she ventured to descend, this time to fetch
the broken jar of water. Then she closed the door, setting it fast
with a piece of wood, and began to chafe Rachel's hands and to
sprinkle her face from the jar. Presently the dark eyes opened and her
mistress sat up.

"Is it over, and is this Paradise?" she murmured.

"I should not call the place by that name, lady," answered Nehushta,
drily, "though perhaps, in contrast with the hell that we have left,
some might think it so. Drink!" and she held the water to her lips.

Rachel obeyed her eagerly. "Oh! it is good," she said. "But how came
we here out of that rushing crowd?"

Before she answered, muttering "After the mistress, the maid,"
Nehushta swallowed a deep draught of water in her turn, which, indeed,
she needed sorely. Then she told her all.

"Oh! Nou," said Rachel, "how strong and brave you are! But for you I
should be dead."

"But for God, you mean, mistress, for I hold that He sent that knife-
point home."

"Did you kill the man?" asked Rachel.

"I think that he died by a dagger-thrust as Anna foretold," she
answered evasively; "and that reminds me that I had better clean the
knife, since blood on the blade is evidence against its owner." Then
drawing the dagger from its hiding-place she rubbed it with dust,
which she took from a loop-hole, and polished it bright with a piece
of hide.

Scarcely was this task accomplished to Nehushta's satisfaction when
her quick ears caught a sound.

"For your life, be silent," she whispered, and laid her face sideways
to a crack in the cement floor and listened. Well might she listen,
for below were three soldiers searching for her and her mistress.

"The old fellow swore that he saw a Libyan woman carrying a lady down
this street," said one of them, the petty officer in charge, to his
companion, "and there was but a single brown-skin in the lot; so if
they aren't here I don't know where they can be."

"Well," grumbled one of the soldiers, "this place is as empty as a
drum, so we may as well be going. There'll be fun presently which I
don't want to miss."

"It was the black woman who knifed our friend Rufus, wasn't it--in the
theatre there?" asked the third soldier.

"They say so; but as he was trodden as flat as a roof-board, and they
had to take him up in pieces, it is difficult to know the truth of
that matter. Anyhow his mates are anxious to get the lady, and I
should be sorry to die as she will, when they do, or her mistress
either. They have leave to finish them in their own fashion."

"Hadn't we best be going?" said the first soldier, who evidently was
anxious to keep some appointment.

"Hullo!" exclaimed the second, a sharp-eyed fellow, "there's a stair;
we had better just look up it."

"Not much use," answered the officer. "That old thief Amram, the corn-
merchant, has a store there, and he isn't one of the sort to leave it
unlocked. Still, just go and see."

Then came the sound of footsteps on the stair, and presently a man
could be heard fumbling at the further side of the door. Rachel shut
her eyes and prayed; Nehushta, drawing the knife from her bosom, crept
towards the doorway like a tigress, and placed her left hand on the
stick that held it shut. Well it was that she did so, since presently
the soldier gave a savage push that might easily have caused the wood
to slip on the cemented floor. Now, satisfied that it was really
locked, he turned and went down the steps.

With a gasp of relief Nehushta once more set her ear to the crack.

"It's fast enough," reported the man, "but perhaps it might be as well
to get the key from Amram and have a look."

"Friend," said the officer, "I think that you must be in love with
this black lady; or is it her mistress whom you admire? I shall
recommend you for the post of Christian-catcher to the cohort. Now
we'll try that house at the corner, and if they are not there, I am
off to the palace to see how his godship is getting on with that
stomach-ache and whether it has moved him to order payment of our
arrears. If he hasn't, I tell you flatly that I mean to help myself to
something, and so do the rest of the lads, who are mad at the stopping
of the games."

"It would be much better to get that key from Amram and have a look
upstairs," put in number two soldier reflectively.

"Then go to Amram, or to Pluto, and ask for the key of Hades for aught
I care!" replied his superior with irritation. "He lives about a
league off at the other end of the town."

"I do not wish for the walk," said the conscientious soldier; "but as
we are searching for these escaped Christians, by your leave, I do
think it would have been much better to have got that key from Amram
and peeped into the chamber upstairs."

Thereon the temper of the officer, already ruffled by the events of
the morning and the long watch of the preceding night, gave way, and
he departed, consigning the Christians, escaped or recaptured, Amram
and the key, his subordinate, and even the royal Agrippa who did not
pay his debts, to every infernal god of every religion with which he
was acquainted.

Nehushta lifted her head from the floor.

"Thanks be to God! They are gone," she said.

"But, Nou, will they not come back? Oh! I fear lest they should come
back."

"I think not. That sharp-nosed rat has made the other angry, and I
believe that he will find him some harder task than the seeking of a
key from Amram. Still, there is danger that this Amram may appear
himself to visit his store, for in these days of festival he is sure
to be selling grain to the bakers."

Scarcely were the words out of her mouth when a key rattled, the door
was pushed sharply, and the piece of wood slipped and fell. Then the
hinges creaked, and Amram--none other--entered, and, closing the door
behind him, locked it, leaving the key in the lock.

Amram was a shrewd-faced, middle-aged Phœnician and, like most
Phœnicians of that day, a successful trader, this corn-store
representing only one branch of his business. For the rest he was clad
in a quiet-coloured robe and cap, and to all appearance unarmed.

Having locked the door, he walked to a little table, beneath which
stood a box containing his tablets whereon were entered the amounts of
corn bought and delivered, to come face to face with Nehushta.
Instantly she slid between him and the door.

"Who in the name of Moloch are you?" he asked, stepping back
astonished, to perceive as he did so, Rachel seated on the heap of
sacks; "and you," he added. "Are you spirits, thieves, ladies in
search of a lodging, or--perchance those two Christians whom the
soldiers are looking for in yonder house?"

"We are the two Christians," said Rachel desperately. "We fled from
the amphitheatre, and have taken refuge here, where they nearly found
us."

"This," said Amram solemnly, "comes of not locking one's office. Do
not misunderstand me; it was no fault of mine. A certain apprentice is
to blame, to whom I shall have a word to say. In fact, I think that I
will say it at once," and he stepped towards the door.

"Indeed you will not," interrupted Nehushta.

"And pray, my Libyan friend, how will you prevent me?"

"My putting a knife into your gizzard, as I did through that of the
renegade Rufus an hour or two ago! Ah! I see you have heard the
story."

Amram considered, then replied:

"And what if I also have a knife?"

"In that case," said Nehushta, "draw it, and we will see which is the
better, man or woman. Merchant, your weapon is your pen. You have not
a chance with me, an Arab of Libya, and you know it."

"Yes," answered Amram, "I think I do; you desert folk are so reckless
and athletic. Also, to be frank, as you may have guessed, I am
unarmed. Now, what do you propose?"

"I propose that you get us safely out of Cæsarea, or, if you prefer
it, that we shall all die here in this grain-store, for, by whatever
god you worship, Phœnician, before a hand is laid upon my mistress or
me, this knife goes through your heart. I owe no love to your people,
who bought me, a king's daughter, as a slave, and I shall be quite
happy to close my account with one of them. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, perfectly. Why show such temper? The affair is one of
business; let us discuss it in a business spirit. You wish to escape
from Cæsarea; I wish you to escape from my grain-store. Let me go out
and arrange the matter."

"On a plank; not otherwise unless we accompany you," answered
Nehushta. "Man, why do you waste words with us. Listen. This lady is
the only child of Benoni, the great merchant of Tyre. Doubtless you
know him?"

"To my cost," replied Amram, with a bow. "Three times has he
overreached me in various bargains."

"Very well; then you know also that he is rich and will pay him
liberally who rescues his daughter from great peril."

"He might do so, but I am not sure."

"I am sure," answered Nehushta, "and for this service my mistress here
will give you a bill for any reasonable sum drawn upon her father."

"Yes, but the question is--will he honour it? Benoni is a prejudiced
man, a very prejudiced man, a Jew of the Jew, who--does not like
Christians."

"I think that he will honour it, I believe that he will honour it; but
that risk is yours. See here, merchant, a doubtful draft is better
than a slit throat."

"Quite so. The argument is excellent. But you desire to escape. If you
keep me here, how can I arrange the matter?"

"That is for you to consider. You do not leave this place except in
our company, and then at the first sign of danger I drive this knife
home between your shoulders. Meanwhile my mistress is ready to sign
any moderate draft upon her father."

"It is not necessary. Under the circumstances I think that I will
trust to the generosity of my fellow trader Benoni. Meanwhile I assure
you that nothing will give me greater happiness than to fall in with
your views. Believe me, I have no prejudice against Christians, since
those of them whom I have met were always honest and paid their debts
in full. I do not wish to see you or your mistress eaten by lions or
tortured. I shall be very glad to think that you are following the
maxims of your peculiar faith to an extreme old age, anywhere, outside
the limits of my grain-store. The question is, how can I help you do
this? At present I see no way."

"The question is--how will you manage to keep your life in you over
the next twelve hours?" answered Nehushta grimly. "Therefore I advise
you to find a way"; and to emphasise her words she turned, and, having
made sure that the door was locked, slipped its key into the bosom of
her dress.

Amram stared at her in undisguised admiration. "I would that I were
unmarried," he said, "which is not the case," and he sighed; "for
then, upon my word, I should be inclined to make a certain proposal to
you----"

"Nehushta--that is my name----"

"Nehushta--exactly. Well, it is out of the question."

"Quite."

"Therefore I have a suggestion to make. To-night a ship of mine sails
for Tyre. Will you honour me by accepting a passage on her?"

"Certainly," answered Nehushta, "provided that you accompany us."

"It was not my intention to go to Tyre this voyage."

"Then your intention can be changed. Look you, we are desperate, and
our lives are at stake. Your life is also at stake, and I swear to
you, by the Holy One we worship, that before any harm comes to my
mistress you shall die. Then what will your wealth and your schemes
avail you in the grave? It is a little thing we ask of you--to help
two innocent people to escape from this accursed city. Will you grant
it? Or shall I put this dagger through your throat? Answer, and at
once, or I strike and bury you in your own corn."

Even in that light Amram turned visibly paler. "I accept your terms,"
he said. "At nightfall I will conduct you to the ship, which sails two
hours after sunset with the evening wind. I will accompany you to Tyre
and deliver the lady over to her father, trusting to his liberality
for my reward. Meanwhile, this place is hot. That ladder leads to the
roof, which is parapeted, so that those sitting or even standing
there, cannot be seen. Shall we ascend?"

"If you go first; and remember, should you attempt to call out, my
knife is always ready."

"Of that I am quite aware--you have said so several times. I have
passed my words, and I do not go back upon my bargains. The stars are
with you, and, come what may, I obey them."

Accordingly they ascended to the roof, Amram going first, Nehushta
following him, and Rachel bringing up the rear. On it, projecting
inward from the parapet, was a sloping shelter once made use of by the
look-out sentry in bad or hot weather. The change from the stifling
store below with its stench of ill-cured hides, to this lofty, shaded
spot, where the air moved freely, was so pleasant to Rachel, outworn
as she was with all she had gone through, that presently she fell
asleep, not to wake again till evening. Nehushta, however, who did not
go to sleep, and Amram, employed themselves in watching the events
that passed in the city below. From this height they could see the
great square surrounding the palace, and the strange scenes being
enacted therein. It was crowded by thousands of people, for the most
part seated on the ground, clad in garments of sack-cloth and throwing
dust upon the heads of themselves, their wives and children. From all
this multitude a voice of supplication rose to heaven, which, even at
that distance, reached the ears of Nehushta and her companion in a
murmur of sound, constant and confused.

"They pray that the king may live," said Amram.

"And I pray that he may die," answered Nehushta.

The merchant shrugged his shoulders. "I care nothing either way,
provided that the peace is not disturbed to the injury of trade. On
the whole, however, he is a good king who causes money to be spent,
which is what kings are for--in Judæa--where they are but feathers
puffed up by the breath of Cæsar, to fall if he cease to blow. But
look!"

As he spoke, a figure appeared upon the steps of the palace who made
some communication to the crowd, whereon a great wail went up to the
very skies.

"You have your wish," said Amram; "Herod is dead or dying, and now, I
suppose, as his son is but a child, that we shall be ruled by some
accursed thief of a Roman procurator with a pocket like a sack without
a bottom. Surely that old bishop of yours who preached in the
amphitheatre this morning, must have had a hint of what was coming,
from his familiar spirit; or perhaps he saw the owl and guessed its
errand. Moreover, I think that troubles are brewing for others besides
Herod, since the old man said as much.

"What became of him and the rest?" asked Nehushta.

"Oh! a few were trampled to death, and others the Jews stirred up the
mob to stone, saying that they had bewitched the king, which they, who
were disappointed of the games, did gladly. Some, however, are said to
have escaped, and, like yourselves, lie in hiding."

Nehushta glanced at her mistress, now fast asleep, her pale face
resting on her arm.

"The world is hard--for Christians," she said.

"Friend, it is hard for all, as, were I to tell you my own story, even
you would admit," and he sighed. "At least you Christians believe in
something beyond," he went on; "for you death is but a bridge leading
to a glorious city, and I trust that you may be right. Is not your
mistress delicate?"

Nehushta nodded.

"She was never very strong, and sorrow has done its work with her.
They killed her husband at Berytus yonder, and--her trouble is very
near."

"Yes, yes, I heard that story, also that his blood is on the hands of
her own father, Benoni. Ah! who is so cruel as a bigot Jew? Not we
Phœnicians even, of whom they say such evil. Once I had a daughter"--
here his hard face softened--"but let be, let be! Look you, the risk
is great, but what I can do I will do to save her, and you also,
friend, since, Libyan or no, you are a faithful woman. Nay, do not
doubt me. I have given my word, and if I break it willingly, then may
I perish and be devoured of dogs. My ship is small and undecked. In
that she shall not sail, but a big galley weighs for Alexandria
to-night, calling at Apollonia and Joppa, and in it I will take you
passages, saying that the lady is a relative of mine and that you are
her slave. This is my advice to you--that you go straight to Egypt,
where there are many Christians who will protect you for a while.
Thence your mistress can write to her father, and if he will receiver
her, return. If not, at least she will be safe, since no writ of Herod
runs in Alexandria, and there they do not love the Jews."

"Your counsel seems good," said Nehushta, "if she will consent to it."

"She must consent who, indeed, is in no case to make other plans. Now
let me go. Before nightfall I will return again with food and
clothing, and lead you to the ship."

Nehushta hesitated.

"I say to you, do not fear. Will you not trust me?"

"Yes," answered Nehushta, "because I must. Nay, the words are not
kind, but we are sadly placed, and it is strange to find a true friend
in one whom I have threatened with a knife."

"I understand," said Amram gravely. "Let the issue prove me. Now
descend that you may lock the door behind me. When I return I will
stand in the open space yonder with a slave, making pretence to re-
bind a burst bundle of merchandise. Then come down and admit me
without fear."

When the Phœnician had gone Nehushta sat by her sleeping mistress, and
waited with an anxious heart. Had she done wisely? Would Amram betray
them and send soldiers to conduct them, not to the ship, but to some
dreadful death? Well, if so, at least she would have time to kill her
mistress and herself, and thus escape the cruelties of men. Meanwhile
she could only pray; and pray she did in her fierce, half-savage
fashion, never for herself, but for her mistress whom she loved, and
for the child that, she remembered thankfully, Anna had foretold would
be born and live out its life. Then she remembered also that this same
holy woman had said that its mother's hours would be few, and at the
thought Nehushta wept.



CHAPTER IV

THE BIRTH OF MIRIAM

The time passed slowly, but none came to disturb them. Three hours
after noon Rachel awoke, refreshed but hungry, and Nehushta had no
food to give her except raw grain, from which she turned. Clearly and
in few words she told her mistress all that had passed, asking her
consent to the plan.

"It seems good as another," said Rachel with a little sigh, "and I
thank you for making it, Nou, and the Phœnician, if he is a true man.
Also I do not desire to meet my father--at least, for many years. How
can I, seeing the evil which he has brought upon me?"

"Do not speak of that," interrupted Nehushta hastily, and for a long
while they were silent.

It was an hour before sunset, or a little less, when at length
Nehushta saw two persons walk on to the patch of open ground which she
watched continually--Amram and a slave who bore a bundle on his head.
Just then the rope which bound this bundle seemed to come loose; at
least, at his master's command, the man set it down and they began to
retie it, then advanced slowly towards the archway. Now Nehushta
descended, unlocked the door and admitted Amram, who carried the
bundle.

"Where is the slave?" she asked.

"Have no fear, friend; he is trusty and watches without, not knowing
why. Come, you must both of you be hungry, and I have food. Help me
loose this cord."

Presently the package was undone, and within it appeared, first, two
flagons of old wine, then meats more tasty then Nehushta had seen for
months, then rich cloaks and other garments made in the Phœnician
fashion, and a robe of white with coloured edges, such as was worn by
the body-slaves of the wealthy among that people. Lastly--and this
Amram produced from his own person--there was a purse of gold, enough
to support them for many weeks. Nehushta thanked him with her eyes,
and was about to speak.

"There, say nothing," he interrupted. "I passed my word, and I have
kept it, that is all. Also on this money I shall charge interest, and
your mistress can repay it in happier days. Now listen: I have taken
the passages, and an hour after sunset we will go aboard. Only I warn
you, do not let it be known that you are escaped Christians, for the
seamen think that such folk bring them bad luck. Come, help me carry
the food and wine. After you have eaten you can both of you retire
here and robe yourselves."

Presently they were on the roof.

"Lady," said Nehushta, "we did well to put faith in this man. He has
come back, and see what he has brought us."

"The blessing of God be on you, sir, who help the helpless!" exclaimed
Rachel, looking hungrily at the tempting meats which she so sorely
needed.

"Drink," said Amram cheerfully, as he poured wine and water into a
cup; "it will hearten you, and your faith does not forbid the use of
the grape, for have I not heard you styled the society of drunkards?"

"That is only one bad name among many, sir," said Rachel, as she took
the cup.

Then they ate and were satisfied, and afterwards descended into the
corn-store to wash with the remainder of the water, and clothe
themselves from head to foot in the fragrant and beautiful garments
that might have been made for their wear, so well had Amram judged
their sizes and needs.

By the time that they were dressed the light was dying. Still, they
waited a while for the darkness; then, with a new hope shining through
their fears, crept silently into the street, where the slave, a
sturdy, well-armed fellow, watched for them.

"To the quay," said Amram, and they walked forward, choosing those
thoroughfares that were most quiet. It was well for them that they did
this, for now it was known that Agrippa's sickness was mortal, the
most of the soldiers were already in a state of mutiny, and, inflamed
with wine, paraded the market-places and larger streets, shouting and
singing obscene songs, and breaking into the liquor shops and private
houses, where they drank healths to Charon, who was about to bear away
their king in his evil bark. As yet, however, they had not begun
killing those against whom they had a grudge. This happened
afterwards, though it has nothing to do with our story.

Without trouble or molestation the party reached the quay, where a
small boat with two Phœnician rowers was waiting for them. In it they
embarked, except the slave, and were rowed out to the anchorage to
board a large galley which lay half a mile or more away. This they did
without difficulty, for the night was calm, although the air hung
thick and heavy, and jagged clouds, wind-breeders as they were called,
lay upon the horizon. On the lower deck of the galley stood its
captain, a sour-faced man, to whom Amram introduced his passengers,
who were, as he declared, relatives of his own proceeding to
Alexandria.

"Good," said the captain. "Show them to their cabin, for we sail as
soon as the wind rises."

To the cabin they went accordingly, a comfortable place stored with
all that they could need; but as they passed to it Nehushta heard a
sailor, who held a lantern in his hand, say to his companion:

"That woman is very like one whom I saw in the amphitheatre this
morning when they gave the salute to King Agrippa."

"The gods forbid it!" answered the other. "We want no Christians here
to bring evil fortune on us."

"Christians or no Christians, there is a tempest brewing, if I
understand the signs of the weather," muttered the first man.

In the cabin Amram bade his guests farewell.

"This is a strange adventure," he said, "and one that I did not look
for. May it prove to the advantage of us all. At the least I have done
my best for your safety, and now we part."

"You are a good man," replied Rachel, "and whatever may befall us, I
pray again that God may bless you for your kindness to His servants. I
pray also that He may lead you to a knowledge of the truth as it was
declared by the Lord and Master Whom we serve, that your soul may win
salvation and eternal life."

"Lady," said Amram, "I know nothing of these doctrines, but I promise
you this: that I will look into them and see whether or no they
commend themselves to my reason. I love wealth, like all my people,
but I am not altogether a time-server, or a money-seeker. Lady, I have
lost those whom I desire to find again."

"Seek and you will find."

"I will seek," he answered, "though, mayhap, I shall never find."

Thus they parted.

Presently the night breeze began to flow off the land, the great sail
was hoisted, and with the help of oars, worked by slaves, the ship
cleared the harbour and set her course for Joppa. Two hours later the
wind failed so that they could proceed only by rowing over a dead and
oily sea, beneath a sky that was full of heavy clouds. Lacking any
stars to steer by, the captain wished to cast anchor, but as the water
proved too deep they proceeded slowly, till about an hour before dawn
a sudden gust struck them which caused the galley to lean over.

"The north wind! The black north wind!" shouted the steersman, and the
sailors echoed his cry dismally, for they knew the terrors of that
wind upon the Syrian coast. Then the gale began to rage. By daylight
the waves were running high as mountains and the wind hissed through
the rigging, driving them forward beneath a small sail. Nehushta
crawled out of the cabin, and, in the light of an angry dawn, saw far
away the white walls of a city built near the shore.

"Is not that Appolonia?" she asked of the captain.

"Yes," he answered, "it is Appolonia sure enough, but we shall not
anchor there this voyage. Now it is Alexandria for us or nothing."

So they rushed past Appolonia and forward, climbing the slopes of the
rising seas.

Thus things went on. About mid-day the gale became a hurricane, and do
what they would they were driven forward, till at length they saw the
breakers forming on the coast. Rachel lay sick and prostrate, but
Nehushta went out of the cabin to watch.

"Are we in danger?" she asked of a sailor.

"Yes, accursed Christian," he replied, "and you have brought it on us
with your evil eye."

Then Nehushta returned to the cabin where her mistress lay almost
senseless with sea-sickness. On board the ship the terror and
confusion grew. For a while they were able to beat out to sea until
the mast was carried away. Then the rudder broke, and, as the oars
could not be worked in that fearful tempest, the galley began to drive
shorewards. Night fell, and who can describe the awful hours that
followed? All control of the vessel being lost, she drove onwards
whither the wind and the waves took her. The crew, and even the oar-
slaves, flew to the wine with which she was partly laden, and strove
to drown their terrors in drink. Thus inflamed, twice some of them
came to the cabin, threatening to throw their passengers overboard.
But Nehushta barred the door and called through it that she was well
armed and would kill the first man who tried to lay a hand upon her.
So they went away, and after the second visit grew too drunken to be
dangerous.

Again the dawn broke over the roaring, foaming sea and revealed the
fate that awaited them. Not a mile away lay the grey line of shore,
and between them and it a cruel reef on which the breakers raged.
Towards this reef they were driving fast. Now the men grew sober in
their fear, and began to build a large raft of oars and timber; also
to make ready the boat which the galley carried. Before all was done
she struck beak first, and was lifted on to a great flat rock, where
she wallowed, with the water seething round her. Then, knowing that
their hour was come, the crew made shift to launch the boat and raft
on the lee side, and began to clamber into them. Now Nehushta came out
of the cabin and prayed the captain to save them also, whereon he
answered her with an oath that this bad luck was because of them, and
that if either she or her mistress tried to enter the boat, they would
stab them and cast them into the sea as an offering to the storm-god.

So Nehushta struggled back to the cabin, and kneeling by the side of
her mistress, with tears told her that these black-hearted sailors had
left them alone upon the ship to drown. Rachel answered that she cared
little, but only desired to be free of her fear and misery.

As the words left her lips, Nehushta heard a sound of screaming, and
crawling to the bulwarks, looked forth to see a dreadful sight. The
boat and the raft, laden with a great number of men who were fighting
for places with each other, having loosed from the lee of the ship,
were come among the breakers, which threw them up as a child throws a
ball at play. Even while Nehushta gazed, their crafts were overturned,
casting them into the water, every one there to be dashed against the
rocks or drowned by the violence of the waves, so that not a man of
all that ship's company came living to the shore.

Like tens of thousands of others on this coast in all ages, they
perished, every one of them--and that was the reward of their
wickedness.

Giving thanks to God, Who had brought them out of that danger against
their wills, Nehushta crept back to the cabin and told her mistress
what had passed.

"May they find pardon," said Rachel, shuddering; "but as for us, it
will matter little whether we are drowned in the boat or upon the
galley."

"I do not think that we shall drown," answered Nehushta.

"How are we to escape it, Nou? The ship lies upon the rock, where the
great waves will batter her to pieces. Feel how she shakes beneath
their blows, and see the spray flying over us."

"I do not know, mistress; but we shall not drown."

Nehushta was right, for after they had remained fast a little longer
they were saved, thus: Suddenly the wind dropped, then it rose again
in a last furious squall, driving before it a very mountain of water.
This vast billow, as it rushed shorewards, caught the galley in its
white arms and lifted her not only off the rock whereon she lay, but
over the further reefs, to cast her down again upon a bed of sand and
shells, within a stone's throw of the beach, where she remained fast,
never to shift more.

Now also, as though its work were done, the gale ceased, and, as is
common on the Syrian coast, the sea sank rapidly, so that by nightfall
it was calm again. Indeed, three hours before sunset, had both of them
been strong and well, they might have escaped to the land by wading.
But this was not to be, for now what Nehushta had feared befell, and
when she was least fitted to bear it, being worn out with anguish of
mind and weariness of body, pain took sudden hold of Rachel, of which
the end was that, before midnight, there, in that broken vessel upon a
barren coast where no man seemed to live, a daughter was born to her.

"Let me see the child," said Rachel. So Nehushta showed it to her by
the light of a lamp which burned in the cabin.

It was a small child, but very white, with blue eyes and dark hair
that curled. Rachel gazed at it long and tenderly. Then she said,
"Bring me water while there is yet time."

When the water was brought she dipped her trembling hand into it, and
made the sign of the Cross upon the babe's forehead, baptising her
with the name of Miriam, after that of her own mother, to the service
and the company of Jesus the Christ.

"Now," she said, "whether she live an hour or an hundred years, this
child is a Christian, and whatever befalls, should she come to the age
of understanding, see to it, Nou, who are henceforth the foster-mother
of her body and her soul, that she does not forget the rites and
duties of her faith. Lay this charge on her also as her father
commanded, and as I command, that should she be moved to marriage, she
wed none who is not a Christian. Tell her that such was the will of
those who begat her, and that if she be obedient to it, although they
are dead, and as it seems strengthless, yet shall their blessing be
upon her all her life's days, and with it the blessing of the Lord she
serves."

"Oh!" moaned Nehushta, "why do you speak thus?"

"Because I am dying. Gainsay me not. I know it well. My life ebbs from
me. My prayers have been answered, and I was preserved to give this
infant birth; now I go to my appointed place and to one who waits for
me, and to the Lord in Whose care he is in Heaven, as we are in His
care on earth. Nay, do not mourn; it is no fault of yours, nor could
any physician's skill have saved me, whose strength was spent in
suffering, and who for many months have walked the world, bearing in
my breast a broken heart. Give me of that wine to drink--and listen."

Nehushta obeyed and Rachel went on: "So soon as my breath has left me,
take the babe and seek some village on the shore where it can be
nursed, for which service you have the means to pay. Then when she is
strong enough and it is convenient, travel, not to Tyre--for there my
father would bring up the child in the strictest rites and customs of
the Jews--but to the village of the Essenes upon the shores of the
Dead sea. There find out my mother's brother, Ithiel, who is of their
society, and present to him the tokens of my name and birth which
still hang about my neck, and tell him all the story, keeping nothing
back. He is not a Christian, but he is a good and gentle-hearted man
who thinks well of Christians, and is grieved at their persecution,
since he wrote to my father reproving him for his deeds towards us
and, as you know, strove, but in vain, to bring about our release from
prison. Say to him that I, his kinswoman, pray of him, as he will
answer to God, and in the name of the sister whom he loved, to protect
my child and you; to do nothing to turn her from her faith, and in all
things to deal with her as his wisdom shall direct--for so shall peace
and blessing come upon him."

Thus spoke Rachel, but in short and broken words. Then she began to
pray, and, praying, fell asleep. When she woke again the dawn was
breaking. Signing to Nehushta to bring her the child, for now she
could no longer speak, she scanned it earnestly in the new-born light,
then placed her hand upon its head and blessed it. Nehushta she
blessed also, thanking her with her eyes and kissing her. Then again
she seemed to fall asleep, and presently, when Nehushta looked at her,
Rachel was dead.

Nehushta understood and gave a great and bitter cry, since to her
after the death of her first mistress, this woman had been all her
life. As a child she had nursed her; as a maiden shared her joys and
sorrows; as a wife and widow toiled day and night fiercely and
faithfully to console her in her desolation and to protect her in the
dreadful dangers through which she had passed. Now, to end it all, it
was her lot to receive her last breath and to take into her arms her
new-born infant.

Then and there Nehushta swore that as she had done by the mother she
so would do by the child till the day when her labours ended. Were it
not for this child, indeed, they would have ended now, Christian
though she was, since she was crushed with bitter sorrow and her heart
seemed void of hope or joy. All her days had been hard--she who was
born to great place among her own wild people far away, and snatched
thence to be a slave, set apart by her race and blood from those into
whose city she was sold; she who would have naught to do with base men
nor become the plaything of those of higher birth; she who had turned
Christian and drunk deep of the tribulations of the faith; she who had
centred all her eager heart upon two beloved women, and lost them
both. All her days had been hard, and here and now, by the side of her
dead mistress, she would have ended them. But the child remained, and
while it lived, she would live. If it died, then perhaps she would die
also.

Meanwhile Nehushta had no time for grief, since the babe must be fed,
and within twelve hours. Yet, as she could not bury her, and would not
throw her to the sharks, she was minded to give her mistress a royal
funeral after the custom of her own Libyan folk. Here was flame, and
what pyre could be grander than this great ship?

Lifting the body from its couch, Nehushta carried it to the deck and
laid it by the broken mast, closing the eyes and folding the hands.
Then she loosened from about the neck those tokens of which Rachel had
spoken, made some food and garments into a bundle, and, carrying the
lamp with her, went into the captain's cabin amidships. Here a money-
box was open, and in it gold and some jewels which this man had
abandoned in his haste. These she took, adding them to her own store
and securing them about her. This done she fired the cabin, and
passing to the hold, broke a jar of oil and fired that also. Then she
fled back again, knelt by her dead mistress and kissed her, took the
child, wrapping it warmly in a shawl, and by the ladder of rope which
the sailors had used, let herself down into the quiet sea. Its waters
did not reach higher than her middle, and soon she was standing on the
shore and climbing the sandhills that lay beyond. At their summit she
turned to look, and lo! yonder where the galley was, already a great
pillar of fire shot up to heaven, for there was much oil in the hold
and it burnt furiously.

"Farewell!" she cried, "farewell!"

Then, weeping bitterly, Nehushta walked on inland.



CHAPTER V

MIRIAM IS ENTHRONED

Presently Nehushta found herself out of sight of the sea and among
cultivated land, for here were vines and fig trees grown in gardens
fenced with stone walls; also patches of ripening barley and of wheat
in the ear, much trodden down as though horses had been feeding there.
Beyond these gardens she came to a ridge, and saw beneath her a
village of many houses of green brick, some of which seemed to have
been destroyed by fire. Into this village she walked boldly, and there
the first sight that met her eyes was that of sundry dead bodies, upon
which dogs were feeding.

On she went up the main street, till she saw a woman peeping at her
over a garden wall.

"What has chanced here?" asked Nehushta, in the Syrian tongue.

"The Romans! the Romans! the Romans!" wailed the woman. "The head of
our village quarrelled with the tax-gatherers, and refused to pay his
dues to Cæsar. So the soldiers came a week ago and slaughtered nearly
all of us, and took such sheep and cattle as they could find, and with
them many of the young folk, to be sold as slaves, so that the rest
are left empty and desolate. Such are the things that chance in this
unhappy land. But, woman, who are you?"

"I am one shipwrecked!" answered Nehushta, "and I bear with me a new-
born babe--nay, the story is too long to tell you; but if in this
place there is any one who can nurse the babe, I will pay her well."

"Give it me!" said the woman, in an eager whisper; "my child perished
in the slaughter; I ask no reward."

Nehushta looked at her. Her eyes were wild, but she was still young
and healthy, a Syrian peasant.

"Have you a house?" she asked.

"Yes, it still stands, and my husband lives; we hid in a cave, but
alas! they slew the infant that was out with the child of a neighbour.
Quick, give me the babe."

So Nehushta gave it to her, and thus Miriam was nurtured at the breast
of one whose offspring had been murdered because the head of the
village had quarrelled with a Roman tax-collector. Such was the world
in the days when Christ came to save it.

After she had suckled the child the woman led Nehushta to her house, a
humble dwelling that had escaped the fire, where they found the
husband, a wine-grower, mourning the death of his infant and the ruin
of his town. To him she told as much of her story as she thought well,
and proffered him a gold piece, which, so she swore, was one of ten
she had about her. He took it gladly, for now he was penniless, and
promised her lodging and protection, and the service of his wife as
nurse to the child for a month at least. So there Nehushta stayed,
keeping herself hid, and at the end of the month gave another gold
piece to her hosts, who were kindly folk that never dreamed of working
her evil or injustice. Seeing this, Nehushta found yet more money,
wherewith the man, blessing her, bought two oxen and a plough, and
hired labour to help him gather what remained of his harvest.

The shore where the infant was born upon the wrecked ship, was at a
distance of about a league from Joppa and two days' journey from
Jerusalem, whence the Dead Sea could be reached in another two days.
When Nehushta had dwelt there for some six months, as the babe throve
and was hearty, she offered to pay the man and his wife three more
pieces of gold if they would travel with her to the neighbourhood of
Jericho, and, further, to purchase a mule and an ass for the journey,
which she would give to them when it was accomplished. The eyes of
these simple folk glistened at the prospect of so much wealth, and
they agreed readily, promising also to stay three months by Jericho,
if need were, till the child could be weaned. So a man was hired to
guard the house and vines, and they started in the late autumn, when
the air was cool and pleasant.

Of their journey nothing need be said, save that they accomplished it
without trouble, being too humble in appearance to attract the notice
of the thieves who swarmed upon the highways, or of the soldiers who
were set to catch the thieves.

Skirting Jerusalem, which they did not enter, on the sixth day they
descended into the valley of the Jordan, through the desolate hills by
which it is bordered. Camping that night outside the town, at daybreak
on the seventh morning they started, and by two hours after noon came
to the village of the Essenes. On its outskirts they halted, while
Nehushta and the nurse, bearing with them the child, that by now could
wave its arms and crow, advanced boldly into the village, where it
would appear men dwelt only--at least no women were to be seen--and
asked to be led to the Brother Ithiel.

The man to whom they spoke, who was robed in white, and engaged in
cooking outside a large building, averted his eyes in answering, as
though it were not lawful for him to look upon the face of a woman. He
said, very civilly, however, that Brother Ithiel was working in the
fields, whence he would not return till supper time.

Nehushta asked where these fields were, since she desired to speak
with him at once. The man answered that if they walked towards the
green trees that lined the banks of Jordan, which he pointed out to
them, they could not fail to find Ithiel, as he was ploughing in the
irrigated land with two white oxen, the only ones they had.
Accordingly they set out again, having the Dead Sea on their right,
and travelled for the half of a league through the thorn-scrub that
grows in this desert. Passing the scrub they came to lands which were
well cultivated and supplied with water from the Jordan by means of
wheels and long poles with a jar at one end and a weight at the other,
which a man could work, emptying the contents of the jar again and
again into an irrigation ditch.

In one of these fields they saw the two white oxen at their toil, and
behind them the labourer, a tall man of about fifty years of age,
bearded, and having a calm face and eyes that were very deep and
quiet. He was clad in a rough robe of camel's hair, fastened about his
middle with a leathern girdle, and wore sandals on his feet. To him
they went, asking leave to speak with him, whereon he halted the oxen
and greeted them courteously, but, like the man in the village, turned
his eyes away from the faces of the women. Nehushta bade the nurse
stand back out of hearing, and, bearing the child in her arms, said:

"Sir, tell me, I pray you, if I speak to Ithiel, a priest of high rank
among this people of the Essenes, and brother to the dead lady Miriam,
wife of Benoni the Jew, a merchant of Tyre?"

At the mention of these names Ithiel's face saddened, then grew calm
again.

"I am so called," he answered; "and the lady Miriam is my sister, who
now dwells in the happy and eternal country beyond the ocean with all
the blessed"--for so the Essenes imagined that heaven to which they
went when the soul was freed from the vile body.

"The lady Miriam," continued Nehushta, "had a daughter Rachel, whose
servant I was."

"Was?" he interrupted, startled from his calm. "Has she then been put
to death by those fierce men and their king, as was as her husband
Demas?"

"Nay, sir, but she died in childbirth, and this is the babe she bore";
and she held the sleeping little one towards him, at whom he gazed
earnestly, yes, and bent down and kissed it--since, although they saw
so few of them, the Essenes loved children.

"Tell me that sad story," he said.

"Sir, I will both tell it and prove it to be true"; and Nehushta told
him all from the beginning to the end, producing to his sight the
tokens which she had taken from the breast of her mistress, and
repeating her last message to him word for word. When she had
finished, Ithiel turned away and mourned a while. Then, speaking
aloud, he put up a prayer to God for guidance--for without prayer
these people would not enter upon anything, however simple--and came
back to Nehushta, who stood by the oxen.

"Good and faithful woman," he said, "who it would seem are not fickle
and light-hearted, or worse, like the multitude of your sex--perchance
because your dark skin shields you from their temptations--you have
set me in a cleft stick, and there I am held fast. Know that the rule
of my order is that we should have naught to do with females, young or
old; therefore how can I receive you or the child?"

"Of the rules of your order, sir, I know nothing," answered Nehushta
sharply, since the words about the colour of her skin had not pleased
her; "but of the rules of nature I do know, and something of the rules
of God also, for, like my mistress and this infant, I am a Christian.
These tell me, all of them, that to cast out an orphan child who is of
your own blood, and whom a cruel fortune has thus brought to your
door, would be an evil act, and one for which you must answer to Him
who is above the rules of any order."

"I may not wrangle, especially with a woman," replied Ithiel, who
seemed ill at ease; "but if my first words are true, this is true
also, that those same rules enjoin upon us hospitality, and above all,
that we must not turn away the helpless or the destitute."

"Clearly, then, sir, least of any must you turn away this child whose
blood is your blood, and those dead mother sent her to you, that she
might not fall into the power of a grandfather who has dealt so
cruelly with those he should have cherished, to be brought up among
Zealots as a Jew and taught to make offering of living things, and be
anointed with the oil and blood of sacrifice."

"No, no, the thought is horrible," answered Ithiel, holding up his
hands. "It is better, far better that she should be a Christian than
one of that fanatic and blood-spilling faith." This he said, because
among the Essenes the use of oil was held to be unclean. Also above
all things, they loathed the offering of life in sacrifice to God;
who, although they did not acknowledge Christ--perhaps because He was
never preached to them, who would listen to no new religion--practised
the most of His doctrines with the greatest strictness.

"The matter is too hard for me," he went on. "I must lay it before a
full Court of the hundred curators, and what they decide, that will be
done. Still, this is our rule: to assist those who need and to show
mercy, to accord succour to such as deserve it, and to give food to
those in distress. Therefore, whatever the Court, which it will take
three days to summon, may decide, in the meanwhile I have the right to
give you, and those with you, shelter and provision in the guest-
house. As it chances, it is situated in that part of the village where
dwell the lowest of our brethren, who are permitted to marry, so there
you will find company of your own sex."

"I shall be glad of it," answered Nehushta drily. "Also I should call
them the highest of the brethren, since marriage is a law of God,
which God the Father has instituted, and God the Son has blessed."

"I may not wrangle, I may not wrangle," replied Ithiel, declining the
encounter; "but certainly, that is a lovely babe. Look. Its eyes are
open and they are beautiful as flowers"; and again he bent down and
kissed the child, then added with a groan of remorse, "Alas! sinner
that I am, I am defiled; I must purify myself and do penance."

"Why?" asked Nehushta shortly.

"For two reasons: I have touched your dress, and I have given way to
earthly passion and embraced a child--twice. Therefore, according to
our rule, I am defiled."

Then Nehushta could bear it no more.

"Defiled! you puppet of a foolish rule! It is the sweet babe that is
defiled! Look, you have fouled its garments with your grimy hand and
made it weep by pricking it with your beard. Would that your holy rule
taught you how to handle children and to respect honest women who are
their mothers, without whom there would be no Essenes."

"I may not wrangle," said Ithiel, nervously; for now woman was
appearing before him in a new light; not as an artful and a fickle,
but as an angry creature, reckless of tongue and not easy to be
answered. "These matters are for the decision of the curators. Have I
not told you so? Come, let us be going. I will drive the oxen,
although it is not time to loose them from the plough, and do you and
your companion walk at a distance behind me. No, not behind--in front,
that I may see that you do not drop the babe, or suffer it to come to
any harm. Truly it is sweet to look at, and, may God forgive me, I do
not like to lose sight of its face, which, it seems to me, resembles
that of my sister when she was also in arms."

"Drop the babe!" began Nehushta; then understanding that this victim
of a rule already loved it dearly, and would suffer much before he
parted with it, pitying his weakness, she said only, "Be careful that
you do not frighten it with your great oxen, for you men who scorn
women have much to learn."

Then, accompanied by the nurse, she stalked ahead in silence, while
Ithiel followed after at a distance, leading the cattle by the hide
loops about their horns, lest in their curiosity or eagerness to get
home, they should do some mischief to the infant or wake it from its
slumbers. In this way they proceeded to the lower part of the village,
till they came to a good house--empty as it chanced--where guests were
accommodated in the best fashion that this kind and homely folk could
afford. Here a woman was summoned, the wife of one of the lower order
of the Essenes, to whom Ithiel spoke, holding his hand before his
eyes, as though she were not good to look at. To her, from a distance,
he explained the case, bidding her to provide all things needful, and
to send a man to bring in the husband of the nurse with the beasts of
burden, and attend to his wants and theirs. Then, warning Nehushta to
be very careful of the infant and not to expose it to the sun, he
departed to report the matter to the curators, and to summon the great
Court.

"Are all of them like this?" asked Nehushta of the woman,
contemptuously.

"Yes, sister," she answered, "fools, every one. Why, of my own husband
I see little; and although, being married, he ranks but low among
them, the man is forever telling me of the faults of our sex, and how
they are a snare set for the feet of the righteous, and given to the
leading of these same righteous astray, especially if they be not
their own husbands. At times I am tempted indeed to prove his words
true. Oh! it would not be difficult for all their high talk; I have
learned as much as that, for Nature is apt to make a mock of those who
deny Nature, and there is no parchment rule that a woman cannot bring
to nothing. Yet, since they mean well, laugh at them and let them be,
say I. And now come into the house, which is good, although did women
manage it, it would be better."

So Nehushta went into that house with the nurse and her husband, and
there for several days dwelt in great comfort. Indeed, there was
nothing that she or the child, or those with them, could want which
was not provided in plenty. Messages reached her even, through the
woman, to ask if she would wish the rooms altered in any way, and when
she said that there was not light enough in that in which the child
slept, some of the elders of the Essenes arrived and pierced a new
window in the wall, working very hard to finish the task before
sunset. Also even the husband of the nurse was not allowed to attend
to his own beasts, which were groomed and fed for him, till at length
he grew so weary of doing nothing, that on the third day he went out
to plough with the Essenes and worked in the fields till dark.

It was on the fourth morning that the full Court gathered in the great
meeting-house, and Nehushta was summoned to appear before it, bringing
the babe with her. Thither she went accordingly, to find the place
filled with a hundred grave and reverend men, all clad in robes of the
purest white. In the lower part of that large chamber she sat alone
upon a chair, while before her upon benches ranged one above the
other, so that all could see, were gathered the hundred curators.

It seemed that Ithiel had already set out the case, since the
President at once began to question her on various points of her
story, all of which she was able to explain to the satisfaction of the
Court. Then they debated the matter among themselves, some of them
arguing that as the child was a female, as well as its nurse, neither
of them could properly be admitted to the care of the community,
especially as both were of the Christian faith, and it was stipulated
that in this faith they should remain. Others answered that
hospitality was their first duty, and that he would be weak indeed who
was led aside from their rule by a Libyan woman of middle age and an
infant of a few months. Further, that the Christians were a good
people, and that there was much in their doctrines which tallied with
their own. Next, one made a strange objection--namely, that if they
adopted this child they would learn to love it too much, who should
love God and their order only. To this another answered, Nay, they
should love all mankind, and especially the helpless.

"Mankind, not womankind," was the reply; "for this infant will grow
into a woman."

Now they desired Nehushta to retire that they might take the votes.
Before she went, however, holding up the child that all could see it
as it lay smiling in her arms, she implored them not to reject the
prayer of a dead woman, and so deprive this infant of the care of the
relative whom that departed lady had appointed to be its guardian, and
of the guidance and directing wisdom of their holy Order. Lastly, she
reminded them that if they thrust her out, she must carry the infant
to its grandfather, who, if he received it at all, would certainly
bring it up in the Jewish faith, and thereby, perhaps, cause it to
lose its soul, the weight of which sin would be upon their heads.

After this Nehushta was led away to another chamber and remained there
a long while, till at length she was brought back again by one of the
curators. On entering the great hall her eyes sought the face of
Ithiel, who had not been allowed to speak, since the matter having to
do with a great-niece of his own, it was held that his judgment might
be warped. Seeing that he smiled, and evidently was well pleased, she
knew her cause was won.

"Woman," said the President, "by a great majority of this Court we
have come to an irrevocable decision upon the matter that has been
laid before it by our brother Ithiel. It is, for reasons which I need
not explain, that on this point our rule may be stretched so far as to
admit the child Miriam to our care, even though it be of the female
sex, which care is to endure until she comes to a full age of eighteen
years, when she must depart from among us. During this time no attempt
will be made to turn her from her parents' faith in which she has been
baptised. A house will be given you to live in, and you will be
supplied with the best we have for the use of our ward Miriam and
yourself. Twice a week a deputation of the curators will visit the
house, and stay there for an hour to see that the health of the infant
is good, and that you are doing your duty by it, in which, if you
fail, you will be removed. It is prayed that you will not talk to
these curators on matters which do not concern the child. When she
grows old enough the maid Miriam will be admitted to our gatherings,
and instructed also by the most learned amongst us in all proper
matters of letters and philosophy, on which occasions you will sit at
a distance and not interfere unless your care is required.

"Now, that every one may know our decision, we will escort you back to
your house, and to show that we have taken the infant under our care,
our brother Ithiel will carry it while you walk behind and give him
such instruction in this matter as may be needful."

Accordingly a great procession was formed, headed by the President and
ended by the priests. In the centre of the line marched Ithiel bearing
the babe Miriam, to his evident delight, and Nehushta, who instructed
him so vigorously that at length he grew confused and nearly let it
fall. Thereon, setting this detail of the judgment at defiance,
Nehushta snatched it from his arms, calling him a clumsy and ignorant
clown only fit to handle an ox. To this Ithiel made no answer, nor was
he at all wroth, but finished the journey walking behind her and
smiling foolishly.

Thus was the child Miriam, who afterwards came to be called the Queen
of the Essenes, royally escorted to her home. But little did these
good men know that it was not a house which they were giving her, but
a throne, built of the pure gold of their own gentle hearts.



CHAPTER VI

CALEB

It may be wondered whether any girl who was ever born into the world
could boast a stranger or a happier upbringing than Miriam. She was,
it is true, motherless, but by way of compensation Fate endowed her
with several hundred fathers, each of whom loved her as the apple of
his eye. She did not call them "Father" indeed, a term which under the
circumstances they thought incorrect. To her, one and all, they went
by the designation of "Uncle," with their name added if she happened
to know it, if not as Uncle simply. It cannot be said, however, that
Miriam brought peace to the community of the Essenes. Indeed, before
she had done with them she rent it with deep and abiding jealousies,
to the intense but secret delight of Nehushta, who, although she
became a person of great importance among them as the one who had
immediate charge of their jewel, could never forgive them certain of
their doctrines or their habit of persistent interference.

The domiciliary visits which took place twice a week, and, by special
subsequent resolution passed in full Court, on the Sabbath also, were,
to begin with, the subject of much covert bitterness. At first a
standing committee was appointed to make these visits, of whom Ithiel
was one. Before two years had gone by, however, much murmuring arose
in the community upon this matter. It was pointed out in language that
became vehement--for an Essene--that so much power should not be left
in the hands of one fixed set of individuals, who might become
careless or prejudiced, or, worst of all, neglectful of the welfare of
the child who was the guest not of them only, but of the whole order.
It was demanded, therefore, that this committee should change
automatically every month, so that all might serve upon it in turn,
Ithiel, as the blood-relation of Miriam, remaining its only permanent
member. This proposal was opposed by the committee, but as no one else
would vote for them the desired alteration was made. Further, to be
removed temporarily, or for good, from its roster was thenceforth
recognised as one of the punishments of the order.

Indeed, the absurdities to which its existence gave rise, especially
as the girl grew in years, sweetness and beauty, cannot be numbered.
Thus, every visiting member must wash his whole person and clothe
himself in clean garments before he was allowed to approach the child,
"lest he should convey to her any sickness, or impure substance, or
odour." Then there was much trouble because some members were
discovered to be ingratiating themselves with Miriam by secretly
presenting her with gifts of playthings, some of them of great beauty,
which they fashioned from wood, shells, or even hard stones. Moreover,
they purveyed articles of food such as they found the child loved; and
this it was that led to their detection, for, having eaten of them,
she was ill. Thereupon Nehushta, enraged, disclosed the whole plot,
using the most violent language, and, amidst murmurs of "Shame on
them!" designating the offenders by name. They were removed from their
office, and it was decreed that henceforth any gifts made to the child
must be offered to her by the committee as a whole, and not by a
single individual, and handed over in their name by Ithiel, her uncle.

Once, when she was seven years old, and the idol of every brother
among the Essenes, Miriam fell ill with a kind of fever which often
strikes children in the neighbourhood of Jericho and the Dead Sea.
Among the brethren were several skilful and famous physicians, who
attended her night and day. But still the fever could not be abated,
and at last, with tears, they announced that they feared for the
child's life. Then indeed there was lamentation among the Essenes. For
three days and three nights did they wrestle in constant prayer to God
that she might be spared, many of them touching nothing but water
during all that time. Moreover, they sat about at a distance from her
house, praying and seeking tidings. If it was bad they beat their
breasts, if good they gave thanks. Never was the sickbed of a monarch
watched with more care or devotion than that of this little orphan,
and never was a recovery--for at length she did recover--received with
greater thankfulness and joy.

This was the truth. These pure and simple men, in obedience to the
strict rule they had adopted, were cut off from all the affections of
life. Yet, the foundation-stone of their doctrine being Love, they who
were human must love something, so they loved this child whom they
looked upon as their ward, and who, as there was none other of her age
and sex in their community, had no rival in their hearts. She was the
one joy of their laborious and ascetic hours; she represented all the
sweetness and youth of this self-renewing world, which to them was so
grey and sapless. Moreover, she was a lovely maid, who, wherever she
had been placed, would have bound all to her.

The years went by and the time came when, in obedience to the first
decree, Miriam must be educated. Long were the discussions which
ensued among the curators of the Essenes. At length three of the most
learned of their body were appointed to this task, and the teaching
began. As it chanced, Miriam proved an apt pupil, for her memory was
good, and she had a great desire to learn many things, more especially
history and languages, and all that has to do with nature. One of her
tutors was an Egyptian, who, brought up in the priests' college at
Thebes, when on a journey to Judæa had fallen sick near Jericho, been
nursed by the Essenes and converted to their doctrine. From him Miriam
learnt much of their ancient civilisation, and even of the inner
mysteries of the Egyptian religion, and of its high and secret
interpretations which were known only to the priests. The second,
Theophilus by name, was a Greek who had visited Rome, and he taught
her the tongues and literature of those countries. The third, all his
life long had studied beasts and birds and insects, and the workings
of nature, and the stars and their movements, in which things he
instructed her day by day, taking her abroad with him that examples of
each of them might be before her eyes.

Lastly, when she grew older, there was a fourth master, who was an
artist. He taught Miriam how to model animals, and even men, in the
clay of the Jordan, and how to carve them out in marble, and something
of the use of pigments. Also this man, who was very clever, had a
knowledge of singing and instrumental music, which he imparted to her
in her odd hours. Thus it came about that Miriam grew learned and well
acquainted with many matters of which most girls of her day and years
had never even heard. Nor did she lack knowledge of the things of her
own faith, though in these the Essenes did not instruct her further
than its doctrines tallied with their own. Of the rest, Nehushta told
her something; moreover, on several occasions Christian travellers or
preachers visited this country to address the Essenes or the other
Jews who dwelt there. When they learned her case, these showed
themselves very eager to inform her of the Christian doctrine. Among
them was one old man who had heard the preaching of Jesus Christ, and
been present at His Crucifixion, to all of which histories the girl
listened with eagerness, remembering them to the last hour of her
life.

Further, and perhaps this was the best part of her education, she
lived in the daily company of Nature. But a mile or two away spread
the Dead Sea, and along its melancholy and lifeless shores, fringed
with the white trunks of trees that had been brought down by Jordan,
she would often walk. Before her day by day loomed the mountains of
Moab, while behind her were the fantastic and mysterious sand-hills of
the desert, backed again by other mountains and that grey, tormented
country which stretches between Jericho and Jerusalem. Quite near at
hand also ran the broad and muddy Jordan, whose fertile banks were
clothed in spring with the most delicious greenery and haunted by
kingfishers, cranes, wildfowl, and many other birds. About these
banks, too, stretching into the desert land beyond, the flowers of the
field grew by myriads, at different periods of the year carpeting the
whole earth with various colours, brilliant as are those of the
rainbow. These it was her delight to gather, and even to cultivate in
the garden of her house.

Thus wisdom, earthly and divine, was gathered in Miriam's heart till
very soon its light began to shine through her eyes and face, making
them ever more tender and beautiful. Nor did she lack charm and grace
of person. From the first, in stature she was small and delicate, pale
also in complexion; but her dark hair was plenteous and curling, and
her eyes were large and of a deep and tender blue. Her hands and feet
were very slender, and her every gesture quick and agile as that of a
bird. Thus she grew up loving all things and beloved by all; for even
the flowers which she tended and the creatures that she fed, seemed in
her to find a friend.

Now of so much learning and all this system of solemn ordered hours,
Nehushta did not approve. For a while she bore with it, but when
Miriam was about eleven years of age, she spoke her mind to the
Committee and through them to the governing Court of Curators.

Was it right that a child should be brought up thus, she asked, and
turned into a grave old woman whilst, quite heedless of such things,
others of her age were occupied with youthful games? The end of it
might be that her brain would break and she would die or become crazy,
and then what good would so much wisdom do her? It was necessary that
she should have more leisure and other children with whom she could
associate.

"White-bearded hermits," she added with point, "were not suitable as
sole companions to a little maid."

Thereon followed much debate and consultation with the doctors, who
agreed that friends of her own years should be found for the child.
This, however, proved difficult, since among these Essenes were no
other girls. Therefore those friends must be of the male sex. Here too
were difficulties, as at that time, of the lads adopted by this
particular community which they were destined to join in after days,
there was but one of equal birth with Miriam. Now so far as concerned
their own order the Essenes thought little of social distinctions, or
even of the differences of blood and race. But Miriam was not of their
order; she was their guest, no more, to whom they stood in the place
of parents, and who would go from them out into the great world.
Therefore, notwithstanding their childlike simplicity, being, many of
them, men experienced in life, they did not think it right that she
should mix with those of lower breeding.

This one lad, Caleb by name, was born in the same year as Miriam, when
Cuspius Fadus became governor on the death of Agrippa. His father was
Jew of very high rank named Hilliel, who, although he sided from time
to time with the Roman party, was killed by them, or perished among
the twenty thousand who were trampled to death at the Feast of the
Passover at Jerusalem, when Cumanus, the Procurator, ordered his
soldiers to attack the people. Thereon the Zealots, who considered him
a traitor, managed to get possession of all his property, so that his
son Caleb, whose mother was dead, was brought in a destitute condition
by one of her friends to Jericho. There, as she could not dispose of
him otherwise, he was given over to the Essenes, to be educated in
their doctrine, and, should he wish it, to enter their order when he
reached full age. This lad, it was now decreed, should become the
playmate of Miriam, a decision that pleased both of them very well.

Caleb was a handsome child with quick, dark eyes that watched
everything without seeming to watch, and black hair which curled upon
his shoulders. He was clever also and brave; but though he did his
best to control his temper, by nature very passionate and unforgiving.
Moreover, that which he desired he would have, if by any means it
could be obtained, and was faithful in his loves as in his hates. Of
these hates Nehushta was one. With all the skill of a Libyan, whose
only book is that of Nature and men's faces, she read the boy's heart
at once and said openly that he might come to be the first in any
cause--if he did not betray it--and that when God mixed his blood of
the best, lest Cæsar should find a rival He left out the salt of
honesty and filled up the cup with the wine of passion. When these
sayings were repeated to Caleb by Miriam, who thought them to be a
jest fit to tease her playmate with, he did not fly into one of his
tempers, as she had hoped, but only screwed up his eyelids after his
fashion in certain moods, and looked black as the rain-storm above
Mount Nebo.

"Did you hear, Caleb?" asked Miriam, somewhat disappointed.

"Oh, yes! Lady Miriam," for so he had been ordered to call her. "I
heard. Do you tell that old black woman that I will lead more causes
than she ever thought of, for I mean to be the first everywhere. Also
that whatever God left out of my cup, at least He mixed it with a good
memory."

When Nehushta heard this, she laughed and said that it was true
enough, only he that tried to climb several ladders at once generally
fell to the ground, and that when a head had said good-bye to its
shoulders, the best of memories got lost between the two.

Miriam liked Caleb, but she never loved him as she did the old men,
her uncles, or Nehushta, who to her was more than all. Perhaps this
may have been because he never grew angry with her whatever she might
say or do, never even spoke to her roughly, but always waited on her
pleasure and watched for her wish. Still, of all companions he was the
best. If Miriam desired to walk by the Dead Sea, he would desire the
same. If she wanted to go fishing in the Jordan, he would make ready
the baits or net, and take the fishes off the hook--a thing she hated.
If she sought a rare flower, Caleb would hunt it out for days,
although she knew well that in himself he did not care for flowers,
and when he had found it, would mark the spot and lead her there in
triumph. Also there was this about him, as she was soon quick enough
to learn: he worshipped her. Whatever else might be false, that note
in his nature rang true. If one child could love another, then Caleb
loved Miriam, first with the love of children, then as a man loves a
woman. Only--and this was the sorrow of it--Miriam never loved Caleb.
Had she done so both their stories would have been very different. To
her he was a clever companion and no more.

What made the thing more strange was that he loved no one else,
except, mayhap, himself. In this way and in that the lad soon came to
learn his own history, which was sad enough, with the result that if
he hated the Romans who had invaded the country and trampled it
beneath their heel, still more did he hate those of the Jews who
looked upon his father as their enemy and had stolen all the lands and
goods that were his by right. As for the Essenes who reared and
protected him, so soon as he came to an age when he could weigh such
matters, he held them in contempt, and because of their continual
habit of bathing themselves and purifying their garments, called them
the company of washer-women. On him their doctrines left but a shallow
mark. He thought, as he explained to Miriam, that people who were in
the world should take the world as they found it, without dreaming
ceaselessly of another world to which, as yet, they did not belong; a
sentiment that to some extent Nehushta shared.

Wishing, with the zeal of the young, to make a convert, Miriam
preached to him the doctrine of Christianity, but without success. By
blood Caleb was a Jew of the Jews, and could not understand or admire
a God who would consent to be trodden under foot and crucified. The
Messiah he desired to follow must be a great conqueror, one who would
overthrow the Cæsars and take the throne of Cæsar, not a humble
creature with his mouth full of maxims. Like the majority of his own,
and, indeed, of every generation, to the last day of his life, Caleb
was unable to divine that mind is greater than matter, while spirit is
greater than mind; and that in the end, by many slow advances and
after many disasters seemingly irremediable, spirituality will conquer
all. He looked to a sword flashing from thrones, not to the word of
truth spoken by lowly lips in humble streets or upon the flanks of
deserts, trusting to the winds of Grace to bear it into the hearts of
men and thus regenerate their souls.

Such was Caleb, and these things are said of him here because the
child is father to the man.

Swiftly the years went by. There were tumults in Judæa and massacres
in Jerusalem. False prophets such as Theudas, who pretended that he
could divide Jordan, attracted thousands to their tinsel standards, to
be hewn down, poor folk! by the Roman legions. Cæsars rose and fell;
the great Temple was at length almost completed in its glory, and many
events happened which are remembered even to this day.

But in the little village of the Essenes by the grey shores of the
Dead Sea, nothing seemed to change, except that now and again an aged
brother died, and now and again a new brother was admitted. They rose
before daylight and offered their invocation to the sun; they went out
to toil in the fields and sowed their crops, to reap them in due
season, thankful if they were good, still thankful if they were bad.
They washed, they prayed, they mourned over the wickedness of the
world, and wove themselves white garments emblematic of a better.
Also, although of this Miriam knew nothing, they held higher and more
secret services wherein they invoked the presence of their "angels,"
and by arts of divination that were known to them, foretold the
future, an exercise which brought them little joy. But as yet, however
evil might be the omens, none came to molest their peaceful life,
which ran quietly towards the great catastrophe as often deep waters
swirl to the lip of a precipice.

At length when Miriam was seventeen years of age, the first stroke of
trouble fell upon them.

From time to time the high priests at Jerusalem, who hated the Essenes
as heretics, had made demands upon them that they should pay tithe for
the support of the sacrifices in the Temple. This they refused to do,
since all sacrifices were hateful to them. So things went on until the
day of the high priest Ananos, who sent armed men to the village of
the Essenes to take the tithes. These were refused to them, whereon
they broke open the granary and helped themselves, destroying a great
deal which they could not carry away. As it chanced, on that day
Miriam, accompanied by Nehushta, had visited Jericho. Returning in the
afternoon they passed through a certain torrent bed in which were many
rocks, and among them thickets of thorn trees. Here they were met by
Caleb, now a noble-looking youth very strong and active, who carried a
bow in his hand and on his back a sheath of six arrows.

"Lady Miriam," he said, "well met. I have come to seek you, and to
warn you not to return by the road to-day, since on it you will meet
presently those thieves sent by the high priest to plunder the stores
of the Order, who, perhaps, will offer you insult or mischief, for
they are drunk with wine. Look, one of them has struck me," and he
pointed to a bruise upon his shoulder and scowled.

"What then shall we do?" asked Miriam. "Go back to Jericho?"

"Nay, for there they will come too. Follow up this gully till you
reach the footpath a mile away, and by it walk to the village; so you
will miss these robbers."

"That is a good plan," said Nehushta. "Come, lady."

"Whither are you going, Caleb?" asked Miriam, lingering, since she saw
that he did not mean to accompany them.

"I? Oh, I shall hide among the rocks near by till the men are passed,
and then go to seek that hyena which has been worrying the sheep. I
have tracked him down and may catch him as he comes from his hole at
sunset. That is why I have brought my bow and arrows."

"Come," broke in Nehushta impatiently, "come. The lad well knows how
to guard himself."

"Be careful, Caleb, that you get no hurt from the hyena," said Miriam,
doubtfully, as Nehushta seized her by the wrist and dragged her away.
"It is strange," she added as they went, "that Caleb should choose
this evening to go hunting."

"Unless I mistake, it is a human hyena whom he hunts," answered
Nehushta shortly. "One of those men struck him, and he desires to wash
the wound with his blood."

"Oh, surely not! Nou. That would be taking vengeance, and revenge is
evil."

Nehushta shrugged her shoulders. "Caleb may think otherwise, as I do
at times. Wait, and we shall see."

As it chanced, they did see something. The footpath by which they
returned to the village ran over a high ridge of ground, and from its
crest, although they were a mile or more away, in that clear desert
air they could easily discern the line of the high priest's servants
straggling along, driving before them a score or so of mules, laden
with wine and other produce which they had stolen from the stores.
Presently the company of them descended into that gully along which
the road ran, whence a minute or two later rose a sound of distant
shouting. Then they appeared on the further side, running, or riding
their beasts hither and thither, as though in search of some one,
while four of them carried between them a man who seemed to be hurt,
or dead.

"I think that Caleb has shot his hyena," said Nehushta meaningly; "but
I have seen nothing, and if you are wise, you will say nothing. I do
not like Caleb, but I hate these Jewish thieves, and it is not for you
to bring your friend into trouble."

Miriam looked frightened but nodded her head, and no more was said of
the matter.

That evening, as Miriam and Nehushta stood at the door of their house
in the cool, by the light of the full moon they saw Caleb advancing
towards them down the road, a sight that made Miriam glad at heart,
for she feared lest he might have come into trouble. Catching sight of
them, he asked permission to enter through the door, which he closed
behind them, so that now they stood in the little garden within the
wall.

"Well," said Nehushta, "I see that you had a shot at your hyena; did
you kill it?"

"How do you know that?" he asked, looking at her suspiciously.

"A strange question to put to a Libyan woman who was brought up among
bowmen," she replied. "You had six arrows in your quiver when we met
you, and now I count but five. Also your bow was newly waxed; and
look, the wax is rubbed where the shaft lay."

"I shot at the beast, and, as I think, hit it. At least, I could not
find the arrow again, although I searched long."

"Doubtless. You do not often miss. You have a good eye and a steady
hand. Well, the loss of a shaft will not matter, since I noticed,
also, that this one was differently barbed from the others, and double
feathered; a true Roman war-shaft, such as they do not make here. If
any find your wounded beast you will not get its hide, since it is
known that you do not use such arrows." Then, with a smile that was
full of meaning, Nehushta turned and entered the house, leaving him
staring after her, half in wrath and half in wonder at her wit.

"What does she mean?" he asked Miriam, but in the voice of one who
speaks to himself.

"She thinks that you shot at a man, not at a beast," replied Miriam;
"but I know well that you could not have done this, since that would
be against the rule of the Essenes."

"Even the rule of the Essenes permits a man to protect himself and his
property from thieves," he answered sulkily.

"Yes, to protect himself if he is attacked, and his property--if he
has any. But neither that faith nor mine permits him to avenge a
blow."

"I was one against many," he answered boldly. "My life was on the
hazard: it was no coward's act."

"Were there, then, a troop of these hyenas?" asked Miriam, innocently.
"I thought you said it was a solitary beast that took the sheep."

"It was a whole company of beasts who took the wine, and smote those
in charge of it as though they were street dogs."

"Hyenas that took wine like the tame ape whom the boys make drunken
over yonder----"

"Why do you mock me," broke in Caleb, "who must know the truth? Or if
you do not know it, here it is. That thief beat me with his staff, and
called me the son of a dog, and I swore that I would pay him back. Pay
him back I did, for the head of that shaft which Nehushta noted,
stands out a span beyond his neck. They never saw who shot it; they
never saw me at all, who thought at first that the man had fallen from
his horse. By the time they knew the truth I was away where they could
not follow. Now go and tell the story if you will, or let Nehushta,
who hates me, tell it, and give me over to be tortured by the servants
of the high priest, or crucified as a murderer by the Romans."

"Neither Nehushta nor I saw this deed done, nor shall we bear witness
against you, Caleb, or judge you, who doubtless were provoked by
violent and lawless men. Yet, Caleb, you told me that you came out to
warn us, and it grieves me to learn that the true wish of your heart
was to take the life of a man."

"It is false," he answered angrily; "I said that I came to warn you,
and afterwards to kill a hyena. To make you safe--that was my first
thought, and until you were safe my enemy was safe also. Miriam, you
know it well."

"Why should I know it? To you, Caleb, I think revenge is more than
friendship."

"Perhaps; for I have few friends who am a penniless orphan brought up
by charity. But, Miriam, to me revenge is not more than--love."

"Love," she stammered, turning crimson to her hair and stepping back a
pace; "what do you mean, Caleb?"

"What I say, neither more nor less," he answered sullenly. "As I have
worked one crime to-day, I may as well work two, and dare to tell the
lady Miriam, the Queen of the Essenes, that I love her, though she
loves not me--as yet."

"This is madness," faltered Miriam.

"Mayhap, but it is a madness which began when first I saw you--that
was soon after we learned to speak--a madness which will continue
until I cease to see you, and that shall be soon before I grow silent
forever. Listen, Miriam, and do not think my words only those of a
foolish boy, for all my life shall prove them. This love of mine is a
thing with which you must reckon. You love me not--therefore, even had
I the power, I would not force myself upon you against your will; only
I warn you, learn to love no other man, for then it shall go ill
either with him or with me. By this I swear it," and, snatching her to
him, Caleb kissed her on the forehead, then let her go, saying, "Fear
not. It is the first and last time, except by your own will. Or if you
fear, tell the story to the Court of the Essenes, and--to Nehushta,
who will right your wrongs."

"Caleb," she gasped, stamping her foot upon the ground in anger,
"Caleb, you are more wicked than I dreamed, and," she added, as though
to herself--"and greater!"

"Yes," he answered, as he turned to go, "I think that you are right. I
am more wicked than you dreamed and--greater. Also, Miriam, I love you
as you will never be loved again. Farewell!"



CHAPTER VII

MARCUS

That night those of the curators who were engaged in prayer and
fasting were disturbed by the return of an officer of those Jews that
had robbed them, who complained violently that a man of his company
had been murdered by one of the Essenes. They asked how and when, and
were told that the man had been shot down with an arrow, in a gully
upon the road to Jericho, by a person unknown. They replied that
robbers sometimes met with robbers, and asked to see the arrow, which
proved to be of a Roman make, such as these men carried in their own
quivers. This the Essenes pointed out, and at length, growing angry at
the unreasonableness of a complaint made by persons of the worst
character, drove him and his escort from their doors, bidding them
take their story to the high priest Ananos, with the goods which they
had stolen, or, if they preferred it, to that still greater thief, the
Roman procurator, Albinus.

This they did not neglect to do, with the result that presently the
Essenes were commanded to send some of their head men to appear before
Albinus to answer the charges laid against them. Accordingly they
dispatched Ithiel and two others, who were kept waiting three months
at Jerusalem before they could even obtain a hearing. At length the
cause came on, and after some few minutes of talk was adjourned, being
but a petty matter. That same evening Ithiel was informed by an
intermediary that if his Order would pay a certain large sum of money
to Albinus, nothing more would be heard of the question. This the
Essenes refused to do, as it was against their principles, saying that
they demanded nothing but justice, which they were not prepared to
buy. So they spoke, being ignorant that one of their neophytes, Caleb,
had in fact aimed the fatal arrow.

Then Albinus, wearying of the business and finding that there was no
profit to be made out of the Essenes, commanded them to be gone,
saying that he would send an officer to make inquiry on the spot.

Another two months went by, and at length this officer arrived,
attended by an escort of twenty soldiers.

As it chanced, on a certain morning in the winter season, Miriam with
Nehushta was walking on the Jericho road, when suddenly they saw
approaching towards them this little body of armed men. Perceiving
that they were Romans, they turned out of the path to hide themselves
among the thorns of the desert. Thereon he who seemed to be the
officer spurred his horse forward to intercept them.

"Do not run--stand still," said Nehushta to Miriam, "and show no sign
of fear."

So Miriam halted and began to gather a few autumn flowers that still
bloomed among the bushes, till the shadow of the officer fell upon her
--that shadow in which she was destined to walk all her life-days.

"Lady," said a pleasant voice in Greek, spoken with a somewhat foreign
accent--"lady, pardon, and I pray you, do not be alarmed. I am a
stranger to this part of the country, which I visit on official
business. Will you of your kindness direct me to the village of a
people called Essenes, who live somewhere in this desert?"

"Oh, sir!" answered Miriam, "do you, who come with Roman soldiers,
mean them any harm?"

"Not I. But why do you ask?"

"Because, sir, I am of their community."

The officer stared at her--this beautiful, blue-eyed, white-skinned,
delicate-featured girl, whose high blood proclaimed itself in every
tone and gesture.

"You, lady, of the community of the Essenes! Surely then those priests
in Jerusalem lie more deeply than I thought. They told me that the
Essenes were old ascetics who worship Apollo, and could not bear so
much as the sight of a woman. And now you say you are an Essene--you,
by Bacchus! you!" and he looked at her with an admiration which,
although there was nothing brutal or even rude about it, was amusingly
undisguised.

"I am their guest," she said.

"Their guest? Why, this is stranger still. If these spiritual outlaws
--the word is that old high priest's, not mine--share their bread and
water with such guests, my sojourn among them will be happier than I
thought."

"They brought me up, I am their ward," Miriam explained again.

"In truth, my opinion of the Essenes rises, and I am convinced that
those priests slandered them. If they can shape so sweet a lady,
surely they must themselves be good and gentle"; and he bowed gravely,
perhaps to mark the compliment.

"Sir, they are both good and gentle," answered Miriam; "but of this
you will be able to judge for yourself very shortly, seeing that they
live near at hand. If you will follow us over yonder rise we will show
you their village, whither we go."

"By your leave, I will accompany you," he said, dismounting before she
could answer; then added, "Pardon me for one moment--I must give some
orders," and he called to a soldier, who, with his companions, had
halted at a little distance.

The man advanced saluting, and, turning aside, his captain began to
talk with him, so that now, for the first time, Miriam could study his
face. He was young--not more than five or six and twenty years of age
--of middle height, and somewhat slender, but active in movement and
athletic in build. Upon his head, which was round and not large, in
place of the helmet that hung at his saddle-bow, he wore a little cap,
steel lined and padded as a protection against the sun, and beneath it
she could see that his short, dark brown hair curled closely. Under
the tan caused by exposure to the heat, his skin was fair, and his
grey eyes, set rather wide apart, were quick and observant. For the
rest, his mouth was well-shaped, though somewhat large, and the chin
clean-shaved, prominent and determined. His air was that of a soldier
accustomed to command, but very genial, and, when he smiled, showing
his regular white teeth, even merry--the air of one with a kind and
generous heart.

Miriam looked at him, and in an instant was aware that she liked him
better than any man--that is any young man--she had ever seen. This,
however, was no great or exclusive compliment to the Roman, since of
such acquaintances she had but few, if, indeed, Caleb was not the only
one. However, of this she was sure, she liked him better than Caleb,
because, even then and there, comparing them in her thoughts, this
truth came home to her; with it, too, a certain sense of shame that
the newcomer should be preferred to the friend of her childhood,
although of late that friend had displeased her by showing too warm a
friendship.

Having given his instructions, the captain dismissed the orderly,
commanding him to follow at a distance with the men. Then saying,
"Lady, I am ready," he began to walk forward, leading his horse by the
bridle.

"You will forgive me," he added, "if I introduce myself more formally.
I am called Marcus, the son of Emilius--a name which was known in its
day," and he sighed, "as I hope before I have done with it, mine will
be. At present I cannot boast that this is so, who, unless it should
please my uncle Caius to decease and leave me the great fortune he
squeezes out of the Spaniards--neither of which things he shows any
present intention of doing--am but a soldier of fortune: an officer
under the command of the excellent and most noble procurator Albinus,"
he added sarcastically. "For the rest," he went on, "I have spent a
year in this interesting and turbulent but somewhat arid land of
yours, coming here from Egypt, and am now honoured with a commission
to investigate and make report on a charge laid at the door of your
virtuous guardians, the Essenes, of having murdered, or been privy to
the murder of, a certain rascally Jew, who, as I understand, was sent
with others to steal their goods. That, lady, is my style and history.
By way of exchange, will you be pleased to tell me yours?"

Miriam hesitated, not being sure whether she should enter on such
confidences at so short a notice. Thereon, Nehushta, who was
untroubled by doubts, and thought it politic to be quite open with
this Roman, a man in authority, answered for her.

"Lord, this maiden, whose servant I am, as I was that of her
grandmother and mother before her----"

"Surely you cannot be so old," interrupted Marcus. He made it a rule
to be polite to all women, whatever their colour, having noticed that
life went more easily with those who were courteous to the sex.

Nehushta smiled a little as she answered--for at what age does a woman
learn to despise a compliment?--"Lord, they both died young"; then
repeated, "This maiden is the only child of the high-born Græco-Syrian
of Tyre, Demas, and his noble wife, Rachel----"

"I know Tyre," he interrupted. "I was quartered there till two months
ago"; adding in a different tone, "I understand that this pair no
longer live."

"They died," said Nehushta sadly, "the father in the amphitheatre at
Berytus by command of the first Agrippa, and the mother when her child
was born."

"In the amphitheatre at Berytus? Was he then a malefactor?"

"No, sir," broke in Miriam proudly; "he was a Christian."

"Oh! I understand. Well, they are ill-spoken of as enemies of the
human race, but for my part I have had to do with several Christians
and found them very good people, though visionary in their views."
Here a doubt struck him and he said, "But, lady, I understand that you
are an Essene."

"Nay, sir," she replied in the same steady voice, "I also am a
Christian, who have been protected by the Essenes."

He looked at her with pity and replied, "It is a dangerous profession
for one so young and fair."

"Dangerous let it be," she said; "at least it is mine from the
beginning to the end."

Marcus bowed, perceiving that the subject was not to be pursued, and
said to Nehushta, "Continue the story, my friend."

"Lord, the father of my lady's mother is a very wealthy Jewish
merchant of Tyre, named Benoni."

"Benoni," he said, "I know him well, too well for a poor man!--a Jew
of the Jews, a Zealot, they say. At least he hates us Romans enough to
be one, although many is the dinner that I have eaten at his palace.
He is the most successful trader in all Tyre, unless it be his rival
Amram, the Phœnician, but a hard man, and as able as he is hard. Now I
think of it, he has no living children, so why does not your lady, his
grandchild, dwell with him rather than in this desert?"

"Lord, you have answered your own question. Benoni is a Jew of the
Jews; his granddaughter is a Christian, as I am also. Therefore when
her mother died, I brought her here to be taken care of by her uncle
Ithiel the Essene, and I do not think Benoni knows even that she
lives. Lord, perhaps I have said too much; but you must soon have
heard the story from the Essenes, and we trust to you, who chance to
be Benoni's friend, to keep our secret from him."

"You do not trust in vain; yet it seems sad that all the wealth and
station which are hers by right should thus be wasted."

"Lord, rank and station are not everything; freedom of faith and
person are more than these. My lady lacks for nothing, and--this is
all her story."

"Not quite, friend; you have not told me her name."

"Lord, it is Miriam."

"Miriam, Miriam," he repeated, his slightly foreign accent dwelling
softly on the syllables. "It is a very pretty name, befitting such
a----" and he checked himself.

By now they were on the crest of the rise, and, stopping between two
clumps of thorn trees, Miriam broke in hastily:

"See, sir, there below lies the village of the Essenes; those green
trees to the left mark the banks of Jordan, whence we irrigate our
fields, while that grey stretch of water to the right, surrounded by a
wall of mountain, is the Dead Sea."

"Is it so? Well, the green is pleasant in this desert, and those
fields look well cultivated. I hope to visit them some day, for I was
brought up in the country, and, although I am a soldier, still
understand a farm. As for the Dead Sea, it is even more dreary than I
expected. Tell me, lady, what is that large building yonder?"

"That," she answered, "is the gathering hall of the Essenes."

"And that?" he asked, pointing to a house which stood by itself.

"That is my home, where Nehushta and I dwell."

"I guessed as much by the pretty garden." Then he asked her other
questions, which she answered freely enough, for Miriam, although she
was half Jewish, had been brought up among men, and felt neither fear
nor shame in talking with them in a friendly and open fashion, as an
Egyptian or a Roman or a Grecian lady might have done.

While they were still conversing thus, of a sudden the bushes on their
path were pushed aside, and from between them emerged Caleb, of whom
she had seen but little of late. He halted and looked at them.

"Friend Caleb," said Miriam, "this is the Roman captain Marcus, who
comes to visit the curators of the Order. Will you lead him and his
soldiers to the council hall and advise my uncle Ithiel and the others
of his coming, since it is time for us to go home?"

Caleb glared at her, or rather at the stranger, with sullen fury; then
he answered:

"Romans always make their own road; they do not need a Jew to guide
them," and once more he vanished into the scrub on the further side of
the path.

"Your friend is not civil," said Marcus, as he watched him go.
"Indeed, he has an inhospitable air. Now, if an Essene could do such a
thing, I should think that here is a man who might have drawn an arrow
upon a Jewish tax-gatherer," and he looked inquiringly at Miriam.

"That lad!" put in Nehushta. "Why, he never shot anything larger than
a bird of prey."

"Caleb," added Miriam in excuse, "does not like strangers."

"So I see," answered Marcus; "and to be frank, lady, I do not like
Caleb. He has an eye like a knife-point."

"Come, Nehushta," said Miriam, "this is our road, and there runs that
of the captain and his company. Sir, farewell, and thank you for your
escort."

"Lady, for this while farewell, and thank you for your guidance."

Thus for that day they parted.

The dwelling which many years before had been built by the Essenes for
the use of their ward and her nurse, stood next to the large guest-
house. Indeed, it occupied a portion of the ground which originally
belonged to it, although now the plot was divided into two gardens by
an irrigation ditch and a live pomegranate fence, covered at this
season of the year with its golden globes of fruit. That evening, as
Miriam and Nehushta walked in the garden, they heard the familiar
voice of Ithiel calling to them from the other side of this fence, and
presently above it saw his kindly face and venerable white head.

"What is it, my uncle?" asked Miriam running to him.

"Only this, child; the noble Roman captain, Marcus, is to stay in the
guest-house during his visit to us, so do not be frightened if you
hear or see men moving about in this garden--If, indeed, Romans care
to walk in gardens. I am to bide here also, to play host to him and
see that he lacks nothing. Also I do not think that he will give you
any trouble, since, for a Roman, he seems both courteous and kindly."

"I am not afraid, my uncle," said Miriam; "indeed," she added,
blushing a little in spite of herself, "Nehushta and I have already
become acquainted with this captain"; and she told him of their
meeting beyond the village.

"Nehushta, Nehushta," said Ithiel reprovingly, "have I not said to you
that you should not walk so far afield without some of the brethren as
an escort? You might, perchance, have met thieves, or drunken men."

"My lady wished to gather some flowers she sought," answered Nehushta,
"as she has done without harm for many a year; and being armed, I did
not fear thieves, if such men are to be found where all are poor."

"Well, well, as it chances, no harm has happened; but do not go out
unattended again, lest the soldiers should not be so courteous as
their captain. They will not trouble you by the way, since, with the
exception of a single guard, they camp yonder by the streamlet.
Farewell for this night, my child; we will meet to-morrow."

Then Miriam went to rest and dreamed of the Roman captain, and that
he, she, and Nehushta made a journey together and met with many great
adventures, wherein Caleb played some strange part. In that dream the
captain Marcus protected them from all these dangers, till at length
they came to a calm sea, on which floated a single white ship wherein
they must embark, having the sign of the Cross woven in its sails.
Then she awoke and found that it was morning.

Of all the arts she had been taught, Miriam was fondest of that of
modelling in clay, for which she had a natural gift. Indeed, so great
had her skill become, that these models which she made, after they had
been baked with fire, were, at her wish, sold by the Essenes to any
who took a fancy to them. As to the money which they fetched, it was
paid into a fund to be distributed among the poor.

This art Miriam carried on in a reed-thatched shed in the garden,
where, by an earthen pipe, water was delivered into a stone basin,
which she used to damp her clay and cloths. Sometimes also, with the
help of masons and the master who had taught her, now a very old man,
she copied these models in marble, which the Essenes brought to her
from the ruins of a palace near Jericho. At the time that the Romans
came she was finishing a work more ambitious than any which she had
undertaken as yet; namely, a life-sized bust cut from the fragment of
an ancient column to the likeness of her great-uncle, Ithiel. On the
afternoon following the day that she met Marcus, clad in her white
working-robe, she was occupied in polishing this bust, with the
assistance of Nehushta, who handed her the cloths and grinding-powder.
Suddenly shadows fell upon her, and turning, she beheld Ithiel and the
Roman.

"Daughter," said Ithiel, smiling at her confusion, "I have brought the
captain Marcus to see your work."

"Oh, my uncle!" she replied indignantly, "am I in a state to receive
any captain?" and she held out her wet hands and pointed to her
garments begrimed with clay and powder. "Look at me."

"I look," said Ithiel innocently, "and see naught amiss."

"And I look, lady," added Marcus in his merry voice, "and see much to
admire. Would that more of your sex could be found thus delightfully
employed."

"Alas, sir," she replied, adroitly misunderstanding him, for Miriam
did not lack readiness, "in this poor work there is little to admire.
I am ashamed that you should look on the rude fashionings of a half-
trained girl, you who must have seen all those splendid statues of
which I have been told."

"By the throne of Cæsar, lady," he exclaimed in a voice that carried a
conviction of his earnestness, staring hard at the bust of Ithiel
before him, "as it chances, although I am not an artist, I do know
something of sculpture, since I have a friend who is held to be the
best of our day, and often for my sins have sat as model to him. Well,
I tell you this--never did the great Glaucus produce a bust like
that."

"I daresay not," said Miriam smiling. "I daresay the great Glaucus
would go mad if he saw it."

"He would--with envy. He would say that it was the work of one of the
glorious Greeks, and of no modern."

"Sir," said Ithiel reprovingly, "do not make a jest of the maid, who
does the best she can; it pains her and--is not fitting."

"Friend Ithiel," replied Marcus, turning quite crimson, "you must
indeed think that I lack manners who would come to the home of any
artist to mock his work. I say what I mean, neither more nor less. If
this bust were shown in Rome, together with yourself who sat for it,
the lady Miriam would find herself famous within a week. Yes," and he
ran his eye quickly over various statuettes, some of them baked and
some in the raw clay, models, for the most part, of camels or other
animals or birds, "yes, and it is the same with all the rest: these
are the works of genius, no less."

At this praise, to them so exaggerated, Miriam, pleased as she could
not help feeling, broke into clear laugher, which both Ithiel and
Nehushta echoed. Now, so wroth was he, the face of Marcus grew quite
pale and stern.

"It seems," he said severely, "that it is not I who mock. Tell me,
lady, what do you with these things?" and he pointed to the
statuettes.

"I, sir? I sell them; or at least my uncles do."

"The money is given to the poor," interposed Ithiel.

"Would it be rude to ask at what price?"

"Sometimes," replied Ithiel with pride, "travellers have given me as
much as a silver shekel.[*] Once indeed, for a group of camels with
their Arabian drivers, I received four shekels; but that took my niece
three months to do."

[*] About 2s. 6d. of English money.

"A shekel! Four shekels!" said Marcus in a voice of despair; "I will
buy them all--no, I will not, it would be robbery. And this bust?"

"That, sir, is not for sale; it is a gift to my uncle, or rather to my
uncles, to be set up in their court-room."

An idea struck Marcus. "I am here for a few weeks," he said. "Tell me,
lady, if your uncle Ithiel will permit it, at what price will you
execute a bust of myself of the same size and quality?"

"It would be dear," said Miriam, smiling at the notion, "for the
marble costs something, and the tools, which wear out. Oh, it would be
very dear!" This she repeated, wondering what she could ask in her
charitable avarice. "It would be----" yes, she would venture it--
"fifty shekels!"

"I am poor enough," replied Marcus quietly, "but I will give you two
hundred."

"Two hundred!" gasped Miriam. "It is absurd. I could never accept two
hundred shekels for a piece of stonework. Then indeed you might say
that you had fallen among thieves on the banks of Jordan. No. If my
uncles will permit it and there is time, I will do my poor best for
fifty--only, sir, I advise you against it, since to win that bad
likeness you must sit for many weary hours."

"So be it," said Marcus. "As soon as I get to any civilised place I
will send you enough commissions to make the beggars in these parts
rich for life, and at a very different figure. Let us begin at once."

"Sir, I have no leave."

"The matter," explained Ithiel, "must be laid before the Court of
Curators, which will decide upon it to-morrow. Meanwhile, as we are
talking here, I see no harm if my niece chooses to work a lump of
clay, which can be broken up later should the Court in its wisdom
refuse your request."

"I hope for its own sake that the Court in its wisdom will not be such
a fool," muttered Marcus to himself; adding aloud, "Lady, where shall
I place myself? You will find me the best of sitters. Have I not the
great Glaucus for a friend--until I show him this work of yours?"

"If you will, sir, be seated on that stool and be pleased to look
towards me."

"I am your servant," said Marcus, in a cheerful voice; and the sitting
began.



CHAPTER VIII

MARCUS AND CALEB

On the morrow, as he had promised, Ithiel brought this question of
whether or no Miriam was to be allowed to execute a bust of the
centurion, Marcus, before the Court of the Curators of the Essenes,
who were accustomed thus to consider questions connected with their
ward's welfare in solemn conclave. There was a division of opinion.
Some of them saw no harm; others, more strait-laced, held that it was
scarcely correct that a Roman whose principles, doubtless, were lax,
should be allowed to sit to the lady whom they fondly called their
child. Indeed, it seemed dubious whether the leave would be given,
until a curator, with more worldly wisdom than the rest, suggested
that as the captain seemed desirous of having his picture taken in
stone, under the circumstances of his visit, which included a
commission to make a general report upon their society to the
authorities, it might be scarcely wise to deny his wish. Finally, a
compromise was effected. It was agreed that Miriam should be permitted
to do the work, but only in the presence of Ithiel and two other
curators, one of them her own instructor in art.

Thus it came about that when Marcus presented himself for the second
time, at an hour fixed by Ithiel, he found three white-bearded and
white-robed old gentlemen seated in a row in the workshop, and behind
them, a smile on her dusky face, Nehushta. As he entered they rose and
bowed to him, a compliment which he returned. Now Miriam appeared, to
whom he made his salutation.

"Are these," he said, indicating the elders, "waiting their turn to be
modelled, or are they critics?"

"They are critics," said Miriam drily, as she lifted the damp cloths
from the rude lump of clay.

Then the work began. As the three curators were seated in a line at
the end of the shed, and did not seem to think it right to leave their
chairs, they could see little of its details, and as they were early
risers and the afternoon was hot, soon they were asleep, every one of
them.

"Look at them," said Marcus; "there is a subject for any artist."

Miriam nodded, and taking three lumps of clay, working deftly and
silently, presently produced to his delighted sight rough but
excellent portraits of these admirable men, who, when they woke up,
laughed at them very heartily.

Thus things went on from day to day. Each afternoon the elders
attended, and each afternoon they sank to slumber in their comfortable
chairs, an example that Nehushta followed, or seemed to follow,
leaving Miriam and her model practically alone. As may be guessed, the
model, who liked conversation, did not neglect these opportunities.
Few were the subjects which the two of them failed to discuss. He told
her of all his life, which had been varied and exciting, omitting, it
is true, certain details; also of the wars in which he had served, and
the countries that he had visited. She in turn told him the simple
story of her existence among the Essenes, which he seemed to find of
interest. When these subjects were exhausted they discussed other
things--the matter of religion, for instance. Indeed, Miriam ventured
to expound to him the principles of her faith, to which he listened
respectfully and with attention.

"It sounds well," he said at length with a sigh, "but how do such
maxims fit in with this world of ours? See now, lady, I am not old,
but already I have studied so many religions. First, there are the
gods of Greece and Rome, my own gods, you understand--well, the less
said of them the better. They serve, that is all. Then there are the
gods of Egypt, as to which I made inquiry, and of them I will say
this: that beneath the grotesque cloak of their worship seems to shine
some spark of a holy fire. Next come the gods of the Phœnicians, the
fathers of a hideous creed. After them the flame worshippers and other
kindred religions of the East. There remain the Jews, whose doctrine
seems to me a savage one; at least it involves bloodshed with the
daily offering of blood. Also they are divided, these Jews, for some
are Pharisees, some Sadducees, some Essenes. Lastly, there are you
Christians, whose faith is pure enough in theory, but whom all unite
against in hate. What is the worth of a belief in this crucified
Preacher who promises that He will raise those who trust in Him from
the dead?"

"That you will find out when everything else has failed you," answered
Miriam.

"Yes, it is a religion for those whom everything else has failed. When
that chances to the rest of us we commit suicide and sink from sight."

"And we," she said proudly, "rise to life eternal."

"It may be so, lady, it may be so; but let us talk of something more
cheerful," and he sighed. "At present, I hold that nothing is eternal
--except perhaps such art as yours."

"Which will be forgotten in the first change of taste, or crumbled in
the first fire. But see, he is awake. Come here, my master, and work
this nostril, for it is beyond me."

The old artist advanced and looked at the bust with admiration.

"Maid Miriam," he said, "I used to have some skill in this art, and I
taught you its rudiments; but now, child, I am not fit to temper your
clay. Deal with the nostril as you will; I am but a hodman who bears
the bricks, you are the heaven-born architect. I will not meddle, I
will not meddle; yet perhaps----" and he made a suggestion.

"So?" said Miriam, touching the clay with her tool. "Oh, look! it is
right now. You are clever, my master."

"It was always right. I may be clever, but you have genius, and would
have found the fault without any help from me."

"Did I not say so?" broke in Marcus triumphantly.

"Sir," replied Miriam, "you say a great deal, and much of it, I think,
you do not mean. Please be silent; at this moment I wish to study your
lips, and not your words."

So the work went on. They did not always talk, for soon they found
that speech is not necessary to true companionship. Once Miriam began
to sing, and since she discovered that her voice pleased Marcus and
soothed the slumbers of the elders, she sang often; quaint, sad songs
of the desert and of the Jordan fishermen. Also she told him tales and
legends, and when she had done Nehushta told others--wild stories of
Libya, some of them very dark and bloody, others of magic, black or
white. Thus these afternoons passed happily enough, and the clay model
being finished, after the masons among the brethren had rough hewn it
for her, Miriam began to fashion it in marble.

There was one, however, for whom these days did not pass happily--
Caleb. From the time that he had seen Miriam walking side by side with
Marcus he hated the brilliant-looking Roman in whom, his instinct
warned him, he had found a dangerous rival. Oh, how he hated him! So
much, indeed, that even in the moment of first meeting he could not
keep his rage and envy in his heart, but suffered them to be written
on his face, and to shine like danger signals in his eyes, which, it
may be remembered, Marcus did not neglect to note.

Of Miriam Caleb had seen but little lately. She was not angry with
him, since his offence was of a nature which a woman can forgive, but
in her heart she feared him. Of a sudden, as it were, the curtain had
been drawn, and she had seen this young man's secret spirit and
learned that it was a consuming fire. It had come home to her that
every word he spoke was true, that he who was orphaned and not liked
even by the gentle elders of the Essenes, loved but one being upon
earth--herself, whereas already his bosom seethed with many hates. She
was sure also that any man for whom she chanced to care, if such an
one should ever cross her path, would, as Caleb had promised, go in
danger at his hands, and the thought frightened her. Most of all did
it frighten her when she saw him glower upon Marcus, although in truth
the Roman was nothing to her. Yet, as she knew, Caleb had judged
otherwise.

But if she saw little of him, of this Miriam was sure enough--that he
was seldom far from her, and that he found means to learn from day to
day how she spent her hours. Indeed, Marcus told her that wherever he
went he met that handsome young man with revengeful eyes, who she had
said was named Caleb. Therefore Miriam grew frightened and, as the
issue will show, not without cause.

One afternoon, while Miriam was at work upon the marble, and the three
elders were as usual sunk in slumber, Marcus said suddenly:

"I forgot. I have news for you, lady. I have found out who murdered
that Jewish thief whose end, amongst other things, I was sent to
investigate. It was your friend Caleb."

Miriam started so violently that her chisel gave an unexpected effect
to one of Marcus's curls.

"Hush!" she said, glancing towards the sleepers, one of whom had just
snored so loudly that he began to awake at the sound; then added in a
whisper, "They do not know, do they?"

He shook his head and looked puzzled.

"I must speak to you of this matter," she went on with agitation, and
in the same whisper. "No, not now or here, but alone."

"When and where you will," answered Marcus, smiling, as if the
prospect of a solitary conversation with Miriam did not displease him,
although this evil-doing Caleb was to be its subject. "Name the time
and place, lady."

By now the snoring elder was awake, and rising from his chair with a
great noise, which in turn roused the others. Nehushta also rose from
her seat and in doing so, as though by accident, overset a copper tray
on which lay metal tools.

"In the garden one hour after sunset. Nehushta will leave the little
lower door unlocked."

"Good," answered Marcus; then added in a loud voice, "Not so, lady. Ye
gods! what a noise! I think the curl improved by the slip. It looks
less as though it had been waxed after the Egyptian fashion. Sirs, why
do you disturb yourselves? I fear that to you this long waiting must
be as tedious as to me it seems unnecessary."

The sun was down, and the last red glow had faded from the western
sky, which was now lit only by the soft light of a half-moon. All the
world lay bathed in peace and beauty; even the stern outlines of the
surrounding mountains seemed softened, and the pale waters of the Dead
Sea and the ashen face of the desert gleamed like silver new cast from
the mould. From the oleanders and lilies which bloomed along the edge
of the irrigation channels, and from the white flowers of the glossy,
golden-fruited orange trees, floated a perfume delicious to the sense,
while the silence was only broken from time to time by the bark of a
wandering dog or the howl of a jackal in the wilderness.

"A very pleasant night--to talk about Caleb," reflected Marcus, who
had reached the appointed spot ten minutes before the time, as he
strolled from the narrow belt of trees that were planted along the
high, outer wall, into the more open part of the garden. Had Marcus
chanced to notice that this same Caleb, walking softly as a cat, and
keeping with great care in the shadow, had followed him through the
little door which he forgot to lock, and was now hidden among those
very trees, he might have remembered a proverb to the effect that
snakes hide in the greenest grass and the prettiest flowers have
thorny stems. But he thought of no such thing, who was lost in happy
anticipations of a moonlight interview with a lovely and cultured
young lady, whose image, to speak truth, had taken so deep a hold upon
his fancy, that sometimes he wondered how he would be able to banish
it thence again. At present he could think of no better means than
that which at this moment he was following with delight. Meetings in
moonlit gardens tend proverbially to disenchantment!

Presently Marcus caught the gleam of a white robe followed by a dark
one, flitting towards him through the dim and dewy garden, and at the
sight his heart stood still, then began to beat again in a disorderly
fashion. Had he known it, another heart a few yards behind him also
stood still, and then began to beat like that of a man in a violent
rage. It seems possible, also, that a third heart experienced unusual
sensations.

"I wish she had left the old lady behind," muttered Marcus. "No, I
don't, for then there are brutes who, if they knew, might blame her";
and, luckily for himself, he walked forward a few paces to meet the
white robe, leaving the little belt of trees almost out of hearing.

Now Miriam stood before him, the moonlight shining on her delicate
face and in her tranquil eyes, which always reminded him of the blue
depths of heaven.

"Sir," she began----

"Oh, I pray you," he broke in, "cease from ceremony and call me
Marcus!"

"Captain Marcus," she repeated, dwelling a little on the unfamiliar
name, "I beg that you will forgive me for disturbing you at so
unseasonable an hour."

"Certainly I forgive you, Lady Miriam," he replied, also dwelling on
her name and copying her accent in a fashion that made the grim-faced
Nehushta smile.

She waved her hand in deprecation. "The truth is, that this matter of
Caleb's----"

"Oh, may all the infernal gods take Caleb! as I have reason to believe
they shortly will," broke in Marcus angrily.

"But that is just what I wish to prevent; we have met here to talk of
Caleb."

"Well, if you must--talk and let us be done with him. What about
Caleb?"

Miriam clasped her hands. "What do you know of him, Captain Marcus?"

"Know? Why, just this: a spy I have in my troop has found out a
country fellow who was hunting for mushrooms or something--I forget
what--in a gully a mile away, and saw this interesting youth hide
himself there and shoot that Jewish plunderer with a bow and arrow.
More--he has found another man who saw the said Caleb an hour or two
before help himself to an arrow out of one of the Jew's quivers, which
arrow appears to be identical with, or at any rate, similar to, that
which was found in the fellow's gullet. Therefore, it seems that Caleb
is guilty, and that it will be my duty to-morrow to place him under
arrest, and in due course to convey him to Jerusalem, where the
priests will attend to his little business. Now, Lady Miriam, is your
curiosity satisfied about Caleb?"

"Oh," she said, "it cannot be, it must not be! The man had struck him
and he did but return a blow for a blow."

"An arrow for a blow, you mean; the point of a spear for the push of
its handle. But, Lady Miriam, you seem to be very deep in the
confidence of Caleb. How do you come to know all this?"

"I don't know, I only guess. I daresay, nay, I am sure, that Caleb is
quite innocent."

"Why do you take such an interest in Caleb?" asked Marcus
suspiciously.

"Because he was my friend and playmate from childhood."

"Umph," he answered, "a strange couple--a dove and a raven. Well, I am
glad that you did not catch his temper, or you would be more dangerous
even than you are. Now, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to spare Caleb. You, you, you--need not believe those
witnesses."

"To think of it!" said Marcus, in mock horror. "To think that one whom
I thought so good can prove so immoral. Do you then wish to tempt me
from my duty?"

"Yes, I suppose so. At least the peasants round here are great liars."

"Lady," said Marcus, with stern conviction, "Caleb has improved upon
his opportunities as a playmate; he has been making love to you. I
thought so from the first."

"Oh," she answered, "how can you know that? Besides, he promised that
he would never do it again."

"How can I know that? Why, because Caleb would have been a bigger fool
than I take him for if he had not. And if it rested with me, certainly
he never would do it again. Now be honest with me, if a woman can on
such a matter, and tell me true: are you in love with this Caleb?"

"I--I? In love with Caleb? Of course not. If you do not believe me,
ask Nehushta."

"Thank you, I will be content with your own reply. You deny that you
are in love with him, and I incline to believe you; but, on the other
hand, I remember that you would naturally say this, since you might
think that any other answer would prejudice the cause of Caleb with
me."

"With you! What can it matter to you, sir, whether or no I am in love
with Caleb, who, to tell you the truth, frightens me?"

"And that, I suppose, is why you plead so hard for him?"

"No," she answered with a sudden sternness, "I plead hard for him as
in like case I would plead hard for you--because he has been my
friend, and if he did this deed he was provoked to it."

"Well spoken," said Marcus, gazing at her steadily. Indeed, she was
worth looking at as she stood there before him, her hands clasped, her
breast heaving, her sweet, pale face flushed with emotion and her
lovely eyes aswim with tears. Of a sudden as he gazed Marcus lost
control of himself. Passion for this maiden and bitter jealousy of
Caleb arose like twin giants in his heart and possessed him.

"You say you are not in love with Caleb," he said. "Well, kiss me and
I will believe you."

"How could such a thing prove my words?" she asked indignantly.

"I do not know and I do not care. Kiss me once and I will believe
further that the peasants of these parts are all liars. I feel myself
beginning to believe it."

"And if I will not?"

"Then I am afraid I must refer the matter to a competent tribunal at
Jerusalem."

"Nehushta, Nehushta, you have heard. What shall I do?"

"What shall you do?" said Nehushta drily. "Well, if you like to give
the noble Marcus a kiss, I shall not blame you overmuch or tell on
you. But if you do not wish it, then I think you would be a fool to
put yourself to shame to save Caleb."

"Yet, I will do it--and to save Caleb only," said Miriam with a sob,
and she bent towards him.

To her surprise Marcus drew back, placing his hand before his face.

"Forgive me," he said. "I was a brute who wished to buy kisses in such
a fashion. I forgot myself; your beauty is to blame, and your
sweetness and everything that is yours. I pray," he added humbly,
"that you will not think the worse of me, since we men are frail at
times. And now, because you ask me, though I have no right, I grant
your prayer. Mayhap those witnesses lied; at least, the man's sin, if
sin there be, can be excused. He has naught to fear from me."

"No," broke in Nehushta, "but I think you have much to fear from him;
and I am sorry for that, my lord Marcus, for you have a noble heart."

"It may be so; the future is on the knees of the gods, and that which
is fated will befall. My Lady Miriam, I, your humble servant and
friend, wish you farewell."

"Farewell," she answered. "Yes, Nehushta is right, you have a noble
heart"; and she looked at him in such a fashion that it flashed across
his mind that were he to proffer that request of his again, it might
not be refused. But Marcus would not do it. He had tasted of the joy
of self-conquest, who hitherto, after the manner of his age and race,
had denied himself little, and, as it seemed to him, a strange new
power was stirring in his heart--something purer, higher, nobler, than
he had known before. He would cherish it a while.

Of all that were spoken there in the garden, Caleb, the watcher, could
catch no word. The speakers did not raise their voices and they stood
at a distance, so that although he craned his head forward as far as
he dared in the shadow of the trees, sharp and trained as they were,
naught save a confused murmur reached his ears. But if these failed
him, his eyes fed full, so that he lost no move or gesture. It was a
passionate love scene, this was clear, for Nehushta stood at a little
distance with her back turned, while the pair poured out their sweet
speeches to each other. Then at length, as he had expected, came the
climax. Yes, oh! shameless woman--they were embracing. A mist fell
upon Caleb's eyes, in which lights flashed like red-hot swords lifting
and smiting, the blood drummed in his ears as though his raging,
jealous heart would burst. He would kill that Roman now on the spot.
Miriam should never kiss him more--alive.

Already Caleb had drawn the short-sword from its hiding-place in his
ample robe; already he had stepped out from the shadow of the trees,
when of a sudden his reason righted itself like a ship that has been
laid over by a furious squall, and caution came back to him. If he did
this that faithless guardian, Nehushta, who without doubt had been
bought with Roman gold, would come to the assistance of her patron and
thrust her dagger through his back, as she well could do. Or should he
escape that dagger, one or other of them would raise the Essenes on
him, and he would be given over to justice. He wished to slay, not to
be slain. It would be sweet to kill the Roman, but if he himself were
laid dead across his body, leaving Miriam alive to pass to some other
man, what would he be advantaged? Presently they must cease from their
endearments; presently his enemy would return as he had come, and then
he might find his chance. He would wait, he would wait.

Look, they had parted; Miriam was gliding back to the house, and
Marcus came towards him, walking like a man in his sleep. Only
Nehushta stood where she was, her eyes fixed upon the ground as though
she were reasoning with herself. Still like a man in a dream, Marcus
passed him within touch of his outstretched hand. Caleb followed.
Marcus opened the door, went out of it, and pulled it to behind him.
Caleb caught it in his hand, slipped through and closed it. A few
paces down the wall--eight or ten perhaps--was another door, by which
Marcus entered the garden of the guest-house. As he turned to shut
this, Caleb pushed in after him, and they were face to face.

"Who are you?" asked the Roman, springing back.

Caleb, who by now was cool enough, closed the door and shot the bolt.
Then he answered, "Caleb, the son of Hilliel, who wishes a word with
you."

"Ah!" said Marcus, "the very man, and, as usual, unless the light
deceives me, in an evil humour. Well, Caleb the son of Hilliel, what
is your business with me?"

"One of life and death, Marcus the son of Emilius," he answered, in
such a tone that the Roman drew his sword and stood watching him.

"Be plain and brief, young man," he said.

"I will be both plain and brief. I love that lady from whom you have
just parted, and you also love, or pretend to love, her. Nay, deny it
not; I have seen all, even to your kisses. Well, she cannot belong to
both of us, and I intend that in some future day she shall belong to
me if arm and eye do not fail me now. Therefore one of us must die
to-night."

Marcus stepped back, overcome not with fear, but with astonishment.

"Insolent," he said, "you lie! There were no kisses, and our talk was
of your neck, that I gave to her because she asked it, which is
forfeit for the murder of the Jew."

"Indeed," sneered Caleb. "Now, who would have thought that the noble
Captain Marcus would shelter thus behind a woman's robe? For the rest,
my life is my own and no other's to give or to receive. Guard
yourself, Roman, since I would kill you in fair fight. Had I another
mind you would be dead by now, never knowing the hand that struck you.
Have no fear; I am your equal, for my forefathers were nobles when
yours were savages."

"Boy, are you mad," asked Marcus, "to think that I, who have fought in
three wars, can fear a beardless youth, however fierce? Why, if I
feared you I have but to blow upon this whistle and my guards would
hale you hence to a felon's death. For your own sake it is that I pray
you to consider. Setting aside my rank and yours, I will fight you if
you will, and now. Yet think. If I kill you there is an end, and if by
chance you should kill me, you will be hunted down as a double
murderer. As it is, I forgive you, because I know how bitter is the
jealousy of youth, and because you struck no assassin's blow when you
might have done so safely. Therefore, I say, go in peace, knowing that
I shall not break my word."

"Cease talking," said Caleb, "and come out into the moonlight."

"I am glad that is your wish," replied Marcus. "Having done all I can
to save you, I will add that I think you a dangerous cub, of whom the
world, the lady Miriam and I alike will be well rid. Now, what weapon
have you? A short sword and no mail? Well, so have I. In this we are
well matched. Stay, I have a steel-lined cap, and you have none. There
it goes, to make our chances equal. Wind your cloak about your left
arm as I do. I have known worse shields. Good foothold, but an
uncertain light. Now, go!"

Caleb needed no encouragement. For one second they stood facing each
other, very types of the Eastern and Western world; the Roman--sturdy,
honest-eyed, watchful and fearless, his head thrown back, his feet
apart, his shield arm forward, his sword hand pressed to his side from
which the steel projected. Over against him was the Jew, crouched like
a tiger about to spring, his eyes half closed as though to concentrate
the light, his face working with rage, and every muscle quivering till
his whole flesh seemed to move upon his bones, like to that of a
snake. Suddenly, uttering a low cry, he sprang, and with that savage
onslaught the fight began and ended.

Marcus was ready; moreover, he knew what he would do. As the man came,
stepping swiftly to one side, he caught the thrust of Caleb's sword in
the folded cloak, and since he did not wish to kill him, struck at his
hand. The blow fell upon Caleb's first finger and severed it, cutting
the others also, so that it dropped to the ground with the sword that
they had held. Marcus put his foot upon the blade, and wheeled round.

"Young man," he said sternly, "you have learnt your lesson and will
bear the mark of it till your death day. Now begone."

The wretched Caleb ground his teeth. "It was to the death!" he said,
"it was to the death! You have conquered, kill me," and with his
bloody hand he tore open his robe to make a path for the sword.

"Leave such talk to play-actors," answered Marcus. "Begone, and be
sure of this--that if ever you try to bring treachery on me, or
trouble on the lady Miriam, I will kill you sure enough."

Then with a sound that was half curse and half sob, Caleb turned and
slunk away. With a shrug of the shoulder Marcus also turned to go,
when he felt a shadow fall upon him, and swung round, to find Nehushta
at his side.

"And pray where did you come from, my Libyan friend?" he asked.

"Out of that pomegranate fence, my Roman lord, whence I have seen and
heard all that passed."

"Indeed. Then I hope that you give me credit for good sword-play and
good temper."

"The sword-play was well enough, though nothing to boast of with such
a madman for a foe. As for the temper, it was that of a fool."

"Such," soliloquised Marcus, "is the reward of virtue. But I am
curious. Why?"

"Because, my lord Marcus, this Caleb will grow into the most dangerous
man in Judæa, and to none more dangerous than to my lady Miriam and
yourself. You should have killed him while you had the chance, before
his turn comes to kill you."

"Perhaps," answered Marcus with a yawn; "but, friend Nehushta, I have
been associating with a Christian and have caught something of her
doctrines. That seems a fine sword. You had better keep it. Good-
night."



CHAPTER IX

THE JUSTICE OF FLORUS

On the following morning, when the roll of the neophytes of the
Essenes was called, Caleb did not appear. Nor did he answer to his
name on the next day, or indeed ever again. None knew what had become
of him until a while after a letter was received addressed to the
Curators of the Court, in which he announced that, finding he had no
vocation for an Essenic career, he had taken refuge with friends of
his late father, in some place not stated. There, so far as the
Essenes were concerned, the matter ended. Indeed, as the peasant who
was concealed in the gully when the Jew was murdered had talked of
what he had witnessed, even the most simple-minded of the Essenes
could suggest a reason for this sudden departure. Nor did they
altogether regret it, inasmuch as in many ways Caleb had proved
himself but an unsatisfactory disciple, and already they were
discussing the expediency of rejecting him from the fellowship of
their peaceful order. Had they known that when he vanished he left
behind him a drawn sword and one of his forefingers, their opinion on
this point might have been strengthened. But this they did not know,
although Miriam knew it through Nehushta.

A week went by, during which time Miriam and Marcus did not meet, as
no further sittings were arranged for the completion of the bust. In
fact, they were not needful, since she could work from the clay model,
which she did, till, labouring at it continually, the marble was done
and even polished. One morning as the artist was putting the last
touches to her labours, the door of the workshop was darkened and she
looked up to see Marcus, who, except for his helmet, was clad in full
mail as though about to start upon a journey. As it chanced, Miriam
was alone in the place, Nehushta having gone to attend to household
affairs. Thus for the first time they met with no other eyes to watch
them.

At the sight of him she coloured, letting the cloth fall from her hand
which remained about the neck of the marble.

"I ask your pardon, Lady Miriam," said Marcus, bowing gravely, "for
breaking in thus upon your privacy; but time presses with me so that I
lacked any to give notice to your guardians of my visit."

"Are you leaving us?" she faltered.

"Yes, I am leaving you."

Miriam turned aside and picked up the cloth, then answered, "Well, the
work is done, or will be in a few minutes; so if you think it worth
the trouble, take it."

"That is my intention. The price I will settle with your uncles."

She nodded. "Yes, yes, but if you will permit me, I should like to
pack it myself, so that it comes to no harm upon the journey. Also
with your leave I will retain the model, which by right belongs to
you. I am not pleased with this marble; I wish to make another."

"The marble is perfect; but keep the model if you will. I am very glad
that you should keep it."

She glanced at him, a question in her eyes, then looked away.

"When do you go?" she asked.

"Three hours after noon. My task is finished, my report--which is to
the effect that the Essenes are a most worthy and harmless people who
deserve to be encouraged, not molested--is written. Also I am called
hence in haste by a messenger who reached me from Jerusalem an hour
ago. Would you like to know why?"

"If it pleases you to tell me, yes."

"I think that I told you of my uncle Caius, who was pro-consul under
the late emperor for the richest province of Spain, and--made use of
his opportunities."

"Yes."

"Well, the old man has been smitten with a mortal disease. For aught I
know he may be already dead, although the physicians seemed to think
he would live for another ten months, or perhaps a year. Being in this
case, suddenly he has grown fond of his relations, or rather relation,
for I am the only one, and expressed a desire to see me, to whom for
many years he has never given a single penny. He has even announced
his intention--by letter--of making me his heir 'should he find me
worthy,' which, to succeed Caius, whatever my faults, indeed I am not,
since of all men, as I have told him in past days, I hold him the
worst. Still, he has forwarded a sum of money to enable me to journey
to him in haste, and with it a letter from the Cæsar, Nero, to the
procurator Albinus, commanding him to give me instant leave to go.
Therefore, lady, it seems wise that I should go."

"Yes," answered Miriam. "I know little of such things, but I think
that it is wise. Within two hours the bust shall be finished and
packed," and she stretched out her hand in farewell.

Marcus took the hand and held it. "I am loth to part with you thus,"
he said suddenly.

"There is only one fashion of parting," answered Miriam, striving to
withdraw her hand.

"Nay, there are many; and I hate them all--from you."

"Sir," she asked with gentle indignation, "is it worth your while to
play off these pretty phrases upon me? We have met for an hour; we
separate--for a lifetime."

"I do not see the need of that. Oh, the truth may as well out. I wish
it least of all things."

"Yet it is so. Come, let my hand go; the marble must be finished and
packed."

The face of Marcus became troubled, as though he were reasoning with
himself, as though he wished to take her at her word and go, yet could
not.

"Is it ended?" asked Miriam presently, considering him with her quiet
eyes.

"I think not; I think it is but begun. Miriam, I love you."

"Marcus," she answered steadily, "I do not think I should be asked to
listen to such words."

"Why not? They have always been thought honest between man and woman."

"Perhaps, when they are meant honestly, which in this case can
scarcely be."

He grew hot and red. "What do you mean? Do you suppose----"

"I suppose nothing, Captain Marcus."

"Do you suppose," he repeated, "that I would offer you less than the
place of wife?"

"Assuredly not," she replied, "since to do so would be to insult you.
But neither do I suppose that you really meant to offer me that
place."

"Yet that was in my mind, Miriam."

Her eyes grew soft, but she answered:

"Then, Marcus, I pray you, put it out of your mind, since between us
rolls a great sea."

"Is it named Caleb?" he asked bitterly.

She smiled and shook her head. "You know well that it has no such
name."

"Tell me of this sea."

"It is easy. You are a Roman worshipping the Roman gods; I am a
Christian worshipping the God of the Christians. Therefore we are
forever separate."

"Why? I do not understand. If we were married you might come to think
like me, or I might come to think like you. It is a matter of the
spirit and the future, not of the body and the present. Every day
Christians wed those who are not Christians; sometimes, even, they
convert them."

"Yes, I know; but in my case this may not be--even if I wished that it
should be."

"Why not?"

"Because both by the command of my murdered father and of her own
desire my mother laid it on me with her dying breath that I should
take to husband no man who was not of our faith."

"And do you hold yourself to be bound by this command?"

"I do, without doubt and to the end."

"However much you might chance to love a man who is not a Christian?"

"However much I might chance to love such a man."

Marcus let fall her hand. "I think I had best go," he said.

"Yes."

Then came a pause while he seemed to be struggling with himself.

"Miriam, I cannot go."

"Marcus, you must go."

"Miriam, do you love me?"

"Marcus, may Christ forgive me, I do."

"Miriam, how much?"

"Marcus, as much as a woman may love a man."

"And yet," he broke out bitterly, "you bid me begone because I am not
a Christian."

"Because my faith is more than my love. I must offer my love upon the
altar of my faith--or, at the least," she added hurriedly, "I am bound
by a rope that cannot be cut or broken. To break it would bring down
upon your head and mine the curse of Heaven and of my parents, who are
its inhabitants."

"And if I became of your faith?"

Her whole face lit up, then suddenly its light died.

"It is too much to hope. This is not a question of casting incense on
an altar; it is a matter of a changed spirit and a new life. Oh! have
done. Why do you play with me?"

"A changed spirit and a new life. At the best that would take time."

"Yes, time and thought."

"And would you wait that time? Such beauty and such sweetness as are
yours will not lack for suitors."

"I shall wait. I have told you that I love you; no other man will be
anything to me. I shall wed no other man."

"You give all and take nothing; it is not just."

"It is as God has willed. If it pleases God to touch your heart and to
preserve us both alive, then in days to come our lives may be one
life. Otherwise they must run apart till perchance we meet--in the
eternal morning."

"Oh, Miriam, I cannot leave you thus! Teach me as you will."

"Nay, go, Marcus, and teach yourself. Am I a bait to win your soul?
The path is not so easy, it is very difficult. Fare you well!"

"May I write to you from Rome?" he asked.

"Yes, why not, if by that time you should care to write, who then will
have recovered from this folly of the desert and an idle moon?"

"I shall write and I shall return, and we will talk of these matters;
so, most sweet, farewell."

"Farewell, Marcus, and the love of God go with you."

"What of your love?"

"My love is with you ever who have won my heart."

"Then, Miriam, at least I have not lived in vain. Remember this
always, that much as I may worship you, I honour you still more," and
kneeling before her he kissed first her hand, and next the hem of her
robe. Then he turned and went.



That night, watching from the roof of her house by the light of the
full moon, Miriam saw Marcus ride away at the head of his band of
soldiers. On the crest of a little ridge of ground outside the village
he halted, leaving them to go on, and turning his horse's head looked
backward. Thus he stood awhile, the silver rays of the moon shining on
his bright armour and making him a point of light set between two
vales of shadow. Miriam could guess whither his eyes were turned and
what was in his heart. It seemed to her, even, that she could feel his
loving thought play upon her and that with the ear of his spirit he
could catch the answer of her own. Then suddenly he turned and was
lost in the gloom of the night.

Now that he was gone, quite gone, Miriam's courage seemed to leave
her, and leaning her head upon the parapet she wept tears that were
soft but very bitter. Suddenly a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a
voice, that of old Nehushta, spoke in her ear.

"Mourn not," it said, "since him whom you lose in the night you may
find again in the daytime."

"In no day that dawns from an earthly sun, I fear me, Nou. Oh, Nou! he
has gone, and taken my heart with him, leaving in its place a
throbbing pain which is more than I can bear."

"He will come back; I tell you that he will come back," she answered,
almost fiercely; "for your life and his are intertwined--yes, to the
end--a single cord bearing a double destiny. I know it; ask me not
how; but be comforted, for it is truth. Moreover, though it be sharp,
your pain is not more than you can bear, else it would never be laid
upon you."

"But, Nou, if he does come back, what will it help me, who am built in
by this strict command of them that begat me, to break through which
would be to sin against and earn the curse of God and man?"

"I do not know; I only know this, that in that wall, as in others, a
door will be found. Trouble not for the future, but leave it in the
hand of Him Who shapes all futures. Sufficient to the day is the evil
thereof. So He said. Accept the saying and be grateful. It is
something to have gained the love of such a one as this Roman, for,
unless the wisdom which I have gained through many years is at fault,
he is true and honest; and that man must be good at heart who can be
reared in Rome and in the worship of its gods and yet remain honest.
Remember these things, and I say be grateful, since there are many who
go through their lives knowing no such joy, even for an hour."

"I will try, Nou," said Miriam humbly, still staring at the ridge
whence Marcus had vanished.

"You will try, and you will succeed. Now there is another matter of
which I must speak to you. When the Essenes received us it was
solemnly decreed that if you lived to reach the full age of eighteen
years you must depart from among them. That hour struck for you nearly
a year ago, and, although you heard nothing of it, this decree was
debated by the Court. Now such decrees may not be broken, but it was
argued that the words 'full age of eighteen years,' meant and were
intended to mean until you reached your nineteenth birthday; that is--
in a month from now."

"Then must we go, Nou?" asked Miriam in dismay, for she knew no other
world but this village in the desert, and no other friends than these
venerable men whom she called her uncles.

"It seems so, especially as it is now guessed that Caleb fought the
Captain Marcus upon your account. Oh! that tale is talked of--for one
thing, the young wild-cat left a claw behind him which the gardener
found."

"I trust then it is known also that the fault was none of mine. But,
Nou, whither shall we go who have neither friends, nor home, nor
money?"

"I know not; but doubtless in this wall also there is a door. If the
worst comes to the worst, a Christian has many brothers; moreover,
with your skill in the arts you need never lack for a living in any
great city in the world."

"It is true," said Miriam, brightening; "that is, if I may believe
Marcus and my old master."

"Also," continued Nehushta, "I have still almost all the gold that the
Phœnician Amram gave us when I fled with your mother, and added to it
that which I took from the strong box of the captain of the galley on
the night when you were born. So have no fear, we shall not want; nor
indeed would the Essenes suffer such a thing. Now, child, you are
weary; go to rest and dream that you have your lover back again."



It was with a heavy heart that Caleb, defeated and shamed, shook the
dust of the village of the Essenes off his feet. At dawn on the
morning after the night that he had fought the duel with Marcus, he
also might have been seen, a staff in his bandaged hand and a bag of
provisions over his shoulder, standing upon the little ridge and
gazing towards the house which sheltered Miriam. In love and war
things had gone ill with him, so ill that at the thought of his
discomfiture he ground his teeth. Miriam cared nothing for him; Marcus
had defeated him at the first encounter and given him his life; while,
worst of all, these two from whom he had endured so much loved each
other. Few, perhaps, have suffered more sharply than he suffered in
that hour; for what agonies are there like those of disappointed love
and the shame of defeat when endured in youth? With time most men grow
accustomed to disaster and rebuff. The colt that seems to break its
heart at the cut of a whip, will hobble at last to the knacker unmoved
by a shower of blows.

While Caleb looked, the red rim of the sun rose above the horizon,
flooding the world with light and life. Now birds began to chirp, and
beasts to move; now the shadows fled away. Caleb's impressionable
nature answered to this change. Hope stirred in his breast, even the
pain of his maimed hand was forgotten.

"I will win yet," he shouted to the silent sky; "my troubles are done
with. I will shine like the sun; I will rule like the sun, and my
enemies shall whither beneath my power. It is a good omen. Now I am
glad that the Roman spared my life, that in a day to come I may take
his--and Miriam."

Then he turned and trudged onward through the glorious sunlight,
watching his own shadow that stretched away before him.

"It goes far," he said again; "this also is a very good omen."

Caleb thought much on his way to Jerusalem; moreover he talked with
all whom he met, even with bandits and footpads whom his poverty could
not tempt, for he desired to learn how matters stood in the land.
Arrived in Jerusalem he sought out the home of that lady who had been
his mother's friend and who gave him over, a helpless orphan, to the
care of the Essenes. He found that she was dead, but her son lived, a
man of kind heart and given to hospitality, who had heard his story
and sheltered him for his mother's sake. When his hand was healed and
he procured some good clothes and a little money from his friend,
without saying anything of his purpose, Caleb attended the court of
Gessius Florus, the Roman procurator, at his palace, seeking an
opportunity to speak with him.

Thrice did he wait thus for hours at a time, on each occasion to be
driven away at last by the guards. On his fourth visit he was more
fortunate, for Florus, who had noted him before, asked why he stood
there so patiently. An officer replied that the man had a petition to
make.

"Let me hear it then," said the governor. "I sit in this place to
administer justice by the grace and in the name of Cæsar."

Accordingly, Caleb was summoned and found himself in the presence of a
small, dark-eyed, beetle-browed Roman with cropped hair, who looked
what he was--one of the most evil rulers that ever held power in
Judæa.

"What do you seek, Jew?" he asked in a harsh voice.

"What I am assured I shall find at your hands, O most noble Florus,
justice against the Jews--pure justice"; words at which the courtiers
and guards tittered, and even Florus smiled.

"It is to be had at a price," he replied.

"I am prepared to pay the price."

"Then set out your case."

So Caleb set it out. He told how many years before his father had been
accidentally slain in a tumult, and how he, the son, being but an
infant, certain Jews of the Zealots had seized and divided his estate
on the ground that his father was a partisan of the Romans, leaving
him, the son, to be brought up by charity--which estate, consisting of
tracts of rich lands and certain house property in Jerusalem and Tyre,
was still in their possession or in that of their descendants.

The black eyes of Florus glistened as he heard.

"Their names," he said, snatching at his tablets. But as yet Caleb was
not minded to give the names. First, he intimated that he desired to
arrive at a formal agreement as to what proportion of the property, if
recovered, would be handed over to him, the heir. Then followed much
haggling; but in the end it was agreed that as he had been robbed
because his father was supposed to favour the Romans, the lands and a
large dwelling with warehouse attached, at Tyre, together with one-
half the back rents, if recoverable, should be given to the plaintiff.
The governor, or as he put it, Cæsar, for his share was to retain the
property in Jerusalem and the other half of the rents. In this
arrangement Caleb proved himself, as usual, prescient. Houses, as he
explained afterwards, could be burned or pulled down, but beyond the
crops on it, land no man could injure. Then, after the agreement had
been duly signed and witnessed, he gave the names, bringing forward
good testimony to prove all that he had said.

Within a week those Jews who had committed the theft, or their
descendants, were in prison, whence they did not emerge till they had
been stripped, not only of the stolen property, but of everything else
that they possessed. Either because he was pleased at so great and
unexpected a harvest, or perhaps for the reason that he saw in Caleb
an able fellow who might be useful in the future, Florus fulfilled his
bargain with him to the letter.

Thus it came about that by a strange turn of the wheel of chance,
within a month of his flight from the colony of the Essenes, Caleb,
the outcast orphan, with his neck in danger of the sword, became a man
of influence, having great possessions. His sun had risen indeed.



CHAPTER X

BENONI

A while later Caleb, no longer a solitary wanderer with only his feet
to carry him, his staff to protect him, and a wallet to supply him
with food, but a young and gallant gentleman, well-armed, clad in furs
and a purple cloak, accompanied by servants and riding a splendid
horse, once more passed the walls of Jerusalem. On the rising ground
beyond the Damascus gate he halted and looked back at the glorious
city with her crowded streets, her mighty towers, her luxurious
palaces, and her world-famed temple that dominated all, which from
here seemed as a mountain covered with snow and crowned with
glittering gold.

"I will rule there when the Romans have been driven out," he said to
himself, for already Caleb had grown very ambitious. Indeed, the
wealth and the place that had come to him so suddenly, with which many
men would have been satisfied, did but serve to increase his appetite
for power, fame, and all good things. To him this money was but a
stepping-stone to greater fortunes.

Caleb was journeying to Tyre to take possession of his house there,
which the Roman commander of the district had been bidden to hand over
to him. Also he had another object. At Tyre dwelt the old Jew, Benoni,
who was Miriam's grandfather, as he had discovered years before; for
when they were still children together she had told him all her story.
This Benoni, for reasons of his own, he desired to see.



On a certain afternoon in one of the palaces of Tyre a man might have
been sitting in a long portico, or verandah as we should call it,
which overlooked the Mediterranean, whose blue waters lapped the
straight-scarped rock below--for this house was in the island city,
not in that of the mainland where most of the rich Syrians dwelt.

The man was old and very handsome. His dark eyes were quick and full
of fire, his nose was hooked like the beak of a bird of prey, his hair
and beard were long and snowy white. His robes also were rich and
splendid, and over them, since at this season of the year even at Tyre
it was cold, he wore a cloak of costly northern furs. The house was
worthy of its owner. Built throughout of the purest marble, the rooms
were roofed and panelled with sweet-smelling cedar of Lebanon, whence
hung many silver lamps, and decorated by statuary and frescoes. On the
marble floors were spread rugs, beautifully wrought in colours, while
here and there stood couches, tables and stools, fashioned for the
most part of ebony from Libya, inlaid with ivory and pearl.

Benoni, the owner of all this wealth, having finished his business for
that day--the taking count of a shipload of merchandise which had
reached him from Egypt--had eaten his midday meal and now sought his
couch under the portico to rest a while in the sun. Reclining on the
cushions, soon he was asleep; but it would seem that his dreams were
unhappy--at the least he turned from side to side muttering and moving
his hands. At last he sat up with a start.

"Oh, Rachel, Rachel!" he moaned, "why will you haunt my sleep? Oh! my
child, my child, have I not suffered enough? Must you bring my sin
back to me in this fashion? May I not shut my eyes even here in the
sunlight and be at peace a while? What have you to tell me that you
come thus often to stand here so strengthless and so still? Nay, it is
not you; it is my sin that wears your shape!" and Benoni hid his face
in his hands, rocking himself to and fro and moaning aloud.

Presently he sprang up. "It was no sin," he said, "it was a righteous
act. I offered her to the outraged majesty of Jehovah, as Abraham, our
father, would have offered Isaac, but the curse of that false prophet
is upon me and mine. That was the fault of Demas, the half-bred hound
who crept into my kennel, and whom, because she loved him, I gave to
her as husband. Thus did he repay me, the traitor, and I--I repaid
him. Ay! But the sword fell upon two necks. He should have suffered,
and he alone. Oh, Rachel, my lost daughter Rachel, forgive me, you
whose bones lie there beneath the sea, forgive me! I cannot bear those
eyes of yours. I am old, Rachel, I am old."

Thus Benoni muttered to himself, as he walked swiftly to and fro;
then, worn out with his burst of solitary, dream-bred passion, he sank
back upon the couch.

As he sat thus, an Arab doorkeeper, gorgeously apparelled and armed
with a great sword, appeared in the portico, and after looking
carefully to see that his master was not asleep, made a low salaam.

"What is it?" asked Benoni shortly.

"Master, a young lord named Caleb wishes speech with you."

"Caleb? I know not the name," replied Benoni. "Stay, it must be the
son of Hilliel, whom the Roman governor"--and turning, he spat upon
the ground--"has brought to his own again. I heard that he had come to
take possession of the great house on the quay. Bring him hither."

The Arab saluted and went. Presently he returned and ushered in Caleb,
now a noble-looking young man clad in fine raiment. Benoni bowed to
him and prayed him to be seated. Caleb bowed in return, touching his
forehead in Eastern fashion with his hand, from which, as his host
noticed, the forefinger was missing.

"I am your servant, sir," said Benoni with grave courtesy.

"Master, I am your slave," answered Caleb. "I have been told that you
knew my father; therefore, on this, my first visit to Tyre, I come to
make my respects to you. I am the son of Hilliel, who perished many
years ago in Jerusalem. You may have heard his story and mine."

"Yes," answered Benoni scanning his visitor, "I knew Hilliel--a clever
man, but one who fell into a trap at last, and I see that you are his
son. Your face proves it; indeed, it might be Hilliel who stands
before me."

"I am proud that you should say so," answered Caleb, though already he
guessed that between Benoni and his father no love had been lost. "You
know," he added, "that certain of our people seized my inheritance,
which now has been restored to me--in part."

"By Gessius Florus the procurator, I think, who on this account, has
cast many Jews--some of them innocent--into prison."

"Indeed! Is that so? Well, it was concerning this Florus that I came
chiefly to ask your advice. The Roman has kept a full half of my
property," and Caleb sighed and looked indignant.

"You are indeed fortunate that he has not kept it all."

"I have been brought up in the desert far from cities," pleaded Caleb.
"Is there no law by which I may have justice of this man? Cannot you
help me who are great among our people?"

"None," answered Benoni. "Roman citizens have rights, Jews what they
can get. You can appeal to Cæsar if you wish, as the jackal appealed
to the lion. But if you are wise you will be content with half the
carcase. Also I am not great; I am but an old merchant without
authority."

Caleb looked downfallen. "It seems that the days are hard for us
Jews," he said. "Well, I will be content and strive to forgive my
enemies."

"Better be content and strive to smite your enemies," answered Benoni.
"You who were poor are rich; for this much thank God."

"Night and morning I do thank Him," replied Caleb earnestly and with
truth.

Then there was silence for a while.

"Is it your intention to reside in Hezron's--I mean in your house--in
Tyre?" asked Benoni, breaking it.

"For a time, perhaps, until I find a tenant. I am not accustomed to
towns, and at present they seem to stifle me."

"Where were you brought up, sir?"

"Among the Essenes by Jericho. But I am not an Essene--their creed
disgusted me; I belong to that of my fathers."

"There are worse men," replied Benoni. "A brother of my late wife is
an Essene, a kindly natured fool named Ithiel; you may have known
him."

"Oh, yes, I know him. He is one of their curators and the guardian of
the lady Miriam, his great-niece."

The old man started violently, then, recovering himself, said:

"Forgive me, but Miriam was the name of my lost wife--one which it
disturbs me to hear. But how can this girl be Ithiel's grand-niece? He
had no relations except his sister."

"I do not know," answered Caleb carelessly. "The story is that the
lady Miriam, whom they call the Queen of the Essenes, was brought to
them nineteen or twenty years ago by a Libyan woman named Nehushta,"--
here again Benoni started--"who said that the child's mother, Ithiel's
niece, had been shipwrecked and died after giving birth to the infant,
commanding that it should be brought to him to be reared. The Essenes
consenting, he accepted the charge, and there she is still."

"Then is this lady Miriam an Essene?" asked Benoni in a thick, slow
voice.

"No; she is of the sect of the Christians, in which faith she has been
brought up as her mother desired."

The old man rose from his couch and walked up and down the portico.

"Tell me of the lady Miriam, sir," he said presently, "for the tale
interests me. What is she like?"

"She is, as I believe, the most beautiful maiden in the whole world,
though small and slight; also she is the most sweet and learned."

"That is high praise, sir," said Benoni.

"Yes, master, and perhaps I exaggerate her charms, as is but natural."

"Why is it natural?"

"Because we were brought up together, and I hope that one day she will
be my wife."

"Are you then affianced to this maid?"

"No, not affianced--as yet," replied Caleb, with a little smile; "but
I will not trouble you with a history of my love affairs. I have
already trespassed too long upon your kindness. It is something to ask
of you who may not desire my acquaintance, but if you will do me the
honour to sup with me to-morrow night, your servant will be grateful."

"I thank you, young sir. I will come, I will come, for in truth," he
added hastily, "I am anxious to hear news of all that passes at
Jerusalem, which, I understand, you left but a few days since, and I
perceive that you are one whose eyes and ears are always open."

"I try both to see and to hear," said Caleb modestly. "But I am very
inexperienced, and am not sure which cause a man who hopes to become
both wise and good, ought to espouse in these troubled days. I need
guidance such as you could give me if you wished. For this while,
farewell."

Benoni watched his visitor depart, then once more began to wander up
and down the portico.

"I do not trust that young man," he thought, "of whose doings I have
heard something; but he is rich and able, and may be of service to our
cause. This Miriam of whom he speaks, who can she be? unless, indeed,
Rachel bore a daughter before she died. Why not? She would not have
left it to my care who desired that it should be reared in her own
accursed faith and looked upon me as the murderer of her husband and
herself. If so, I who thought myself childless, yet have issue upon
the earth--at least there is one in whom my blood runs. Beautiful,
gifted--but a Christian! The sin of the parents has descended on the
child--yes, the curse is on her also. I must seek her out. I must know
the truth. Man, what is it now? Can you not see that I would be
alone?"

"Master, your pardon," said the Arab servant, bowing, "but the Roman
captain, Marcus, desires speech with you."

"Marcus? Oh, I remember the officer who was stationed here. I am not
well, I cannot see him. Bid him come to-morrow."

"Master, he bid me say that he sails for Rome to-night."

"Well, well, admit him," answered Benoni. "Perchance he comes to pay
his debt," he added.

The Arab departed, and presently the Roman was ushered in.

"Greetings, Benoni," he said, with his pleasant smile. "Here am I, yet
alive, for all your fears; so you see your money is still safe."

"I am glad to hear it, my lord Marcus," answered the Jew, bowing low.
"But if it will please you to produce it, with the interest, I think,"
he added drily, "it may be even safer in my strongbox."

Marcus laughed pleasantly.

"Produce it?" he said. "What jest is this? Why, I come to borrow more
to defray my costs to Rome."

Benoni's mouth shut like a trap.

"Nay," said Marcus, holding up his hand, "don't begin. I know it all.
The times are full of trouble and danger. Such little ready cash as
you have at command is out at interest in safer countries--Egypt,
Rome, and Italy; your correspondent at Alexandria has failed to make
you the expected remittance; and you have reason to believe that every
ship in which you are concerned is now at the bottom of the ocean. So
would you be so good as to lend me half a talent of silver--a thousand
shekels in cash and the rest in bills of exchange on your agents at
Brundisium?"

"No," said Benoni, sternly.

"Yes," replied Marcus, with conviction. "Look you, friend Benoni, the
security is excellent. If I don't get drowned, or have my throat slit
between here and Italy, I am going to be one of the richest men in
Rome; so this is your last chance of lending me a trifle. You don't
believe it? Then read this letter from Caius, my uncle, and this
rescript signed by Nero the Cæsar."

Benoni perused the documents and returned them.

"I offer you my congratulations," he said. "If God permits it and you
will walk steadily, your future should be brilliant, since you are of
a pleasant countenance, and when you choose to use it, behind that
countenance lies a brain. But here I see no security for my money,
since even if all things go right, Italy is a long way off."

"Man, do you think that I should cheat you?" asked Marcus hotly.

"No, no, but accidents might happen."

"Well, I will make it worth your while to risk them. For the half-
talent write a talent charged upon my estate, whether I live or die.
And be swift, I pray you, for I have matters to speak of, of more
importance than this miserable money. Whilst I was commissioner among
the Essenes on the banks of Jordan----"

"The Essenes! What of the Essenes?" broke in Benoni.

Marcus considered him with his grey eyes, then answered:

"Let us settle this little matter of business and I will tell you."

"Good. It is settled; you shall have the acknowledgment to sign and
the consideration in cash and bills before you leave my house. Now
what of these Essenes?"

"Only this," said Marcus; "they are a strange people who read the
future, I know not how. One of them with whom I became friendly,
foretold that mighty troubles were about to fall upon this land of
yours--slaughter and pestilence, and famine, such as the world has not
seen."

"That is an old prophecy of those accursed Nazarenes," broke in
Benoni.

"Call them not accursed, friend," said Marcus, in an odd voice, "for
you should do so least of all men. Nay, hear me out. It may be a
prophecy of the Nazarenes, but it is also a prophecy of the Essenes,
and I believe it, who watch the signs of the times. Now the elder told
me this, that there will be a great uprising of the Jews against the
strength of Cæsar, and that most of those who join in it shall perish.
He even gave names, and among them was yours, friend Benoni.
Therefore, because you have lent me money, although I am a Roman, I
have come to Tyre to warn you to keep clear of rebellions and other
tumults."

The old man listened quietly, but not as one who disbelieves.

"All this may be so," he said, "but if my name is written in that book
of the dead, the angel of Jehovah has chosen me, and I cannot escape
his sword. Moreover, I am aged, and"--here his eyes flashed--"it is a
good end to die fighting one's country's enemies."

"How you Jews do love us to be sure!" said Marcus with a little laugh.

"The nation that sends a Gessius Florus, or even an Albinus, to rule
its alien subjects must needs be loved," replied Benoni with bitter
sarcasm. "But let us be done with politics lest we grow angry. It is
strange, but a visitor has just left me who was brought up among these
Essenes."

"Indeed," said Marcus, staring vacantly into the sea.

"He told me that a young and beautiful woman resides with them who is
named the Queen of the Essenes. Did you chance to see her, my lord?"

Instantly Marcus became very wide awake. "Oh, yes, I saw her; and what
else did he tell you?"

"He told me that this lady was both beautiful and learned."

"That is true," said Marcus with enthusiasm. "To my mind, although she
is small, I never saw one lovelier, nor do I know a sculptor who is
her equal. If you will come with me to the ship I will open the case
and show you the bust she made of me. But tell me, did this visitor of
yours lack the forefinger on one hand--his right?"

"He did."

"Then I suppose that he is named Caleb."

"Yes; but how do you know that?"

"Because I cut off his forefinger," said Marcus, "in a fair fight,
and," he added savagely, "he is a young rascal, as murderous as he is
able, whose life I did ill to spare."

"Ah," said Benoni, "it seems that I have still some discernment, for
just so I judged him. Well, what more do you know of the lady?"

"Something, since in a way I am affianced to her."

"Indeed! Well, this is strange, for so, as he told me, is Caleb."

"He told you that?" said Marcus springing from his chair. "Then he
lies, and would that I had time to prove it on his body! She rejected
him; I have it from Nehushta; also I know it in other ways."

"Then she did accept you, my lord Marcus?"

"Not quite," he replied sadly; "but that was only because I am not a
Christian. She loves me all the same," he added, recovering. "Upon
that point there can be no doubt."

"Caleb seemed to doubt it," suggested Benoni.

"Caleb is a liar," repeated Marcus with emphasis, "and one of whom you
will do well to beware."

"Why should I beware of him?"

Marcus paused a moment, then answered boldly:

"Because the lady Miriam is your granddaughter and the heiress of your
wealth. I say it, since if I did not Caleb would; probably he has done
so already."

For a moment Benoni hid his face in his hands. Then he lifted it and
said:

"I thought as much, and now I am sure. But, my lord Marcus, if my
blood is hers my wealth is my own."

"Just so. Keep it if you will, or leave it where you will. It is
Miriam I seek, and not your money."

"I think that Caleb seeks both Miriam and my money--like a prudent
man. Why should he not have them? He is a Jew of good blood; he will,
I think, rise high."

"And I am a Roman of better blood who will rise higher."

"Yes, a Roman, and I, the grandfather, am a Jew who do not love you
Romans."

"And Miriam is neither Jew nor Roman, but a Christian, brought up not
by you, but by the Essenes; and she loves me, although she will not
marry me because I am not a Christian."

Benoni shrugged his shoulders as he answered:

"All of this is a problem which I must ponder on and solve."

Marcus sprang from his seat and stood before the old man with menace
in his air.

"Look you, Benoni," he said, "this is a problem not to be solved by
you or by Caleb, but by Miriam herself, and none other. Do you
understand?"

"I understand that you threaten me."

"Ay, I do. Miriam is of full age; her sojourn with the Essenes must
come to an end. Doubtless you will take her to dwell with you. Well,
beware how you deal by her. If she wishes to marry Caleb of her own
free will, let her do so. But if you force her to it, or suffer him to
force her, then by your God, and by my gods, and by her God, I tell
you that I will come back and take such a vengeance upon him and upon
you, and upon all your people, that it shall be a story for
generations. Do you believe me?"

Benoni looked up at the man who stood before him in his youth and
beauty, his eyes on fire and his form quivering with rage, and
looking, shrank back a little. He did not know that this light-hearted
Roman had such strength and purpose at command. Now he understood for
the first time that he was a true son of the terrible race of
conquerors, who, if he were crossed, could be as merciless as the
worst of them, one whose very honesty and openness made him to be
feared the more.

"I understand that you believe what you say. Whether when you are back
at Rome, where there are women as fair as the Queen of the Essenes,
you will continue to believe it, is another matter."

"Yes, a matter for me to settle."

"Quite so--for you to settle. Have you anything to add to the commands
you are pleased to lay upon your humble creditor, Benoni the
merchant?"

"Yes, two things. First, that when I leave this house you will no
longer be my creditor. I have brought money to pay you off in full,
principal and interest. My talk of borrowing was but a play and excuse
to learn what you knew of Miriam. Nay, do not start, though it may
seem strange to you that I also can be subtle. Foolish man, did you
think that I with my prospects should be left to lack for a miserable
half-talent? Why, there at Jerusalem I could have borrowed ten, or
twenty, if I would promise my patronage by way of interest. My
servants wait with the gold without. Call them in presently and pay
yourself, principal and interest, and something for a bonus. Now for
the second, Miriam is a Christian. Beware how you tamper with her
faith. It is not mine, but I say--beware how you tamper with it. You
gave her father and her mother, your own daughter, to be slaughtered
by gladiators and to be torn by lions because, forsooth, they did not
think as you do. Lift one finger against her and I will hale you into
the amphitheatre at Rome, there yourself to be slaughtered by
gladiators, or to be torn by lions. Although I am absent I shall know
all that you do, for I have friends who are good and spies that are
better. Moreover, I return here shortly. Now I ask you, will you give
me your solemn word, swearing it by that God whom you worship, first,
that you will not attempt to force your granddaughter Miriam into
marriage with Caleb the Jew; and secondly, that you will shelter her,
treating her with all honour, and suffering her to follow her own
faith in freedom?"

Benoni sprang from his couch.

"No, Roman, I will not. Who are you who dare to dictate to me in my
own house as to how I shall deal with my own grandchild? Pay what you
owe and get you gone, and darken my doors no more. I have done with
you."

"Ah!" said Marcus. "Well, perhaps it is time that you should travel.
Those who travel and see strange countries and peoples, grow liberal-
minded, which you are not. Be pleased to read this paper," and he laid
a writing before him.

Benoni took it and read. It was worded thus:

"To Marcus, the son of Emilius, the captain, in the name of Cæsar,
greetings. Hereby we command you, should you in your discretion
think fit, to seize the person of Benoni, the Jewish merchant, a
dweller in Tyre, and to convey him as a prisoner to Rome, there to
answer charges which have been laid against him, with the
particulars of which you are acquainted, which said particulars
you will find awaiting you in Rome, of having conspired with
certain other Jews, to overthrow the authority of Cæsar in this
his province of Judæa.

"(Signed) Gessius Florus, Procurator."

Benoni having read sank back upon his couch, gasping, his white face
livid with surprise and fear. Then a thought seemed to strike him.
Seizing the paper he tore it into fragments.

"Now, Roman," he said, "where is your warrant?"

"In my pocket," answered Marcus; "that which I showed you was but a
copy. Nay, do not ring, do not touch that bell. See this," and he drew
a silver whistle from his robe. "Outside your gate stand fifty
soldiers. Shall I sound it?"

"Not so," answered Benoni. "I will swear the oath, though indeed it is
needless. Why should you suppose that I could wish to force this maid
into any marriage, or to work her evil on account of matters of her
faith?"

"Because you are a Jew and a bigot. You gave her father and her mother
to a cruel death, why should you spare her? Also you hate me and all
my people; why, then, should you not favour my rival, although he is a
murderer whose life I have twice spared at the prayer of Miriam? Swear
now."

So Benoni lifted his hand and swore a solemn oath that he would not
force his granddaughter, Miriam, to marry Caleb, or any other man; and
that he would not betray the secret of her faith, or persecute her
because of it.

"It is not enough," said Marcus. "Write it down and sign."

So Benoni went to the table and wrote out his undertaking and signed
it, Marcus signing also as a witness.

"Now, Benoni," he said, as he took the paper, "listen to me. That
warrant leaves your taking to my discretion, after I have made search
into the facts. I have made such search and it seems that I am not
satisfied. But remember that the warrant is still alive and can be
executed at any moment. Remember also that you are watched and if you
lift a finger against the girl, it will be put in force. For the rest
--if you desire that the prophecy of the Essene should not come true,
it is my advice that you cease from making plots against the majesty
of Cæsar. Now bid your servant summon him who waits in the
antechamber, that he may discharge my debt. And so farewell. When and
where we shall meet again I do not know, but be sure that we shall
meet." Then Marcus left the portico.

Benoni watched him go, and as he watched, an evil look gathered on his
face.

"Threatened. Trodden to the dirt. Outwitted by that Roman boy," he
murmured. "Is there any cup of shame left for me to drink? Who is the
traitor and how much does he know? Something, but not all, else my
arrest could scarcely have been left to the fancy of this patrician,
favourite though he be. Yes, my lord Marcus, I too am sure that we
shall meet again, but the fashion of that meeting may be little to
your taste. You have had your hour, mine is to come. For the rest, I
must keep my oath, since to break it would be too dangerous, and might
cut the hair that holds the sword. Also, why should I wish to harm the
girl, or to wed her to this rogue Caleb, than whom, mayhap, even the
Roman would be better? At least he is a man who does not cheat or lie.
Indeed, I long to see the maid. I will go at once to Jordan."

Then he sounded his bell and commanded that the servant of the lord
Marcus should be admitted.



CHAPTER XI

THE ESSENES LOSE THEIR QUEEN

The Court of the Essenes was gathered in council debating the subject
of the departure of their ward, Miriam. She must go, that was evident,
since not even for her, whom they loved as though each of them had
been in truth her father or her uncle, could their ancient, sacred
rule be broken. But where was she to go and how should she be
supported as became her? These were the questions that troubled them
and that they debated earnestly. At length her great-uncle Ithiel
suggested that she should be summoned before them, that they might
hear her wishes. To this his brethren agreed, and he was sent to fetch
her.

A while later, attended by Nehushta, Miriam arrived, clad in a robe of
pure white, and wearing on her head a wimple of white, edged with
purple, and about her waist a purple scarf. So greatly did the Essenes
love and reverence this maid, that as she entered, all the hundred of
the Court rose and remaining standing until she herself was seated.
Then the President, who was sorrowful and even shamefaced, addressed
her, telling her their trouble, and praying her pardon because the
ordinance of their order forced them to arrange that she should depart
from among them. At the end of this speech he asked her what were her
wishes as regarded her own future, adding that for her maintenance she
need have no fear, since out of their revenues a modest sum would be
set aside annually which would suffice to keep her from poverty.

In answer Miriam, also speaking sadly, thanked them from her heart for
all their goodness, telling them she had long known this hour of
separation to be at hand. As to where she should dwell, since tumults
were so many in Jerusalem, she suggested that she might find a home in
one of the coast cities, where perhaps some friend or relative of the
brethren would shelter Nehushta and herself.

Instantly eight or ten of those present said that they knew such
trusty folk in one place or another, and the various offers were
submitted to the Court for discussion. While the talk was still going
on there came a knock upon the door. After the usual questions and
precautions, a brother was admitted who informed them that there had
arrived in the village, at the head of a considerable retinue, Benoni,
the Jewish merchant of Tyre. He stated that he desired speech with
them on the subject of his granddaughter Miriam, who, he learned, was,
or had been recently, in their charge.

"Here may be an answer to the riddle," said the President. "We know of
this Benoni, also that he purposed to demand his granddaughter of us,
though until he did so it was not for us to speak." Then he put it to
the Court that Benoni should be admitted.

To this they agreed, and presently the Jew came, splendidly attired,
his long white beard flowing down a robe that glittered with
embroideries of gold and silver. Entering the dim, cool hall, he
stared in amazement at the long half-circles of venerable, white-robed
men who were gathered there. Next his quick eyes fell upon the lovely
maiden who, attended by the dark-visaged Nehushta, sat before them on
a seat of honour; and looking, he guessed that she must be Miriam.

"Little wonder," reflected Benoni to himself, "that all men seem to
love this girl, since at the first sight of her my own heart softens."

Then he bowed to the President of the Court and the President bowed
back in answer. But not one of the rest so much as moved his head,
since already every man of them hated this stranger who was about to
carry away her whom they called their Queen.

"Sirs," said Benoni breaking the silence, "I come here upon a strange
errand--namely, to ask of you a maid whom I believe to be my
granddaughter, of whose existence I learned not long ago, and whom, as
it seems, you have sheltered from her birth. Is she among you here?"
and he looked at Miriam.

"The lady Miriam sits yonder," said the President. "You are right in
naming her your granddaughter, as we have known her to be from the
beginning."

"Then why," said Benoni, "did I not know it also?"

"Because," answered the President quietly, "we did not think it
fitting to deliver a child that was committed to our charge, to the
care of one who had brought her father, and tried to bring her mother,
his own seed, to the most horrible of deaths."

As he spoke he fixed his eyes indignantly upon Benoni; as did every
man of all that great company, till even the bold-faced Jew dropped
his head abashed.

"I am not here," he said, recovering himself, "to make defence of what
I have done, or have not done in the past. I am here to demand that my
grandchild, now as I perceive a woman grown, may be handed over to me,
her natural guardian."

"Before this can be considered," answered the President, "we who have
been her guardians for so many years, should require guarantees and
sureties."

"What guarantees, and what sureties?" asked Benoni.

"These among others--That money sufficient for her support after your
death should be settled upon her. That she shall be left reasonable
liberty in the matter of her daily life and her marriage, if it should
please her to marry. Lastly, that as we have undertaken not to meddle
with her faith, or to oppress her into changing it, so must you
undertake also."

"And if I refuse these things?" asked Benoni.

"Then you see the lady Miriam for the first and last time," answered
the President boldly, while the others nodded approval. "We are men of
peace, but, merchant, you must not, therefore, think us men without
power. We must part with the lady Miriam, who to every one of us is as
a daughter, because the unbreakable rule of our order ordains that
she, who is now a woman grown, can no longer remain among us. But
wherever she dwells, to the last day of her life our love shall go
with her and the whole strength of our Order shall protect her. If any
harm is attempted to her, we shall be swift to hear and swifter to
avenge. If you refuse our conditions, she will vanish from your sight,
and then, merchant, go, search the world, the coasts of Syria, the
banks of Egypt, and the cities of Italy--and find her if you can. We
have spoken."

Benoni stroked his white beard before he answered.

"You talk proudly," he said. "Did I shut my eyes I might fancy that
this voice was the voice of a Roman procurator speaking the decrees of
Cæsar. Still, I am ready to believe that what you promise you can
perform, since I for one am sure that you Essenes are not mere
harmless heretics who worship angels and demons, see visions, prophesy
things to come by the help of your familiars, and adore the sun in
huts upon the desert." He paused, but the President, without taking
the slightest notice of his insults or sarcasms, repeated merely:

"We have spoken," and as with one voice, like some great echo, the
whole hundred of them cried, "We have spoken!"

"Do you hear them, master?" said Nehushta in the silence that
followed. "Well, I know them. They mean what they say, and you are
right--what which they threaten they can perform."

"Let my grandchild speak," said Benoni. "Daughter, is it your wish
that such dishonouring bonds should be laid upon me?"

"Grandsire," replied Miriam, in a pure, clear voice, "I may not
quarrel with that which is done for my own good. For the wealth I care
little, but I would not become a slave in everything save the name,
nor do I desire to set my feet in that path my parents trod. What my
uncles say--all of these"--and she waved her hand--"speaking in the
name of the thousands that are without, that I do, for they love me
and I love them, and their mind is my mind and their words are my
words."

"Proud-spirited, and well spoken, like all her race," muttered Benoni.
Still he stroked his beard and hesitated.

"Be pleased to give your answer," said the President, "that we may
finish our discussion before the hour of evening prayer. To help you
to it, remember one thing--we ask no new conditions." Benoni glanced
up quickly and the President added: "Those of which we have received a
copy, that you swore to and signed in the presence of Marcus the
Roman, are enough for us."

Now it was Miriam's turn to look, first up and then down. As for her
grandfather, he turned white with anger, and broke into a bitter
laugh.

"Now I understand----"

"----that the arm of the Essenes is longer than you thought, since it
can reach from here to Rome," said the President.

"Ay! that you can plot with Romans. Well, be careful lest the sword of
these Romans prove longer than /you/ thought and reach even to your
hearts, O you peaceful dwellers in the desert!" Then, as though he
feared some answer, he added quickly, "I am minded to return and leave
this maiden with you to dispose of as you think fit. Yet I will not do
so, for she is very fair and gracious, and with the wealth that I can
give her, may fill some high place in the world. Also--and this is
more to me--I am old and draw near my end and she alone has my blood
in her veins. Therefore I will agree to all your terms, and take her
home with me to Tyre, trusting that she may learn to love me."

"Good," said the President. "To-morrow the papers shall be prepared
and signed. Meanwhile we pray you to be our guest."

Next evening signed they were accordingly, Benoni agreeing without
demur to all that the Essenes asked on behalf of her who had been
their ward, and even assigning to her a separate revenue during his
lifetime. Indeed, now that he had seen her, so loth was he to part
with this new-found daughter, that he would have done still more had
it been asked of him, lest she should be spirited from his sight, as,
did he refuse, might well happen.

Three days later Miriam bade farewell to her protectors, who
accompanied her by hundreds to the ridge above the village. Here they
stopped, and seeing that the moment of separation was at hand,
Miriam's tears began to flow.

"Weep not, beloved child," said Ithiel, "for though we part with you
in body, yet shall we always be with you in the spirit, now in this
life, and as we think, after this life. Moreover, by night and day, we
shall watch over you, and if any attempt to harm you--" here he
glanced at Benoni, that brother-in-law to whom he bore but little love
--"the very winds will bear us tidings, and in this way or that, help
will come."

"Have no fear, Ithiel," broke in Benoni, "my bond, which you hold, is
good and it will be backed by love."

"That I believe also," said Miriam; "and if it be so, grandsire, I
will repay love for love." Then she turned to the Essenes and thanked
them in broken words.

"Be not downhearted," said Ithiel in a thick voice, "for I hope that
even in this life we shall meet again."

"May it be so," answered Miriam, and they parted, the Essenes
returning sadly to their home, and Benoni taking the road through
Jericho to Jerusalem.

Travelling slowly, at the evening of the second day they set their
camp on open ground not far from the Damascus gate of the Holy City,
but within the new north wall that had been built by Agrippa. Into the
city itself Benoni would not enter, fearing lest the Roman soldiers
should plunder them. At moonrise Nehushta took Miriam by the hand and
led her through the resting camels to a spot a few yards from the
camp.

There, standing with her back to the second wall, she pointed out to
her a cliff, steep but of no great height, in which appeared little
caves and ridges of rock that, looked at from this distance, gave to
its face a rude resemblance to a human skull.

"See," she said solemnly. "Yonder the Lord was crucified."

Miriam heard and sank to her knees in prayer. As she knelt there the
grave voice of her grandfather spoke behind her, bidding her rise.

"Child," he said, "it is true. True is it also that signs and wonders
happened after the death of that false Messiah, and that for me and
mine He left a curse behind Him which it may well be is not done with
yet. I know your faith, and I have promised to let you follow it in
peace. Yet I beseech of you, do not make prayers to your God here in
public, where with malefactors He suffered as a malefactor, lest
others less tolerant should see you and drag you to your father's
death."

Miriam bowed her head and returned to the camp, nor at that time did
any further words pass between them on this matter of her religion.
Thenceforward, however, she was careful to do nothing which could
bring suspicion on her grandfather.

Four days later they came to the rich and beautiful city of Tyre, and
Miriam saw the sea upon which she had been born. Hitherto, she had
fancied that its waters were much like those of the Dead Lake, upon
whose shores she had dwelt so many years; but when she perceived the
billows rushing onwards, white-crested, to break in thunder against
the walls of island Tyre, she clapped her hands with joy. Indeed, from
that day to the end of her life she loved the sea in all its moods,
and for hours at a time would find it sufficient company. Perhaps this
was because the seethe of its waves was the first sound that her ears
had heard, while her first breath was salted with its spray.

From Jerusalem, Benoni had sent messengers mounted on swift horses
bidding his servants make ready to receive a guest. So it came about
that when she entered his palace in Tyre, Miriam found it decked as
though for a bride, and wandered in amazement--she who had known
nothing better than the mud-houses of the Essenes--from hall to hall
of the ancient building that in bygone generations had been the home
of kings and governors. Benoni followed her steps, watching her with
grave eyes, till at length all was visited save the gardens belonging
to him which were on the mainland.

"Are you pleased with your new home, daughter?" he asked presently.

"My grandfather, it is beautiful," she answered. "Never have I dreamed
of such a place as this. Say, may I work my art in one of these great
rooms?"

"Miriam," he answered, "of this house henceforth you are the mistress,
as in time to come you will be its owner. Believe me, child, it was
not needed that so many and such different men should demand from me
sureties for your comfort and your safety. All I have is yours, whilst
all you have, including your faith and your friends, of whom there
seem to be many, remains your own. Yet, should it please you to give
me in return some small share of your love, I who am childless and
friendless shall be grateful."

"That is my desire," answered Miriam hurriedly; "only, grandsire,
between you and me----"

"Speak it not," he said, with a gesture almost of despair, "or rather
I will speak it--between you and me runs the river of your parents'
blood. It is so, yet, Miriam, I will confess to you that I repent me
of that deed. Age makes us judge more kindly. To me your faith is
nothing and your God a sham, yet I know now that to worship Him is not
worthy of death--at least not for that cause would I bring any to
their death to-day, or even to stripes and bonds. I will go further; I
will stoop even to borrow from His creed. Do not His teachings bid you
to forgive those who have done you wrong?"

"They do, and that is why Christians love all mankind."

"Then bring that law into this home of ours, Miriam, and love me who
sorrow for what I did in the blind rage of my zeal, and who now in my
old age am haunted by its memory."

Then for the first time Miriam threw herself into the old man's arms
and kissed him on the brow.

So it came about that they made their peace and were happy together.

Indeed, day by day Benoni loved her more, till at length she was
everything to him, and he grew jealous of all who sought her company,
and especially of Nehushta.



CHAPTER XII

THE RING, THE NECKLACE AND THE LETTER

So Miriam came to Tyre, where, for many months, her life was peaceful
and happy enough. At first she had feared meeting Caleb, who she knew
from her grandfather was dwelling there; but as it chanced, he had
left the city upon business of his own, so for the while she was free
of him. In Tyre were many Christians with whom she made friends and
worshipped, Benoni pretending to know nothing of the matter. Indeed,
at this time and place it was the Jews rather than the Christians who
were in danger at the hands of the Syrians and Greeks, who hated them
for their wealth and faith, threatening them continually with robbery
and massacre. But as yet that storm did not burst, and in its brewing
the Christians, who were few, humble, and of all races, escaped
notice.

Thus it came about that Miriam dwelt in quiet, occupying herself much
with her art of modelling and going abroad but little, since it was
scarcely safe for her, the grandchild of the rich Jew merchant, to
show her face in the streets. Though she was surrounded by every
luxury, far more than she needed, indeed, this lack of liberty irked
her who had been reared in the desert, till at times she grew
melancholy and would sit for hours looking on the sea and thinking.
She thought of her mother who had sat thus before her; of her father,
who had perished beneath the gladiators' swords; of the kindly old men
who had nurtured her, and of the sufferings of her brothers and
sisters in the faith in Rome and at Jerusalem. But most of all she
thought of Marcus, her Roman lover, whom, strive as she would, she
could never forget--no, not for a single hour. She loved him, that was
the truth of it, and between them there was a great gulf fixed, not of
the sea only, which ships could sail, but of that command which the
dead had laid upon her. He was a pagan and she was a Christian, and
they might not wed. By now, too, it was likely that he had forgotten
her, the girl who took his fancy in the desert. At Rome there were
many noble and lovely women--oh! she could scarcely bear to think of
it. Yet night by night she prayed for him, and morn by morn his face
arose before her half-awakened eyes. Where was he? What was he doing?
For aught she knew he might be dead. Nay, for then, surely, her heart
would have warned her. Still, she craved for tidings, and alas! there
were none.

At length tidings did come--the best of tidings. One day, wearying of
the house, with the permission of her grandfather, and escorted by
servants, Miriam had gone to walk in the gardens that he owned to the
north of that part of the city on the mainland, which was called
Palætyrus. They were lovely gardens, well watered and running down to
the sea-edge, and in them grew beautiful palms and other trees, with
fruitful shrubs and flowers. Here, when they had roamed a while,
Miriam and Nehushta sat down upon the fallen column of some old temple
and rested. Suddenly they heard a footstep, and Miriam looked up to
see before her a Roman officer, clad in a cloak that showed signs of
sea-travel, and, guiding him, one of Benoni's servants.

The officer, a rough but kindly looking man of middle age, bowed to
her, asking in Greek if he spoke to the lady Miriam, the granddaughter
of Benoni the Jew, she who had been brought up among the Essenes.

"Sir, I am she," answered Miriam.

"Then, lady, I, who am named Gallus, have an errand to perform"; and
drawing from his robe a letter tied with silk and sealed, and with the
letter a package, he handed them to her.

"Who sends these?" she asked, hope shining in her eyes, "and whence
come they?"

"From Rome, lady, as fast as sails could waft them and me. And the
sender is the noble Marcus, called the Fortunate."

"Oh!" said Miriam, blushing to her eyes, "tell me, sir, is he well?"

"Not so well but that such a look as that, lady, would better him, or
any other man, could he be here to see it," answered the Roman, gazing
at her with admiration.

"Did you then leave him ill? I do not understand."

"Nay, his health seemed sound, and his uncle Caius being dead his
wealth can scarce be counted, or so they say, since the old man made
him his heir. Perhaps that is why the divine Nero has taken such a
fancy to him that he can scarce leave the palace. Therefore I cannot
say that Marcus is well to-day, since sometimes Nero's friends are
short-lived. Nay, be not frightened, I did but jest; your Marcus is
safe enough. Read the letter, lady, and waste no time. As for me, my
mission is fulfilled. Thank me not; it is reward enough to have seen
that sweet face of yours. Fortunate indeed is the star of Marcus, and,
though I am jealous of the man, for your sake I pray that it may lead
him back to you. Lady, farewell."

"Cut the silk, Nou," said Miriam when the Captain Gallus had gone.
"Quick. I have no knife."

Nehushta obeyed smiling and the letter was unrolled. It, or those
parts of it which concern us, ran thus:

"To the lady Miriam, from Marcus the Roman, her friend, by the hand
of the Captain Gallus.

"Dear friend and lady, greeting. Already since I came here I have
written you one letter, but this day news has reached me that the
ship which bore it foundered off the coast of Sicily. So, as
Neptune has that letter, and with it many good men, although I
write more ill than I do most things, I send you another by this
occasion, hoping, I who am vain, that you have not forgotten me,
and that the reading of it may even give you pleasure. Most dear
Miriam, know that I accomplished my voyage to Rome in safety,
visiting your grandsire on the way to pay him a debt I owed. But
that story you will perhaps have heard.

"From Tyre I sailed for Italy, but was cast away upon the coasts of
Melita, where many of us were drowned. By the favour of some god,
however--ah! what god I wonder--I escaped, and taking another ship
came safely to Brundisium, whence I travelled as fast as horses
would carry me to Rome. Here I arrived but just in time, for I
found my uncle Caius very will. Believing, moreover, that I had
been drowned in the shipwreck at Melita, he was about to make a
will bequeathing his property to the Emperor Nero, but by good
fortune of this he had said nothing. Had he done so I should, I
think, be as poor to-day as when I left you, dear, and perhaps
poorer still, for I might have lost my head with my inheritance.

"As it was I found favour in the sight of my uncle Caius, who a
week after my arrival executed a formal testament leaving to me
all his land, goods, and moneys, which on his death three months
later I inherited. Thus I have become rich--so rich that now,
having much money to spend, by some perversity which I cannot
explain, I have grown careful and spend as little as possible.
After I had entered into my inheritance I made a plan to return to
Judæa, for one reason and one alone--to be near to you, most sweet
Miriam. At the last moment I was stayed by a very evil chance.
That bust which you made of me I had managed to save from the
shipwreck and bring safe to Rome--now I wish it was at the bottom
of the sea, and you shall learn why.

"When I came into possession of this house in the Via Agrippa,
which is large and beautiful, I set it in a place of honour in the
antechamber and summoned that sculptor, Glaucus, of whom I have
spoken to you, and others who follow the art, to come and pass
judgment upon the work. They came, they wondered and they were
silent, for each of them feared lest in praising it he should
exalt some rival. When, however, I told them that it was the work
of a lady in Judæa, although they did not believe me, since all of
them declared that no woman had shaped that marble, knowing that
they had nothing to fear from so distant an artist whoever he
might be, they began to praise the work with one voice, and all
that evening until the wine overcame them, talked of nothing else.
Also they continued talking on the morrow, until at length the
fame of the thing came to the ears of Nero, who also is an artist
of music and other things. The end of it was that one day, without
warning, the Emperor visited my house and demanded to see the
bust, which I showed to him. For many minutes he examined it
through the emerald with which he aids his sight, then asked:

"'What land had the honour to bear the genius who wrought this
work?'

"I answered, 'Judæa,' a country, by the way, of which he seemed to
know little, except that some fanatics dwelt there, who refused to
worship him. He said that he would make that artist ruler of
Judæa. I replied that the artist was a woman, whereon he answered
that he cared nothing--she should still rule Judæa, or if this
could not be managed he would send and bring her to Rome to make a
statue of him to be set up in the Temple at Jerusalem for the Jews
to worship.

"Now I saw that I had been foolish, and knowing well what would
have been your fate, my Miriam, had he once set eyes on you, I
sighed and answered, that alas! it was impossible, since you were
dead, as I proved to him by a long story with which I will not
trouble you. Moreover, now that he was sure that you were dead, I
showed him the little statuette of yourself looking into water,
which you gave me. Whereon he burst into tears, at the thought
that such an one had departed from the earth, while it was still
cursed with so many who are wicked, old and ugly.

"Still he did not go, but remained admiring the bust, till at
length one of his favourites who accompanied him, whispered in my
ear that I must present it to the Emperor. I refused, whereon he
whispered back that if I did not, assuredly before long it would
be taken, and with it all my other goods, and, perhaps, my life.
So, since I must, I changed my mind and prayed him to accept it;
whereon he embraced, first the marble and then me, and caused it
to be borne away then and there, leaving me mad with rage.

"Now I tell you all this silly story for a reason, since it has
hindered and still hinders me from leaving Rome. Thus: two days
later I received an Imperial decree, in which it was stated that
the incomparable work of art brought from Judæa by Marcus, the son
of Emilius, had been set up in a certain temple, where those who
would please their Emperor were desired to present themselves and
worship it and the soul of her by whom it was fashioned. Moreover,
it was commanded that I, Marcus, whose features had served as a
model for the work, should be its guardian and attend twice weekly
in the temple, that all might see how the genius of a great artist
is able to make a thing of immortal beauty from a coarse original
of flesh and blood. Oh, Miriam, I have no patience to write of
this folly, yet the end of it is, that except at the cost of my
fortune and the risk of my life, it is impossible for me to leave
Rome. Twice every week, or by special favour, once only, must I
attend in that accursed temple where my own likeness stands upon
a pedestal of marble, and before it a marble altar, on which are
cut the words: 'Sacrifice, O passer-by, to the spirit of the
departed genius who wrought this divine work.'

"Yes, there I sit, I who am a soldier, while fools come in and gaze
first at the marble and then at me, saying things for which often
I long to kill them, and casting grains of incense into the little
fire on the altar in sacrifice to your spirit, whereby I trust it
may be benefited. Thus, Miriam, are we ruled in Rome to-day.

"Meanwhile, I am in great favour with Nero, so that men call me
'the Fortunate,' and my house the 'Fortunate House,' a title of
ill-omen.

"Yet out of this evil comes some good, since because of his present
affection for me, or my bust, I have now and again for your sake,
Miriam, been able to do service, even to the saving of their
lives, to those of your faith. Here there are many Christians whom
it is an amusement to Nero to persecute, torture, and slay,
sometimes by soaking them in tar and making of them living torches
to illuminate his gardens, and sometimes in other fashions. The
lives of sundry of these poor people he has given to me, when I
begged them of him. Indeed, he has done more. Yesterday Nero came
himself to the temple and suggested that certain of the Christians
should be sacrificed in a very cruel fashion here as an offering
to your spirit. I answered that this could give it little
pleasure, seeing that in your lifetime you also were a Christian.
Thereon he wrung his hands, crying out, 'Oh! what a crime have I
committed,' and instantly gave orders that no more Christians
should be killed. So for a little while, thanks to your handiwork,
and to me who am called 'the Model,' they are safe--those who are
left of them.

"I hear that there are wars and tumults in Judæa, and that
Vespasian, a great general, is to be sent to quell them. If I can
I will come with him, but at present--such is the madness of my
master--this is too much to hope, unless, indeed, he wearies
suddenly of the 'Divine Work' and its attendant 'Model.'

"Meanwhile I also cast incense upon your altar, and pray that in
these troubles you may come to no harm.

"Miriam, I am most unhappy. I think of you always and yet I cannot
come to you. I picture you in many dangers, and I am not there to
save you. I even dare to hope that you would wish to see me again;
but it is the Jew Caleb, and other men, who see you and make
offerings to your sweet beauty as I make them to your spirit. I
beseech you, Miriam, do not accept the offerings, lest in some day
to come, when I am once more a soldier, and have ceased to be a
custodian of busts, it should be the worse for those worshippers,
and especially for Caleb.

"What else have I to tell you? I have sought out some of the great
preachers of your faith, hoping that by the magic whereof they are
said to be masters, they would be able to assure me of your
welfare. But to my sorrow they gave me no magic--in which it seems
they do not deal--only maxims. Also, from these I bought for a
great sum certain manuscripts written by themselves containing the
doctrines of your law, which I intend to study so soon as I have
time. Indeed, this is a task which I wish to postpone, since did I
read I might believe and turn Christian, to serve in due course as
a night-light in Nero's gardens.

"I send you a present, praying that you will accept it. The emerald
in the ring is cut by my friend, the sculptor Glaucus. The pearls
are fine and have a history which I hope to tell you some day.
Wear them always, beloved Miriam, for my sake. I do not forget
your words; nay, I ponder them day and night. But at least you
said you loved me, and in wearing these trinkets you break no duty
to the dead. Write to me, I pray you, if you can find a messenger.
Or, if you cannot write, think of me always as I do of you. Oh,
that we were back together in that happy village of the Essenes,
to whom, as to yourself, be all good fortune! Farewell.

"Your ever faithful friend and lover,
"Marcus."

Miriam finished her letter, kissed it, and hid it in her bosom. Then
she opened the packet and unlocked the ivory box within by a key that
hung to it. Out of the casket she took a roll of soft leather. This
she undid and uttered a little cry of joy, for there lay a necklace of
the most lovely pearls that she had ever seen. Nor was this all, for
threaded on the pearls was a ring, and cut upon its emerald bezel the
head of Marcus, and her own head taken from the likeness she had given
him.

"Look! Nou, look!" said Miriam, showing her the beauteous trinkets.

"A sight to make old eyes glisten," answered Nehushta handling them.
"I know something of pearls, and these are worth a fortune. Happy
maid, to whom is given such a lover."

"Unhappy maid who can never be a happy wife," sighed Miriam, her blue
eyes filling with tears.

"Grieve not; that still may chance," answered Nehushta, as she
fastened the pearls about Miriam's neck. "At least you have heard from
him and he still loves you, which is much. Now for the ring--the
marriage finger--see, how it fits."

"Nay, I have no right," murmured Miriam; still she did not draw it off
again.

"Come, let us be going," said Nehushta, hiding the casket in her amble
robe, "for the sun sinks, and to-night there are guests to supper."

"What guests?" asked Miriam absently.

"Plotters, every one," said Nehushta, shrugging her shoulders. "The
great scheme to drive the Romans from the Holy City ripens fast, and
your grandsire waters its root. I pray that we may not all of us
gather bitter grapes from that vine. Have you heard that Caleb is back
in Tyre?"

"Caleb!" faltered Miriam, "No."

"Well, he is. He arrived yesterday and will be among the guests
to-night. He has been fighting up in the desert there, and bravely,
for I am told that he was one of those who seized the fortress of
Masada and put its Roman garrison to the sword."

"Then he is against the Romans?"

"Yes, because he hopes to rule the Jews, and risks much to gain more."

"I do not wish to meet him," said Miriam.

"Nay, but you must, and the sooner the better. Why do you fear the
man?"

"I know not, but fear him I do, now and always."



When Miriam entered the supper chamber that night, the guests to the
number of twelve were already seated on their couches, waiting for the
feast to begin. By her grandfather's command she was arrayed in her
richest robes fashioned and broidered after the Grecian fashion,
having her hair gathered into coils upon her head and held with a
golden net. Round her waist was a girdle of gold set with gems, about
her throat the necklace of pearls which Marcus had sent her, and on
her hand a single ring--that with his likeness and her own. As she
entered the great chamber, looking most lovely, notwithstanding her
lack of height, her grandfather came forward to meet her and present
her to the guests, who rose in greeting. One by one they bowed to her
and one by one she searched their faces with her eyes--faces for the
most part stern and fierce. Now all had passed and she sighed with
relief, for among them there was no Caleb. Even as she did so a
curtain swung aside and Caleb entered.

It was he, of that there could be no doubt; but oh! how changed since
last she had seen him two years before. Then he had been but a raw,
passionate youth; now he was a tall and splendid young man, very
handsome in his dark fashion, very powerful of frame also and quick of
limb. His person was matched by his attire, which was that of an
Eastern warrior noble, and his mien was proud and conquering. As he
advanced the guests bowed to him in respect, as to a man of great and
assured position who may become greater still. Yes, even Benoni showed
him this respect, stepping forward to greet him. All these greetings
Caleb acknowledged lightly, even haughtily, till of a sudden he saw
Miriam standing somewhat in the shadow, and heedless of the other
guests pushed his way towards her.

"Thus we meet again, Miriam," he said, his proud face softening as he
spoke and his eyes gazing on her with a sort of rapture. "Are you
pleased to see me?"

"Surely, Caleb," she answered. "Who would not be well pleased to meet
the playfellow of her childhood?"

He frowned, for childhood and its play were not in his thoughts.
Before he could speak again Benoni commanded the company to be seated,
whereon Miriam took her accustomed place as mistress of the house.

To her surprise Caleb seated himself beside her on the couch that
should have been reserved for the oldest guest, who for some moments
was left a wanderer and wrathful, till Benoni, seeing what had passed,
called him to his side. Then, golden vessels of scented water having
been handed by slaves to each guest in turn, the feast began. As
Miriam was about to dip her fingers in the water she remembered the
ring upon her left hand and turned the bezel inwards. Caleb noted the
action, but said nothing.

"Whence come you, Caleb?" she asked.

"From the wars, Miriam. We have thrown down the gate to Rome, and she
has picked it up."

She looked at him inquiringly and asked, "Was it wise?"

"Who can tell?" he answered. "At least it is done. For my part I
hesitated long, but your grandfather won me over, so now I must follow
my fate."

Then he began to tell her of the taking of Masada and of the bloody
struggles of the factions in Jerusalem.

After this he spoke of the Essenes, who still occupied their village,
though in fear, for all about them was much fighting; and of their
childish days together--talk which pleased her greatly. Whilst they
spoke thus, a messenger entered the room and whispered something into
the ear of Benoni, who raised his hands to Heaven as though in
gratitude.

"What tidings?" asked one.

"This, my friends. Cestius Gallus the Roman has been hunted from the
walls of Jerusalem and his army is destroyed in the pass of Beth-
horon."

"God be praised!" said the company as though with one voice.

"God be praised," repeated Caleb, "for so great and glorious a
victory! The accursed Romans are fallen indeed."

Only Miriam said nothing.

"What is in your mind?" he asked looking at her.

"That they will spring up again stronger than before," she replied,
then at a signal from Benoni, rose and left the feast.

From the supper chamber Miriam passed down a passage to the portico
and there seated herself, resting her arms upon the marble balustrade
and listening to the waves as they lapped against the walls below.

That day had been disturbed, different, indeed, from all the peaceful
days which she was wont to spend. First had come the messenger bearing
her lover's gifts and letter which already she longed to read again;
then hard upon his heels, like storm upon the sunshine, he who, unless
she was mistaken, still wished to be her lover--Caleb. How curious was
the lot of all three of them! How strangely had they been exalted!
She, the orphan ward of the Essenes, was now a great and wealthy lady
with everything her heart could desire--except one thing, indeed,
which it desired most of all. And Marcus, the debt-saddled Roman
soldier of fortune, he also, it seemed, had suddenly become great and
wealthy, pomps that he held at the price of playing some fool's part
in a temple to satisfy the whimsy of an Imperial madman.

Caleb, too, had found fortune, and in these tumultuous times risen
suddenly to place and power. All three of them were seated upon
pinnacles, but as Miriam felt, they were pinnacles of snow, which for
aught she knew, might be melted by the very sun of their prosperity.
She was young, she had little experience, yet as Miriam sat there
watching the changeful sea, there came upon her a great sense of the
instability of things, and an instinctive knowledge of their vanity.
The men who were great one day, whose names sounded in the mouths of
all, the next had vanished, disgraced or dead. Parties rose and
parties fell, high priest succeeded high priest, general supplanted
general, yet upon each and all of them, like the following waves that
rolled beneath her, came dark night and oblivion. A little dancing in
the sunshine, a little moaning in the shade, then death, and after
death----

"What are you thinking of, Miriam?" said a rich voice at her elbow,
the voice of Caleb.

She started, for here she believed herself alone, then answered:

"My thoughts matter nothing. Why are you here? You should be with your
fellow----"

"Conspirators. Why do you not say the word? Well, because sometimes
one wearies even of conspiracy. Just now we triumph and can take our
ease. I wish to make the most of it. What ring is that you wear upon
your finger?"

Miriam straightened herself and grew bold.

"One which Marcus sent me," she answered.

"I guessed as much. I have heard of him; he has become a creature of
the mad Nero, the laughing-stock of Rome."

"I do not laugh at him, Caleb."

"No, you were ever faithful. But, say, do you laugh at me?"

"Indeed not; why should I, since you seem to fill a great and
dangerous part with dignity?"

"Yes, Miriam, my part is both great and dangerous. I have risen high
and I mean to rise higher."

"How high?"

"To the throne of Judæa."

"I think a cottage stool would be more safe, Caleb."

"Mayhap, but I do not like such seats. Listen, Miriam, I will be great
or die. I have thrown in my lot with the Jews, and when we have cast
out the Romans I shall rule."

"/If/ you cast out the Romans, and /if/ you live. Caleb, I have no
faith in the venture. We are old friends, and I pray of you to escape
from it while there is yet time."

"Why, Miriam?"

"Because He Whom your people crucified and Whom I serve prophesied its
end. The Romans will crush you, Caleb. His blood lies heavy upon the
head of the Jews, and the hour of payment is at hand."

Caleb thought a while, and when he spoke again the note of confidence
had left his voice.

"It may be so, Miriam," he said, "though I put no faith in the sayings
of your prophet; but at least I have taken my part and will see the
play through. Now for the second time I ask you to share its fortunes.
I have not changed my mind. As I loved you in childhood and as a
youth, so I love you as a man. I offer to you a great career. In the
end I may fall, or I may triumph, still either the fall or the triumph
will be worth your sharing. A throne, or a glorious grave--both are
good; who can say which is the better? Seek them with me, Miriam."

"Caleb, I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because it is laid upon me as a birthright, or a birth-duty, that I
should wed no man who is not a Christian. You know the story."

"Then if there were no such duty would you wed me, Miriam?"

"No," she answered faintly.

"Why not?"

"Because I love another man whom also I am forbid to wed, and until
death I am pledged to him."

"The Roman, Marcus?"

"Aye, the Roman Marcus. See, I wear his ring," and she lifted her
hand, "and his gift is about my throat," and she touched the necklet
of pearls. "Till death I am his and his alone. This I say, because it
is best for all of us that you should know the truth."

Caleb ground his teeth in bitter jealousy.

"Then may death soon find him!" he said.

"It would not help you, Caleb. Oh! why cannot we be friends as we were
in the old times!"

"Because I seek more than friendship, and soon or late, in this way or
in that, I swear that I will have it."

As the words left his lips footsteps were heard, and Benoni appeared.

"Friend Caleb," he said, "we await you. Why, Miriam, what do you here?
To your chamber, girl. Affairs are afoot in which women should have no
part."

"Yet as I fear, grandfather, women will have to bear the burden,"
answered Miriam. Then, bowing to Caleb, she turned and left them.



CHAPTER XIII

WOE, WOE TO JERUSALEM

Two more years went by, two dreadful, bloody years. In Jerusalem the
factions tore each other. In Galilee let the Jewish leader Josephus,
under whom Caleb was fighting, do what he would, Vespasian and his
generals stormed city after city, massacring their inhabitants by
thousands and tens of thousands. In the coast towns and elsewhere
Syrians and Jews made war. The Jews assaulted Gadara and Gaulonitis,
Sebaste and Ascalon, Anthedon and Gaza, putting many to the sword.
Then came their own turn, for the Syrians and Greeks rose upon them
and slaughtered them without mercy. As yet, however, there had been no
blood shed in Tyre, though all knew that it must come. The Essenes,
who had been driven from their home by the Dead Sea and taken refuge
in Jerusalem, sent messengers to Miriam warning her to flee from Tyre,
where a massacre was being planned; warning her also not to come to
Jerusalem, which city they believed to be doomed, but to escape, if
possible over sea. Nor was this all, for her own people, the
Christians, besought her to fly for her life's sake with them to the
city of Pella, where they were gathering from Jerusalem and all Judæa.
To both Miriam answered that what her grandsire did, that she must do.
If he fled, she would fly; if he stayed at Tyre, she would stay; if he
went to Jerusalem, she would go; for he had been good to her and she
had sworn that while he lived she would not desert him. So the Essene
messengers went back to Jerusalem, and the Christian elders prayed
with her, and having blessed her and consigned her to the care of the
Most High and His Son, their Lord, departed to Pella, where, as it was
fated, through all those dreadful times not a hair of their heads was
touched.

When she had parted from them, Miriam sought out her grandfather, whom
she found pacing his chamber with a troubled air.

"Why do you look so sad, Miriam?" he asked. "Have some of your friends
warned you that new sorrows are afoot?"

"Yes, grandfather," and she told him all.

"I do not believe them," he said passionately. "Say, do you? Where is
their authority? I tell you that we shall triumph. Vespasian is now
Emperor in Rome, and there will forget this little land; and the rest,
those enemies who are of our own house and those without it, we will
conquer and kill. The Messiah will come, the true Messiah. Many signs
and wonders declare that he is at hand. Ay! I myself have had a vision
concerning him. He will come, and he will conquer, and Jerusalem shall
be great and free and see her desire upon her enemies. I ask--where is
your authority for these croakings?"

Miriam drew a roll from her robe and read: "But when ye see Jerusalem
compassed with armies, then know that her desolation is at hand. Then
let them which are in Judæa flee unto the mountains; and let them
which are in the midst of her depart out; and let not them that are in
the country enter therein. For these are days of vengeance, that all
things that are written may be fulfilled. Woe to them that are with
child and to them that give suck in those days! for there shall be
great distress upon the land and wrath unto this people. And they
shall fall by the edge of the sword, and shall be led captive into all
the nations; and Jerusalem shall be trodden down of the Gentiles until
the times of the Gentiles be fulfilled."

Benoni listened patiently until she had done. Then he answered with
contempt:

"So says the book of your Law, but mine tells me otherwise. Well,
child, if you believe it and are afraid, begone with your friends, the
Christians, and leave me to meet this storm alone."

"I do believe it," she answered quietly, "but I am not afraid."

"That is strange," he said, "since you must then believe also that you
will come to a cruel death, which has terrors for the young and fair."

"Not so, grandfather, for this same writing promises that in these
troubles not one of us Christians shall perish. It is for you that I
fear, not for myself, who will go where you go, and bide where you
bide. Therefore, once more, and for the last time, I pray you to be
wise and fly--who otherwise must be slain"; and as Miriam said the
words her blue eyes filled with tears.

Benoni looked at her and for a moment his courage was shaken.

"Of your book I take no account," he said, "but in the vision of your
pure spirit I am tempted to believe. Perhaps the things that you
foresee will happen, so, child, fly. You will not lack an escort and I
can give you treasure."

She shook her head. "I have said that I will not go without you."

"Then I fear that you here must bide, for I will not leave my wealth
and home, even to save my life, and still less will I desert my people
in their holy war. Only, Miriam, if things fall out ill for us,
remember that I entreated you to depart, and do not reproach me."

"That I shall never do," she answered, smiling, and coming to the old
man kissed him tenderly.

So they abode on in Tyre, and a week later the storm burst.

For many days it had not been safe for Jews to show themselves in the
streets of the city, since several who crept out about their business,
or to fetch water or provisions, had been set upon and beaten to death
by the mob, stirred up to the work by Roman emissaries. This time
Benoni had employed in putting his house, which was part of an ancient
fortress that had stood many a siege, into a state of defence, and in
supplying it with an ample store of victuals. Also he sent messengers
to Caleb, who was said to be in command of the Jewish force at Joppa,
telling him of their peril. Because it was so strong many of the
principal Jews in Tyre, to the number of over a hundred indeed, had
flocked into Benoni's palace-fortress, together with their wives and
children, since there was no other place in their power in the town
which could be so easily defended. Lastly, in the outer courts and
galleries were stationed fifty or more faithful servants and slaves
who understood the use of arms.

Thus things remained, the Syrians threatening them through the gates
or from the windows of high houses, and no more, till one night Miriam
was awakened by a dreadful sound of screaming. She sprang from her bed
and instantly Nehushta was at her side.

"What happens?" she gasped as she dressed herself hastily.

"Those Syrian dogs attack the Jews," answered Nehushta, "on the
mainland and in the lower city. Come to the roof, whence we can see
what passes," and hand in hand they ran to the sea-portico and up its
steep steps.

The dawn was just breaking, but looking from the walled roof they had
no need of its light, since everywhere in the dim city below and in
Palætyrus on the mainland, houses flared like gigantic torches. In
their red glare they could see the thousands of the attackers dragging
out their inmates to death, or thrusting them back into the flames,
while the night was made horrible with the shouts of the maddened mob,
the cries of the victims and the crackling roar of burning houses.

"Oh! Christ have mercy on them," sobbed Miriam.

"Why should He?" asked Nehushta. "They slew Him and rejected Him; now
they pay the price He prophesied. May He have mercy on us, His
servants."

"He would not have spoken thus," said Miriam indignantly.

"Nay, but justice speaks. Those who take the sword shall perish by the
sword. Even so have these Jews done to the Greeks and Syrians in many
of the cities--they who are blind and mad. Now it is their hour, and
mayhap ours. Come, lady, these are no sights for you, though you might
do well to learn to bear them, since if you escape you may see many
such. Come, and if you wish we will pray for these Jews, especially
for their children, who are innocent, and for ourselves."

That day at noon, most of the poorer and least protected Jews of the
city having been killed, the Syrians began their attack upon the
fortified palace of Benoni. Now it was that the defenders learned that
they had to deal with no mere rabble, but with savage hordes, many
thousands strong, directed by officers skilled in war. Indeed these
men might be seen moving among them, and from their armour and
appearance it was easy to guess that they were Romans. This, in fact,
was the case, since Gessius Florus, the wicked, and after him other
officers, made it part of their policy to send Romans to stir up the
Syrians against the Jews and to assist them in their slaughter.

First an attack was made upon the main gates, but when it was found
that these were too strong to be taken easily, the assailants
retreated with a loss of a score of men shot by the defenders from the
wall. Then other tactics were adopted, for the Syrians, possessing
themselves of the neighbouring houses, began to gall the garrison with
arrows from the windows. Thus they drove them under cover, but did
little more, since the palace was all of marble with cemented roofs,
and could not be fired with the burning shafts they sent down upon it.

So the first day passed, and during the night no attack was made upon
them. When dawn came they learned the reason, for there opposite to
the gates was reared a great battering-ram; moreover, out at sea a
huge galley was being rowed in as close to their walls as the depth of
water would allow, that from her decks the sailors might hurl stones
and siege arrows by means of catapults and thus break down their
defences and destroy them.

Then it was that the real fight began. The Jews posted on the roof of
the house poured arrows on the men who strove to work the ram, and
killed many of them, till they were able to push the instrument so
close that it could no longer be commanded. Now it got to work and
with three blows of the great baulk of timber, of which the ram was
fashioned, burst in the gates. Thereon the defenders, headed by old
Benoni himself, rushed out and put those who served it to the sword;
then before they could be overcome, retreated across the ditch to the
inner wall, breaking down the wooden bridge behind them. Now, since
the ram was of no further use, as it could not be dragged through the
ditch, the galley, that was anchored within a hundred paces, began to
hurl huge stones and arrows at them, knocking down the walls and
killing several, including two women and three children.

Thus matters went on till noon, the besiegers galling them with their
arrows from the land side and the galley battering them from the sea,
while they could do little or nothing in return, having no engines.
Benoni called a council and set out the case, which was desperate
enough. It was evident, he said, that they could not hold out another
day, since at nightfall the Syrians would cross the narrow protecting
ditch and set up a battering-ram against the inner wall. Therefore,
they must do one of two things--sally out and attempt to cut their way
through and gain open country, or fight on and at the last kill the
women and children and rush out, those that were left of them, to be
hacked down by the besieging thousands. As the first plan gave no
hope, since, cumbered as they were with helpless people, they could
not expect to escape the city, in their despair they decided on the
second. All must die, therefore they would perish by each other's
hands. When this decision was known, a wail went up from the women and
the children began to scream with fright, those of them who were old
enough to understand their doom.

Nehushta caught Miriam by the arm.

"Come to the highest roof," she said; "it is safe from the stones and
arrows, and thence, if need be, we can hurl ourselves into the water
and die an easy death."

So they went and crouched there, praying, for their case was
desperate. Suddenly Nehushta touched Miriam and pointed to the sea.
She looked and saw another galley approaching fast as oars and sails
could bring her.

"What of it?" she asked heavily. "It will but hasten the end."

"Nay," replied Nehushta, "this ship is Jewish; she does not fly the
Eagles, or a Phœnician banner. Behold! the Syrian vessel is getting up
her anchors and preparing for fight."

It was true enough, for now the oars of the Syrian shot out and she
forged ahead towards the newcomer. But just then the current caught
her, laying her broadside on, whereon the Jewish ship, driven by the
following wind, shifted her helm and, amidst a mighty shouting from
sea and shore, drove down upon her, striking her amidships with its
beak so that she heeled over. Then there was more tumult, and Miriam
closed her eyes to shut out the horrid sight.

When she opened them again the Syrian galley had vanished, only the
water was spotted with black dots which were the heads of men.

"Gallantly done!" screamed Nehushta. "See, she anchors and puts out
her boats; they will save us yet. Down to the water-gate!"

On their way they met Benoni coming to seek them, and with him won the
steps which were already crowded with fugitives. The two boats of the
galley drew near and in the bow of the first of them stood a tall and
noble-looking figure.

"It is Caleb," said Miriam, "Caleb who has come to save us."

Caleb it was indeed. At a distance of ten paces from the steps he
halted his boat and called aloud:

"Benoni, Lady Miriam and Nehushta, if you still live, stand forward."

They stood forward.

"Now wade into the sea," he cried again, and they waded out until the
water reached their armpits, when they were seized one by one and
dragged into the boat. Many followed them and were also dragged in,
until that boat and the other were quite full, whereon they turned and
were rowed to the galley. Having embarked them, the two boats went
back and again were filled with fugitives, for the most part women and
children.

Again they went, but as they laded for the third time, the ends of
ladders appeared above the encircling walls of the steps, and Syrians
could be seen rushing out upon the portico, whence they began to lower
themselves with ropes. The end of that scene was dreadful. The boats
were full, till the water indeed began to overflow their gunwales, but
many still remained upon the steps or rushed into the water, women
screaming and holding their children above their heads, and men
thrusting them aside in the mad rush for life. The boats rowed off,
some who could swim following them. For the rest, their end was the
sword. In all, seventy souls were rescued.

Miriam flung herself downwards upon the deck of the galley and burst
into tears, crying out:

"Oh! save them! Can no one save them?" while Benoni seated at her
side, the water running from his blood-stained garment, moaned:

"My house sacked; my wealth taken; my people slain by the Gentiles!"

"Thank God Who has saved us," broke in old Nehushta, "God and Caleb;
and as for you, master, blame yourself. Did not we Christians warn you
of what was to come? Well, as it has been in the beginning, so it
shall be in the end."

Just then Caleb appeared before them, proud and flushed with triumph,
as he well might be who had done great things and saved Miriam from
the sword. Benoni rose and, casting his arms about his neck, embraced
him.

"Behold your deliverer!" he said to Miriam, and stooping down, he drew
her to her feet.

"I thank you, Caleb. I can say no more," she murmured; but in her
heart she knew that God had delivered her and that Caleb was but His
instrument.

"I am well repaid," answered Caleb gravely. "For me this has been a
fortunate day, who on it have sunk the great Syrian galley and rescued
the woman--whom I love."

"Oath or no oath," broke in Benoni, bethinking him of what he had
promised in the past, "the life you saved is yours, and if I have my
way you shall take her and such of her heritage as remains."

"Is this a time to speak of such things?" said Miriam, looking up.
"See yonder," and she pointed to the scene in progress on the
seashore. "They drive our friends and servants into the sea and drown
them," and once more she began to weep.

Caleb sighed. "Cease from useless tears, Miriam. We have done our best
and it is the fortune of war. I dare not send out the boats again even
if the mariners would listen to my command. Nehushta, lead your lady
to the cabin and strip her of these wet garments lest she take cold in
this bitter wind. But first, Benoni, what is your mind?"

"To go to my cousin Mathias, the high priest at Jerusalem," answered
the old man, "who has promised to give me shelter if in these days any
can be found."

"Nay," broke in Nehushta, "sail for Egypt."

"Where also they massacre the Jews by thousands till the streets of
Alexandria run with their blood," replied Caleb with sarcasm; adding,
"Well, to Egypt I cannot take you who must bring this ship to those
who await her on this side of Joppa, whence I am summoned to
Jerusalem."

"Whither and nowhere else I will go," said Benoni, "to share in my
nation's death or triumph. If Miriam wills it, I have told her she can
leave me."

"What I have said before I say again," replied Miriam, "that I will
never do."

Then Nehushta took her to the cabin, and presently the oars began to
beat and the great galley stood out of the harbour, till in the
silence of the sea the screams of the victims and the shouts of the
victors died away, and as night fell naught could be seen of Tyre but
the flare from the burning houses of the slaughtered Jews.

Save for the sobs and cries of the fugitives who had lost their
friends and goods the night passed in quiet, since, although it was
winter, the sea was calm and none pursued their ship. At daybreak she
anchored, and coming from the cabin with Nehushta, in the light of the
rising sun Miriam saw before her a ridge of rocks over which the water
poured, and beyond it a little bay backed by a desolate coast.
Nehushta also saw and sighed.

"What is this place?" asked Miriam.

"Lady, it is the spot where you were born. On yonder flat rock lay the
vessel, and there I burned her many years ago. See those blackened
timbers half buried in the sand upon the beach; doubtless they are her
ribs."

"It is strange that I should return hither, and thus, Nou," said
Miriam sighing.

"Strange, indeed, but mayhap there is a meaning in it. Before you came
in storm to grow to womanhood in peace; now, perchance, you come on a
peaceful sea to pass through womanhood in storm."

"Both journeys began with death, Nou."

"As all journeys end. Blackness behind and blackness in front, and
between them a space of sunshine and shadow--that is the law. Yet have
no fear, for dead Anna, who had the gift of prophecy, foretold that
you should live out your life, though with me, whose days are almost
done, it may be otherwise."

Miriam's face grew troubled.

"I fear neither life nor death, Nou, who am willing to meet either as
may chance. But to part with you--ah! that thought makes me fear."

"I think that it will not be yet awhile," said Nehushta, "for although
I am old, I still have work to do before I lay me down and sleep.
Come, Caleb calls us. We are to disembark while the weather holds."

So Miriam entered the boat with her grandfather and others who had
escaped, for the faces of all of them were set towards Jerusalem, and
was rowed to the shore over that very rock where first she drew her
breath. Here they found Jews who had been watching for the coming of
the galley. These men gave them a kind reception, and, what they
needed even more, food, fire and some beasts of burden for their
journey.

When all were gathered on the beach Caleb joined them, having handed
over the galley to another Jew, who was to depart in her with those
that waited on the shore, upon some secret mission of intercepting
Roman corn-ships. When these men heard what he had done at Tyre, at
first they were inclined to be angry, since they said that he had no
authority to risk the vessel thus, but afterwards, seeing that he had
succeeded, and with no loss of men, praised him and said that it was a
very great deed.

So the galley put about and sailed away, and they, to the number of
some sixty souls, began their journey to Jerusalem. A little while
later they came to a village, the same where Nehushta had found the
peasant and his wife, whose inhabitants, at the sight of them, fled,
thinking that they were one of the companies of robbers that hunted
the land in packs, like wolves, plundering or murdering all they met.
When they learnt the truth, however, these people returned and heard
their story in silence, for in those days such tales were common
enough. As it came to an end a withered, sunburned woman advanced to
Nehushta, and, laying one hand upon her arm, pointed with the other at
Miriam, saying:

"Tell me, friend, is that the babe I suckled?"

Then Nehushta, knowing her to be the nurse who had travelled with them
to the village of the Essenes, greeted her, and answered "Yea,"
whereupon the woman cast her arms about Miriam and embraced her.

"Day by day," she said, "have I thought of you, little one, and now
that my eyes have seen you grown so sweet and fair, I care not--I
whose husband is dead and who have no children--how soon they close
upon the world." Then she blessed her, and called upon her angel to
protect her yonder in Jerusalem, and found her food and an ass to
ride; and so they parted, to meet no more.

As it happened, they were fortunate upon that journey, since, with the
armed guard of twenty men who accompanied Caleb, they were too strong
a party to be attacked by the wandering bands of thieves, and,
although it was reported that Titus and his army had already reached
Cæsarea from Egypt, they met no Romans. Indeed, their only enemy was
the cold, which proved so bitter that when, on the second night, they
camped upon the heights over against Jerusalem, having no tents and
fearing to light fires, they were obliged to walk about till daylight
to keep their blood astir. Then it was that they saw strange and
terrible things.

In the clear sky over Jerusalem blazed a great comet, in appearance
like a sword of fire. It was true that they had seen it before at
Tyre, but never before had it shown so bright. Moreover, there it had
not the appearance of a sword. This they thought to be an ill omen,
all of them except Benoni, who said that the point of the sword
stretched out over Cæsarea, presaging the destruction of the Romans by
the hand of God. Towards dawn, the pale, unnatural lustre of the comet
faded, and the sky grew overcast and stormy. At length the sun came
up, when, to their marvelling eyes, the fiery clouds took strange
shapes.

"Look, look!" said Miriam, grasping her grandfather by the arm, "there
are armies in the heavens, and they fight together."

They looked, and, sure enough, it seemed as though two great hosts
were there embattled. They could discern the legions, the wind-blown
standards, the charging chariots, and the squadrons of impetuous
horse. The firmament had become a battle-ground, and lo! it was red as
with the blood of the fallen, while the air was full of strange and
dreadful sounds, bred, perhaps, of wind and distant thunder, that came
to them like the wail of the vanquished and the dull roar of
triumphant armies. So terrified were they at the sight, that they
crouched upon the ground and hid their faces in their hands. Only old
Benoni standing up, his white beard and robes stained red by the
ominous light, cried out that this celestial scene foretold the
destruction of the enemies of God.

"Ay!" said Nehushta, "but which enemies?"

The tall Caleb, marching on his round of the camp, echoed:

"Yes, which enemies?"

Suddenly the light grew, all these fantastic shapes melted into a red
haze, which sank down till Jerusalem before them seemed as though she
floated in an ocean of blood and fire. Then a dark cloud came up and
for a while the holy Hill of Zion vanished utterly away. It passed,
the blue sky reappeared, and lo! the clear light streamed upon her
marble palaces and clustered houses, and was reflected from the golden
roofs of the Temple. So calm and peaceful did the glorious city look
that none would have deemed indeed that she was already nothing but a
slaughter-house, where factions fought furiously, and day by day
hundreds of Jews perished beneath the knives of their own brethren.

Caleb gave the word to break their camp, and with bodies shivering in
the cold and spirits terrified by fear, they marched across the rugged
hills towards the Joppa gate, noting as they passed into the valley
that the country had been desolated, for but little corn sprang in the
fields, and that was trodden down, while of flocks and herds they saw
none. Reaching the gate they found it shut, and there were challenged
by soldiers, wild-looking men with ferocious faces of the army of
Simon of Gerasa that held the Lower City.

"Who are you and what is your business?" these asked.

Caleb set out his rank and titles, and as these did not seem to
satisfy them Benoni explained that the rest of them were fugitives
from Tyre, where there had been a great slaughter of the Jews.

"Fugitives always have money; best kill them," said the captain of the
gate. "Doubtless they are traitors and deserve to die."

Caleb grew angry and commanded them to open, asking by what right they
dared to exclude him, a high officer who had done great service in the
wars.

"By the right of the strong," they answered. "Those who let in Simon
have to deal with Simon. If you are of the party of John or of Eleazer
go to the Temple and knock upon its doors," and they pointed mockingly
to the gleaming gates above.

"Has it come to this, then," asked Benoni, "that Jew eats Jew in
Jerusalem, while the Roman wolves raven round the walls? Man, we are
of no party, although, as I think, my name is known and honoured by
all parties--the name of Benoni of Tyre. I demand to be led, not to
Simon, or to John, or to Eleazer, but to my cousin, Mathias, the high
priest, who bids us here."

"Mathias, the high priest," said the captain; "that is another matter.
Well, this Mathias let us into the city, where we have found good
quarters, and good plunder; so as one turn deserves another, we may as
well let in his friends. Pass, cousin of Mathias the high priest, with
all your company," and he opened the gate.

They entered and marched up the narrow streets towards the Temple. It
was the hour of the day when all men should be stirring and busy with
their work, but lo! the place was desolate--yes, although so crowded,
it still was desolate. On the pavement lay bodies of men and women
slain in some midnight outrage. From behind the lattices of the
windows they caught sight of the eyes of hundreds peeping at them, but
none gave them a good-morrow, or said one single word. The silence of
death seemed to brood upon the empty thoroughfares. Presently it was
broken by a single wailing voice that reached their ears from so far
away that they could not catch its meaning. Nearer and nearer it came,
till at length in the dark and narrow street they caught sight of a
thin, white-bearded figure, naked to the waist as though to show the
hideous scars and rod-weals with which its back and breast were
scored, still festering, some of them. This was the man who uttered
the cries, and these were the words he spoke:

"A voice from the East! a voice from the West! a voice from the four
Winds! a voice against Jerusalem and against the Temple! a voice
against the bridegrooms and the brides! a voice against the whole
people! Woe, woe to Jerusalem!"

Now he was upon them, yes, and marching through them as though he saw
them not, although they shrank to one side and the other of the narrow
street to avoid the touch of this ominous, unclean creature who
scarcely seemed to be a man.

"Fellow, what do these words mean?" cried Benoni in angry fear. But,
taking no heed, his pale eyes fixed upon the heavens, the wanderer
answered only, "Woe, woe to Jerusalem! Woe to you who come up to
Jerusalem!"

So he passed on, still uttering those awful words, till at length they
lost sight of his naked form and the sound of his crying grew faint
and died away.

"What a fearful greeting is this!" said Miriam, wringing her hands.

"Ay!" answered Nehushta, "but the farewell will be worse. The place is
doomed and all in it."

Only Caleb said, striving to look unconcerned:

"Have no fear, Miriam. I know the man. He is mad."

"Where does wisdom end and madness begin?" asked Nehushta.

Then they went on towards the gates of the Temple, always through the
same blood-stained, empty streets.



CHAPTER XIV

THE ESSENES FIND THEIR QUEEN AGAIN

They went on towards the gates of the Temple, but many a long day was
destined to go by ere Miriam reached them. The entrance by which they
were told they must approach if they sought speech of the high priest,
was one of the two Huldah Gates on the south side of the Royal
Cloister, and thither they came across the valley of Tyropæon. As they
drew near to them of a sudden that gate which stood most to the east
was flung wide, and out of it issued a thousand or more of armed men,
like ants from a broken nest, who, shouting and waving swords, rushed
towards their company. As it chanced, at the moment they were in the
centre of an open space that once had been covered with houses but was
now cumbered with hundreds of blackened and tottering walls, for fire
had devoured them.

"It is the men of John who attack us," cried a voice, whereon, moved
by a common impulse, the little band turned and fled for shelter among
the ruined houses; yes, even Caleb and Benoni fled.

Before they reached them, lo! from these crumbling walls that they had
thought untenanted save by wandering dogs, out rushed another body of
savage warriors, the men of Simon who held the Lower City.

After this, Miriam knew little of what happened. Swords and spears
flashed round her, the factions fell upon each other, slaughtering
each other. She saw Caleb cut down one of the soldiers of John, to be
instantly assaulted in turn by a soldier of Simon, since all desired
to kill, but none cared whom they slew. She saw her grandfather
rolling over and over on the ground in the grip of a man who looked
like a priest; she saw women and children pierced with spears. Then
Nehushta seized her by the hand, and plunging a knife into the arm of
a man who would have stayed them, dragged her away. They fled, an
arrow sang past her ear; something struck her on the foot. Still they
fled, whither she knew not, till at length the sound of the tumult
died away. But not yet would Nehushta stop, for she feared that they
might be followed. So on they went, and on, meeting few and heeded by
none, till at length Miriam sank to the ground, worn out with fear and
flight.

"Up," said Nehushta.

"I cannot," she answered. "Something has hurt my foot. See, it
bleeds!"

Nehushta looked about her, and saw that they were outside the second
wall in the new city of Bezetha, not far from the old Damascus Gate,
for there, to their right and a little behind them, rose the great
tower of Antonia. Beneath this wall were rubbish-heaps, foul-smelling
and covered over with rough grasses and some spring flowers, which
grew upon the slopes of the ancient fosse. Here seemed a place where
they might lie hid awhile, since there were no houses and it was
unsavoury. She dragged Miriam to her feet, and, notwithstanding her
complaints and swollen ankle, forced her on, till they came to a spot
where, as it is to-day, the wall was built upon foundations of living
rock, roughly shaped, and lined with crevices covered by tall weeds.
To one of these crevices Nehushta brought Miriam, and, seating her on
a bed of grass, examined her foot, which seemed to have been bruised
by a stone from a sling. Having no water with which to wash the
bleeding hurt, she made a poultice of crushed herbs and tied it about
the ankle with a strip of linen. Even before she had finished her
task, so exhausted was Miriam that she fell fast asleep. Nehushta
watched her a while, wondering what they should do next, till, in that
lonely place bathed by the warm spring sun, she also began to doze.

Suddenly she awoke with a start, having dreamed that she saw a man
with white face and beard peering at them from behind a rough angle of
rock. She stared: there was the rock as she had dreamed of it, but no
man. She looked upward. Above them, piled block upon gigantic block,
rose the wall, towering and impregnable. Thither he could not have
gone, since on it only a lizard could find foothold. Nor was he
anywhere else, for there was no cover; so she decided that he must
have been some searcher of the rubbish-heap, who, seeing them hidden
in the tall grasses, had fled away. Miriam was still sound asleep, and
in her weariness presently Nehushta again began to doze, till at
length--it may have been one hour later, or two or three, she knew not
--some sound disturbed her. Opening her eyes, once more behind that
ridge of rock she saw, not one white-bearded face, but two, staring at
her and Miriam. As she sat up they vanished. She remained still,
pretending to sleep, and again they appeared, scanning her closely and
whispering to each other in eager tones. Suddenly one of the faces
turned a little so that the light fell on it. Now Nehushta knew why in
her dream it had seemed familiar, and in her heart thanked God.

"Brother Ithiel," she said in a quiet voice, "why do you hide like a
coney in these rocks?"

Both heads disappeared, but the sound of whispering continued. Then
one of them rose again among the green grasses as a man might rise out
of water. It was Ithiel's.

"It is indeed you, Nehushta?" said his well-remembered voice.

"Who else?" she asked.

"And that lady who sleeps at your side?"

"Once they called her Queen of the Essenes; now she is a hunted
fugitive, waiting to be massacred by Simon, or John, or Eleazer, or
Zealots, or Sicarii, or any other of the holy cut-throats who inhabit
this Holy City," answered Nehushta bitterly.

Ithiel raised his hands as though in thankfulness, then said:

"Hush! hush! Here the very birds are spies. Brother, creep to that
rock and look if any men are moving."

The Essene obeyed, and answered, "None; and they cannot see us from
the wall."

Ithiel motioned to him to return.

"Does she sleep sound?" he asked of Nehushta, pointing to Miriam.

"Like the dead."

Then, after another whispered conference, the pair of them crept round
the angle of the rock. Bidding Nehushta follow them, they lifted the
sleeping Miriam, and carried her between them through a dense growth
of shrubs to another rock. Here they moved some grass and pushed aside
a stone, revealing a hole not much larger than a jackal would make.
Into this the brother entered, heels first. Then Nehushta, by his
directions, taking the feet of the senseless Miriam, with her help he
bore her into the hole, that opened presently into a wide passage.
Last of all Ithiel, having lifted the grasses which their feet had
trodden, followed them, pulling the stone back to its place, and
cutting off the light. Once more they were in darkness, but this did
not seem to trouble the brethren, for again lifting Miriam, they went
forward a distance of thirty or forty paces, Nehushta holding on to
Ithiel's robe. Now, at length, the cold air of this cave, or perhaps
its deep gloom and the motion, awoke Miriam from her swoon-like sleep.
She struggled in their hands, and would have cried out, had not
Nehushta bade her to be silent.

"Where am I?" she said. "Is this the hall of death?"

"Nay, lady. Wait a while, all shall be explained."

While she spoke and Miriam clung to her affrighted, Ithiel struck iron
and flint together. Catching the spark upon tinder he blew it to a
flame and lighted a taper which burnt up slowly, causing his white
beard and face to appear by degrees out of the darkness, like that of
a ghost rising from the tomb.

"Oh! surely I am dead," said Miriam, "for before me stands the spirit
of my uncle Ithiel."

"Not the spirit, Miriam, but the flesh," answered the old man in a
voice that trembled with joy. Then, since he could restrain himself no
longer, he gave the taper to the brother, and, taking her in his arms,
kissed her again and again.

"Welcome, most dear child," he said; "yes, even to this darksome den,
welcome, thrice welcome, and blessed be the eternal God Who led our
feet forth to find you. Nay, do not stop to talk, we are still too
near the wall. Give me your hand and come."

Miriam glanced up as she obeyed, and by the feeble light of the taper
saw a vast rocky roof arching above them. On either side of her also
were walls of rough-hewn rock down which dripped water, and piled upon
the floor or still hanging half-cut from the roof, boulders large
enough to fashion a temple column.

"What awful place is this, my uncle?" she asked.

"The cavern whence Solomon, the great king, drew stone for the
building of the Temple. Look, here are his mason's marks upon the
wall. Here he fashioned the blocks and thus it happened that no sound
of saw or hammer was heard within the building. Doubtless also other
kings before and since his day have used this quarry, as no man knows
its age."

While he spoke thus he was leading her onwards over the rough, stone-
hewn floor, where the damp gathered in little pools. Following the
windings of the cave they turned once, then again and yet again, so
that soon Miriam was utterly bewildered and could not have found her
way back to the entrance for her life's sake. Moreover, the air had
become so hot and stifling that she could scarcely breathe.

"It will be better presently," said Ithiel, noticing her distress, as
he drew her limping after him into what seemed to be a natural crevice
of rock hardly large enough to allow the passage of his body. Along
this crevice they scrambled for eight or ten paces, to find themselves
suddenly in a tunnel lined with masonry, and so large that they could
stand upright.

"Once it was a watercourse," explained Ithiel, "that filled the great
tank, but now it has been dry for centuries."

Down this darksome shaft hobbled Miriam, till presently it ended in a
wall, or what seemed to be a wall--for when Ithiel pressed upon a
stone it turned. Beyond it the tunnel continued for twenty or thirty
paces, leading them at length into a vast chamber with arched roof and
cemented sides and bottom, which in some bygone age had been a water-
tank. Here lights were burning, and even a charcoal fire, at which a
brother was engaged in cooking. Also the air was pure and sweet,
doubtless because of the winding water-channels that ran upwards. Nor
did the place lack inhabitants, for there, seated in groups round the
tapers, or watching the cooking over the charcoal fire, were forty or
fifty men, still clad, for the most part, in the robes of the Essenes.

"Brethren," cried Ithiel, in answer to the challenge of one who was
set to watch the entry, "I bring back to you her whom we lost a while
ago, the lady Miriam."

They heard, and seizing the tapers, ran forward.

"It is she!" they cried, "our queen and none other, and with her
Nehushta the Libyan! Welcome, welcome, a thousand times, dear lady!"

Miriam greeted them one and all, and before these greetings were
finished they brought her food to eat, rough but wholesome, also good
wine and sweet water. Then while she ate she heard all their story. It
seemed that more than a year ago the Romans, marching on Jericho, had
fallen upon their village and put a number of them to death, seizing
others as slaves. Thereon the remnant fled to Jerusalem, where many
more perished, for, being peaceable folk, all the factions robbed and
slew them. Seeing, at last, that to live at large in the city would be
to doom themselves to extinction, and yet not daring to leave it, they
sought a refuge in this underground place, of which, as it chanced,
one of their brethren had the secret. This he had inherited from his
father, so that it was known to no other living man.

Here by degrees they laid up a great store of provisions of all sorts,
of charcoal for burning, and other necessaries, carrying into the
place also clothes, bedding, cooking utensils and even some rough
furniture. These preparations being made, the fifty of them who
remained removed themselves to the vaults where now they had already
dwelt three months, and here, so far as was possible, continued to
practise the rules of their order. Miriam asked how they kept their
health in this darkness, to which they replied that sometimes they
went out by that path which she had just followed, and mingled with
the people in the city, returning to their hole at night. Ithiel and
his companion were on such a journey when they found her. Also they
had another passage to the upper air which they would show her later.

When Miriam had finished eating, dressed her hurt, and rested a while,
they took her to explore the wonders of the place. Beyond this great
cistern, that was their common room, lay more to the number of six or
seven, one of the smallest of which was given to Nehushta and herself
to dwell in. Others were filled with stores enough to last them all
for months. Last of all was a cave, not very large, but deep, which
always held sweet water. Doubtless there was a spring at the bottom of
it, which, when the other rain-fed tanks grew dry, still kept it
supplied. From this cistern that had been used for generations after
the others were abandoned, a little stair ran upwards, worn smooth by
the feet of folk long dead, who had come hither to draw water.

"Where does it lead?" asked Miriam.

"To the ruined tower above," answered Ithiel. "Nay, another time I
will show you. Now your place is made ready for you, go, let Nehushta
bathe your foot, and sleep, for you must need it sorely."

So Miriam went and laid herself down to rest in the little cemented
vault which was to be her home for four long months; and being worn
out, notwithstanding the sufferings she had passed and her fears for
her grandfather, slept there as soundly as ever she had done in her
wind-swept chamber at the palace of Tyre, or in her house at the
village of the Essenes.

When she awoke and saw the darkness all about her, she thought that it
must be night; then remembering that in this place it was always
night, called to Nehushta, who uncovered the little lamp that burned
in a corner of the vault, and went out, to return presently with the
news that according to the Essenes, it was day. So she rose and put on
her robes, and they passed together into the great chamber. Here they
found the Essenes at prayer and making their reverences to the sun
which they could not see, after which they ate their morning meal. Now
Miriam spoke to Ithiel, telling him of her trouble about her
grandfather, who, if he himself still lived, would think that she was
dead.

"One thing is certain," replied her great-uncle: "that you shall not
go out to seek him, nor must you tell him of your hiding-place, since
soon or late this might mean that all of us would be destroyed, if
only for the sake of the food which we have hoarded."

Miriam asked if she could not send a message. He answered:

"No, since none would dare to take it." In the end, however, after she
had pleaded with him long and earnestly, it was agreed that she should
write the words, "I am safe and well, but in a place that I must not
tell you of," and sign her name upon a piece of parchment. This letter
Ithiel, who purposed to creep out into the city that evening disguised
as a beggar, to seek for tidings, said he would take, and, if might
be, bribe some soldier to deliver it to Benoni at the house of the
high priest, if he were there.

So Miriam wrote the letter, and at nightfall Ithiel and another
brother departed, taking it with them.

On the following morning they returned, safe, but with a dreadful tale
of the slaughters in the city and in the Temple courts, where the mad
factions still fought furiously.

"Your tidings, my uncle?" said Miriam, rising to meet him. "Does he
still live?"

"Be of good comfort," he answered. "Benoni reached the house of
Mathias in safety, and Caleb also, and now they are sheltering within
the Temple walls. This much I had from one of the high priest's
guards, who, for the price of a piece of gold I gave him, swore that
he would deliver the letter without fail. But, child, I will take no
more, for that soldier eyed me curiously and said it was scarcely safe
for beggars to carry gold."

Miriam thanked him for his goodness and his news, saying that they
lifted a weight from her heart.

"I have other tidings that may perhaps make it lighter still," went on
the old man, looking at her sideways. "Titus with a mighty host draws
near to Jerusalem from Cæsarea."

"There is no joy in that tale," replied Miriam, "for it means that the
Holy City will be besieged and taken."

"Nay, but among that host is one who, if all the stories are true,"
and again he glanced at her face, "would rather take you than the
city."

"Who?" she said, pressing her hands against her heart and turning
redder than the lamplight.

"One of Titus' prefects of horse, the noble Roman, Marcus, whom in
byegone days you knew by the banks of Jordan."

Now the red blood fled back to Miriam's heart, and she turned so faint
that had not the wall been near at hand she would have fallen.

"Marcus?" she said. "Well, he swore that he would come, yet it will
bring him little nearer me;" and she turned and sought her chamber.

So Marcus had come. Since he sent the letter and the ring that was
upon her hand, and the pearls which were about her throat, she had
heard no more of him. Twice she had written and forwarded the writings
by the most trusty messenger whom she could find, but whether they
reached him she did not know. For more than two years the silence
between them had been that of death, till, indeed, at times she
thought that he must be dead. And now he was come back, a commander in
the army of Titus, who marched to punish the rebellious Jews. Would
she ever see him again? Miriam could not tell. Yet she knelt and
prayed from her pure heart that if it were once only, she might speak
with him face to face. Indeed, it was this hope of meeting that, more
than any other, supported her through all those dreadful days.

A week went by, and although the hurt to her foot had healed, like
some flower in the dark Miriam drooped and languished in those gloomy
vaults. Twice she prayed her uncle to be allowed to creep to the mouth
of the hole behind the ridge of rock, there to breathe the fresh air
and see the blessed sky. But this he would not suffer. The thing was
too dangerous, he said; for although none knew the secret of their
hiding-place, already two or three fugitives had found their way into
the quarries by other entrances, and these it was very difficult to
pass unseen.

"So be it," answered Miriam, and crept back to her cell.

Nehushta looked after her anxiously, then said:

"If she cannot have air I think that she will soon die. Is there no
way?"

"One," answered Ithiel, "but I fear to take it. The staircase from the
spring leads to an ancient tower that, I am told, once was a palace of
the kings, but now for these many years has been deserted, for its
entrance is bricked up lest thieves should make it their home. None
can come into that tower, nor is it used for purposes of war, not
standing upon any wall, and there she might sit at peace and see the
sun; yet I fear to let her do so."

"It must be risked," answered Nehushta. "Take me to visit this place."

So Ithiel led her to the cistern, and from the cistern up a flight of
steps to a little vaulted chamber, into which they entered through a
stone trap-door, made of the same substance as the paving of the
chamber, so that, when it was closed, none would guess that there was
a passage beneath. From this old store-room, for such it doubtless
was, ran more steps, ending, to all appearance, in a blank wall.
Coming to it, Ithiel thrust a piece of flat iron, a foot or more in
length, into a crack in this wall, lifted some stone latch within, and
pushed, whereon a block of masonry of something more than the height
and width of a man, and quite a yard in thickness, swung outwards.
Nehushta passed through the aperture, followed by Ithiel.

"See," he said, loosing his hold of the stone, which without noise
instantly closed, so that behind them there appeared to be nothing but
a wall, "it is well hung, is it not? and to come hither without this
iron would be dangerous. Here is the crack where it must be set to
lift the latch within."

"Whoever lived here guarded their food and water well," answered
Nehushta.

Then Ithiel showed her the place. It was a massive tower of a square
of about forty feet, whereof the only doorway, as he told her, had
been bricked up many years before to keep the thieves and vagabonds
from sheltering there. In height it must have measured nearly a
hundred feet, and its roof had long ago rotted away. The staircase,
which was of stone, still remained, however, leading to four
galleries, also of stone. Perhaps once there were floors as well, but
if so these had vanished, only the stone galleries and their
balustrades remaining. Ithiel led Nehushta up the stair, which, though
narrow, was safe and easy. Resting at each story, at length they came
to that gallery which projected from its sides within ten feet of the
top of the tower, and saw Jerusalem and the country round spread like
a map beneath. Then, as it was sunset, they returned. At the foot of
the stair Ithiel gave Nehushta the piece of iron and showed her how to
lift the secret latch and pull upon the block of hewn stone that was a
door, so that it opened to swing to again behind them.

Next morning, before it was dawn in the world above, Miriam aroused
Nehushta. She had been promised that this day she should be taken up
the Old Tower, and so great was her longing for the scent of the free
air and the sight of the blue sky that she had scarcely closed her
eyes this night.

"Have patience, lady," said Nehushta, "have patience. We cannot start
until the Essenes have finished their prayers to the sun, which, down
in this black hole, they worship more earnestly than ever."

So Miriam waited, though she would eat nothing, till at length Ithiel
came and led them past the cistern up the stairs to the store or
treasure chamber, where the trap-door stood wide, since, except in
case of some danger, they had no need to shut it. Next, they reached
the door of solid stone which Ithiel showed her how to open, and
entered the base of the massive building. There, far above her, Miriam
saw the sky again, red from the lights of morning, and at the sight of
it clapped her hands and called aloud.

"Hush!" said Ithiel. "These walls are thick, yet it is not safe to
raise a voice of joy in Jerusalem, that home of a thousand miseries,
lest, perchance, some should hear it through a cleft in the masonry,
and cause search to be made for the singer. Now, if you will, follow
me."

So they went up and up, till at last they reached the topmost gallery,
where the wall was pierced with loopholes and overhanging platforms,
whence stones and other missiles could be hurled upon an attacking
force. Miriam looked out eagerly, walking round the gallery from
aperture to aperture.

To the south lay the marble courts and glittering buildings of the
Temple, whence, although men fought daily in them, the smoke of
sacrifice still curled up to heaven. Behind these were the Upper and
the Lower City, crowded with thousands of houses, packed, every one of
them, with human beings who had fled hither for refuge, or,
notwithstanding the dangers of the time, to celebrate the Passover. To
the east was the rugged valley of Jehoshaphat, and beyond it the Mount
of Olives, green with trees soon to be laid low by the Romans. To the
north the new city of Bezetha, bordered by the third wall and the
rocky lands beyond. Not far away, also, but somewhat in front of them
and to the left, rose the mighty tower of Antonia, now one of the
strongholds of John of Gischala and the Zealots, while also to the
west, across the width of the city, were the towers of Hippicus,
Phasæl and Mariamne, backed by the splendid palace of Herod. Besides
these were walls, fortresses, gates and palaces without number, so
intricate and many that the eye could scarcely follow or count them,
and, between, the numberless narrow streets of Jerusalem. These and
many other things Ithiel pointed out to Miriam, who listened eagerly
till he wearied of the task. Then they looked downwards through the
overhanging platforms of stone to the large market-place beneath and
to the front, and upon the roofs of the houses, mostly of the humbler
sort, that were built behind almost up to the walls of the Old Tower,
whereon many people were gathered as though for safety, eating their
morning meal, talking anxiously together, and even praying.

Whilst they were thus engaged, Nehushta touched Miriam and pointed to
the road which ran from the Valley of Thorns on the northeast. She
looked, and saw a great cloud of dust that advanced swiftly, and
presently, through the dust, the sheen of spears and armour.

"The Romans!" said Nehushta quietly.

She was not the only one who had caught sight of them, for suddenly
the battlement of every wall and tower, the roof of every lofty house,
the upper courts of the Temple, and all high places became crowded
with thousands and tens of thousands of heads, each of them staring
towards that advancing dust. In silence they stared as though their
multitudes were stricken dumb, till presently, from far below out of
the maze of winding streets, floated the wail of a single voice.

"Woe, woe to Jerusalem!" said the voice. "Woe, woe to the City and the
Temple!"

They shuddered, and as it seemed to them, all the listening thousands
within reach of that mournful cry shuddered also.

"Aye!" repeated Ithiel, "woe to Jerusalem, for yonder comes her doom."

Now on the more rocky ground the dust grew thinner, and through it
they could distinguish the divisions of the mighty army of destroyers.
First came thousands of Syrian allies and clouds of scouts and
archers, who searched the country far and wide. Next appeared the
road-makers and the camp-setters, the beasts of burden with the
general's baggage and its great escort, followed by Titus himself, his
bodyguard and officers, by pikemen and by horsemen. Then were seen
strange and terrible-looking engines of war beyond count, and with
them the tribunes, and the captains of cohorts and their guards who
preceded the engines, and that "abomination of desolation," the Roman
Eagles, surrounded by bands of trumpeters, who from time to time
uttered their loud, defiant note. After them marched the vast army in
ranks six deep, divided into legions and followed by their camp-
bearers and squadrons of horse. Lastly were seen the packs of baggage,
and mercenaries by thousands and tens of thousands. On the Hill of
Saul the great host halted and began to encamp. An hour later a band
of horsemen five or six hundred strong emerged out of this camp and
marched along the straight road to Jerusalem.

"It is Titus himself," said Ithiel. "See, the Imperial Standard goes
before him."

On they came till, from their lofty perch, Miriam, who was keen-
sighted, could see their separate armour and tell the colour of their
horses. Eagerly she searched them with her eyes, for well she guessed
that Marcus would be one of those who accompanied his general upon
this service. That plumed warrior might be he, or that with the purple
cloak, or that who galloped out from near by the Standard on an
errand. He was there; she was sure he was there, and yet they were as
far apart as when the great sea rolled between them.

Now, as they reconnoitred and were passing the Tower of Women, of a
sudden the gate opened, and from alleys and houses where they had lain
in ambush were poured out thousands of Jews. Right through the thin
line of horsemen they pierced, uttering savage cries, then doubled
back upon the severed ends. Many were cut down; Miriam could see them
falling from their horses. The Imperial Standard sank, then rose and
sank again to rise once more. Now dust hid the combat, and she thought
that all the Romans must be slain. But no, for presently they began to
appear beyond the dust, riding back by the way they had come, though
fewer than they were. They had charged through the multitude of Jews
and escaped. But who had escaped and who were left behind? Ah! that
she could not tell; and it was with a sick and anxious heart that
Miriam descended the steps of the tower into the darkness of the
caves.



CHAPTER XV

WHAT PASSED IN THE TOWER

Nearly four months had gone by. Perhaps, during the whole history of
the world there never has been and never will be more cruel suffering
than was endured by the inhabitants of Jerusalem during that period,
or rather by the survivors of the nation of the Jews who were crowded
together within its walls. Forgetting their internecine quarrels in
the face of overwhelming danger, too late the factions united and
fought against the common foe with a ferocity that has been seldom
equalled. They left nothing undone which desperate men could do. Again
and again they sallied forth against the Romans, slaughtering
thousands of them. They captured their battering-rams and catapults.
They undermined the great wooden towers which Titus erected against
their walls, and burnt them. With varying success they made sally upon
sally. Titus took the third wall and the new city of Bezetha. He took
the second wall and pulled it down. Then he sent Josephus, the
historian, to persuade the Jews to surrender, but his countrymen
cursed and stoned him, and the war went on.

At length, as it seemed to be impossible to carry the place by
assault, Titus adopted a surer and more terrible plan. Enclosing the
first unconquered wall, the Temple, and the fortress by another wall
of his own making, he sat down and waited for starvation to do its
work. Then came the famine. At the beginning, before the maddened,
devil-inspired factions began to destroy each other and to prey upon
the peaceful people, Jerusalem was amply provisioned. But each party
squandered the stores that were within its reach, and, whenever they
could do so, burnt those of their rivals, so that the food which might
have supplied the whole city for months, vanished quickly in orgies of
wanton waste and destruction. Now all, or almost all, was gone, and by
tens and hundreds of thousands the people starved.

Those who are curious about such matters, those who desire to know how
much human beings can endure, and of what savagery they can be capable
when hunger drives them, may find these details set out in the pages
of Josephus, the renegade Jewish historian. It serves no good purpose
and will not help our story to repeat them; indeed for the most part
they are too terrible to be repeated. History does not record, and the
mind of man cannot invent a cruelty which was not practised by the
famished Jews upon other Jews suspected of the crime of having hidden
food to feed themselves or their families. Now the fearful prophecy
was fulfilled, and it came about that mothers devoured their own
infants, and children snatched the last morsel of bread from the lips
of their dying parents. If these things were done between those who
were of one blood, what dreadful torment was there that was not
practised by stranger upon stranger? The city went mad beneath the
weight of its abominable and obscene misery. Thousands perished every
day, and every night thousands more escaped, or attempted to escape,
to the Romans, who caught the poor wretches and crucified them beneath
the walls, till there was no more wood of which to make the crosses,
and no more ground whereon to stand them.



All these things and many others Miriam saw from her place of outlook
in the gallery of the deserted tower. She saw the people lying dead by
hundreds in the streets beneath. She saw the robbers hale them from
their houses and torture them to discover the hiding-place of the food
which they were supposed to have hidden, and when they failed, put
them to the sword. She saw the Valley of the Kidron and the lower
slopes of the Mount of Olives covered with captive Jews writhing on
their crosses, there to die as the Messiah whom they had rejected,
died. She saw the furious attacks, the yet more furious sallies and
the dreadful daily slaughter, till at length her heart grew so sick
within her, that although she still took refuge in the ruined tower to
escape the gloom beneath, Miriam would spend whole hours lying on her
face, her fingers thrust into her ears, that she might shut out the
sights and sounds of this unutterable woe.

Meanwhile, the Essenes, who still had stores of food, ventured forth
but rarely, lest the good condition of their bodies, although their
faces were white as death from dwelling in the darkness, should tempt
the starving hordes to seize and torture them in the hope of
discovering the hiding-places of their nutriment. Indeed, to several
of the brethren this happened; but in obedience to their oaths, as
will be seen in the instance of the past President Theophilus--who
went out and was no more heard of--they endured all and died without a
murmur, having betrayed nothing. Still, notwithstanding the danger,
driven to it by utter weariness of their confinement in the dark and
by the desire of obtaining news, from time to time one of them would
creep forth at night to return again before daybreak. From these men
Miriam heard that after the murder of the high priest Mathias and his
sons, together with sixteen of the Sanhedrim, on a charge of
correspondence with the Romans, her grandfather, Benoni, had been
elected to that body, in which he exercised much influence and caused
many to be put to death who were accused of treason or of favouring
the Roman cause. Caleb also was in the Temple and foremost in every
fight. He was said to have sworn an oath that he would slay the
Prefect of Horse, Marcus, with whom he had an ancient quarrel, or be
slain himself. It was told, indeed, that they had met once already and
struck some blows at each other, before they were separated by an
accident of war.

The beginning of August came at length, and the wretched city, in
addition to its other miseries, panted in the heat of a scorching
summer sun and was poisoned by the stench from the dead bodies that
filled the streets and were hurled in thousands from the walls. Now
the Romans had set up their battering engines at the very gates of the
Temple, and slowly but surely were winning their way into its outer
courts.

On a certain night, about an hour before the dawn, Miriam woke
Nehushta, telling her that she was stifling there in those vaults and
must ascend the tower. Nehushta said that it was folly, whereon Miriam
answered that she would go alone. This she would not suffer her to do,
so together they passed up the stairs according to custom, and, having
gained the base of the tower through the swinging door of stone,
climbed the steps that ran in the thickness of the wall till they
reached the topmost gallery. Here they sat, fanned by the faint night
wind, and watched the fires of the Romans stretched far and wide
around the walls and even among the ruins of the houses almost beneath
them, since that part of the city was taken.

Presently the dawn broke, a splendid, fearful dawn. It was as though
the angel of the daybreak had dipped his wing into a sea of blood and
dashed it against the brow of Night, still crowned with her fading
stars. Of a sudden the heavens were filled with blots and threads of
flaming colour latticed against the pale background of the twilight
sky. Miriam watched it with a kind of rapture, letting its glory and
its peace sink into her troubled soul, while from below arose the
sound of awakening camps making ready for the daily battle. Soon a ray
of burning light, cast like a spear from the crest of the Mount of
Olives across the Valley of Jehoshaphat, struck full upon the gold-
roofed Temple and its courts. At its coming, as though at a signal,
the northern gates were thrown wide, and through them poured a flood
of gaunt and savage warriors. They came on in thousands, uttering
fierce war-cries. Some pickets of Romans tried to stay their rush; in
a minute they were overcome and destroyed. Now they were surging round
the feet of a great wooden tower filled with archers. Here the fight
was desperate, for the soldiers of Titus rushed up by companies to
defend their engine. But they could not drive back that onset, and
presently the tower was on fire, and in a last mad effort to save
their lives its defenders were casting themselves headlong from the
lofty platform. With shouts of triumph the Jews rushed through the
breaches in the second wall, and leaving what remained of the castle
of Antonia on the left, poured down into the maze of streets and
ruined houses that lay immediately behind the Old Tower whence Miriam
watched.

In front of this building, which the Romans had never attempted to
enter, since for military purposes it was useless to them, lay the
open space, once, no doubt, part of its garden, but of late years used
as a cattle market and a place where young men exercised themselves in
arms. Bordering the waste on its further side were strong
fortifications, the camping ground of the twelfth and fifteenth
legions. Across this open space those who remained of the Romans fled
back towards their outer line, followed by swarms of furious Jews.
They gained them, such as were not overtaken, but the Jews who pursued
were met with so fierce a charge, delivered by the fresh troops behind
the defences, that they were in turn swept back and took refuge among
the ruined houses. Suddenly Miriam's attention became concentrated
upon the mounted officer who led this charge, a gallant-looking man
clad in splendid armour, whose clear, ringing voice, as he uttered the
words of command, had caught her ear even through the tumult and the
shouting. The Roman onslaught having reached its limit, began to fall
back again like the water from an exhausted wave upon a slope of sand.
At the moment the Jews were in no condition to press the enemy's
retreat, so that the mounted officer who withdrew last of all, had
time to turn his horse, and heedless of the arrows that sang about
him, to study the ground now strewn with the wounded and the dead.
Presently he looked up at the deserted tower as though wondering
whether he could make use of it, and Miriam saw his face. It was
Marcus, grown older, more thoughtful also, and altered somewhat by a
short curling beard, but still Marcus and no other.

"Look! look!" she said.

Nehushta nodded. "Yes, it is he; I thought so from the first. And now,
having seen him, lady, shall we be going?"

"Going?" said Miriam, "wherefore?"

"Because one army or the other may chance to think that this building
would be useful to them, and break open the walled-up door. Also they
might explore this staircase, and then----"

"And then," answered Miriam quietly, "we should be taken. What of it?
If the Jews find us we are of their party; if the Romans--well, I do
not greatly fear the Romans."

"You mean you do not fear one Roman. But who knows, but that he may
presently lie dead----"

"Oh! say it not," answered Miriam, pressing her hand upon her heart.
"Nay, safe or unsafe, I will see this fight out. Look, yonder is Caleb
--yes, Caleb himself, shouting to the Jews. How fierce is his face,
like that of a hyena in a snare. Nay, now I will not go--go you and
leave me in peace to watch the end."

"Since you are too heavy and strong for my old arms to carry down
those steep steps, so be it," answered Nehushta calmly. "After all, we
have food with us, and our angels can guard us as well on the top of a
tower as in those dirty cisterns. Also this fray is worth the
watching."

As she spoke, the Romans having re-formed, led by the Prefect Marcus
and other officers, advanced from their entrenchment, to be met half-
way by the Jews, now reinforced from the Temple, among whom was Caleb.
There, in the open space, they fought hand to hand, for neither force
would yield an inch. Miriam, watching through the stone bars from
above, had eyes for only two of all that multitude of men--Marcus,
whom she loved, and Caleb, whom she feared. Marcus was attacked by a
Jew, who stabbed his horse, to be instantly stabbed himself by a Roman
who came to the rescue of his commander. After this he fought on foot.
Caleb killed first one soldier than another. Watching him, Miriam grew
aware that he was cutting his way towards some point, and that the
point was Marcus. This Marcus seemed to know; at least, he also strove
to cut his way towards Caleb. Nearer and nearer they came, till at
length they met and began to rain blows upon each other; but not for
long, for just then a charge of some Roman horsemen separated them.
After this both parties retired to their lines, taking their wounded
with them.

Thus, with pauses, sometimes of two or three hours, the fight went on
from morning to noon, and from noon to sunset. During the latter part
of the time the Romans made no more attacks, but were contented with
defending themselves while they awaited reinforcements from without
the city, or perhaps the results of some counter-attack in another
part.

Thus the advantage rested, or seemed to rest, with the Jews, who held
all the ruined houses and swept the open space with their arrows. Now
it was that Nehushta's fears were justified, for having a little
leisure the Jews took a beam of wood and battered in the walled-up
doorway of the tower.

"Look!" said Nehushta, pointing down.

"Oh, Nou!" Miriam answered, "I was wrong. I have run you into danger.
But indeed I could not go. What shall we do now?"

"Sit quiet until they come to take us," said Nehushta grimly, "and
then, if they give us time, explain as best we may."

As it chanced, however, the Jews did not come, since they feared that
if they mounted the stair some sudden rush of Romans might trap such
of them as were within before they had time to descend again. Only
they made use of the base of the tower to shelter those of their
wounded whose hurts were so desperate that they dared not move them.

Now the fighting having ceased for a while, the soldiers of both sides
amused themselves with shouting taunts and insults at each other, or
challenges to single combat. Presently Caleb stepped forward from the
shelter of a wall and called out that if the Prefect Marcus would meet
him alone in the open space he had something to say which he would be
glad to hear. Thereupon Marcus, stepping out from his defences, where
several of his officers seemed to be striving to detain him, answered:

"I will come," and walked to the centre of the market, where he was
met by Caleb.

Here the two of them spoke together alone, but of what they said
Miriam and Nehushta, watching them from above, could catch no word.

"Oh! will they fight?" said Miriam.

"It seems likely, since each of them has sworn to slay the other,"
answered Nehushta.

While she spoke Marcus, shaking his head as though to decline some
proposal, and pointing to the men of his command, who stood up
watching him, turned to walk back to his own lines, followed by Caleb,
who shouted out that he was a coward and did not dare to stand alone
before him. At this insult Marcus winced, then went on again,
doubtless because he thought it his duty to rejoin his company,
whereon Caleb, drawing his sword, struck him with the flat of it
across the back. Now the Jews laughed, while the Romans uttered a
shout of rage at the intolerable affront offered to their commander.
As for Marcus, he wheeled round, sword in hand, and flew straight at
Caleb's throat.

But it was for this that the Jew had been waiting, since he knew that
no Roman, and least of all Marcus, would submit to the indignity of
such a blow. As his adversary came on, made almost blind with fury, he
leapt to one side lightly as a lion leaps, and with all the force of
his long sinewy arm brought down his heavy sword upon the head of
Marcus. The helm was good, or the skull beneath must have been split
in two by that blow, which, as it was, shore through it and bit deeply
into the bone. Beneath the shock Marcus staggered, threw his arms
wide, and let fall his sword. With a shout Caleb sprang at him to make
an end of him, but before he could strike the Roman seemed to recover
himself, and, knowing that his weapon was gone, did the only thing he
could, rushed straight at his foe. Caleb's sword fell on his shoulder,
but the tempered mail withstood it, and next instant Marcus had
gripped him in his arms. Down they came together to the earth, rolling
over each other, the Jew trying to stab the Roman, the Roman to choke
the Jew with his bare hand. Then from the Roman lines rose a cry of
"Rescue!" and from the Jews a cry of "Take him."

Out poured the combatants from either side of the market-place by
hundreds and by thousands, and there in its centre, round the
struggling forms of Caleb and of Marcus, began the fiercest fight of
all that day. Where men stood, there they fell, for none would give
back, since the Romans, outnumbered though they were, preferred to die
rather than leave a wounded and beloved captain a prisoner in the
hands of cruel enemies, while the Jews knew too well the value of such
a prize to let it escape them easily. So great was the slaughter that
presently Marcus and Caleb were hidden beneath the bodies of the
fallen. More and more Jews rushed into the fray, but still the Romans
pushed onwards with steady valour, fighting shoulder to shoulder and
shield to shield.

Then of a sudden, with a savage yell a fresh body of Jews, three or
four hundred strong, appeared at the west end of the market-place, and
charged upon the Romans, taking them in flank. The officer in command
saw his danger, and knowing that it was better that his captain should
die than that the whole company should be destroyed and the arms of
Cæsar suffer a grave defeat, gave orders for a retirement. Steadily,
as though they were on parade, and dragging with them those of their
wounded comrades who could not walk, the legionaries fell back,
heedless of the storm of spears and arrows, reaching their own lines
before the outflanking body of Jews could get among them. Then seeing
that there was nothing more to be gained, since to attempt to storm
the Roman works was hopeless, the victorious Jews also retreated, this
time not to the houses behind the tower, but only to the old market
wall thirty or forty paces in front of it, which they proceeded to
hold and strengthen in the fading light. Seeing that they were lost,
such of the wounded Romans as remained upon the field committed
suicide, preferring to fall upon their own spears than into the hands
of the Jews to be tortured and crucified. Also for this deed they had
another reason, since it was the decree of Titus that any soldier who
was taken living should be publicly disgraced by name and expelled
from the ranks of the legion, and, if recaptured, in addition suffer
death or banishment.

Gladly would Marcus have followed their example and thereby--though he
knew it not--save himself much misery and shame in the future, but he
had neither time nor weapon; moreover, so weak was he with struggling
and the loss of blood, that even as he and Caleb were dragged by
savage hands from among the fallen, he fainted. At first they thought
that he was dead, but one of the Jews, who chanced to be a physician
by trade, declared that this was not so, and that if he were left
quiet for a while, he would come to himself again. Therefore, as they
desired to preserve this Prefect alive, either to be held as an
hostage or to be executed in sight of the army of Titus, they brought
him into the Old Tower, clearing it of their own wounded, except such
of them as had already breathed their last. Here they set a guard over
him, though of this there seemed to be little need, and went under the
command of the victorious Caleb to assist in strengthening the market-
wall.

All of these things Miriam watched from above in such an agony of fear
and doubt, that at times she thought that she would die. She saw her
lover and Caleb fall locked in each other's arms; she saw the hideous
fray that raged around them. She saw them dragged from the heap of
slain, and at the end of it all, by the last light of day, saw Marcus,
living or dead, she knew not which, borne into the tower, and there
laid upon the ground.

"Take comfort," whispered Nehushta, pitying her dreadful grief. "The
lord Marcus lives. If he were dead they would have stripped him and
left his body with the others. He lives, and they purpose to hold him
captive, else they would have suffered Caleb to put his sword through
him, as you noted he wished to do so soon as he found his feet."

"Captive," answered Miriam. "That means that he will be crucified like
the others whom we saw yesterday upon the Temple wall."

Nehushta shrugged her shoulders.

"It may be so," she said, "unless he finds means to destroy himself or
--is saved."

"Saved! How can he be saved?" Then in her woe the poor girl fell upon
her knees clasping her hands and murmuring: "Oh! Jesus Christ whom I
serve, teach me how to save Marcus. Oh! Jesus, I love him, although he
is not a Christian; love him also because I love him, and teach me how
to save him. Or if one must die, take my life for his, oh! take my
life for his."

"Cease," said Nehushta, "for I think I hear an answer to your prayer.
Look now, he is laid just where the stair starts and not six feet from
the stone door that leads down into the cistern. Except for some dead
men the tower is empty; also the two sentries stand outside the breach
in the brickwork with which it was walled up, because there they find
more light, and their prisoner is unarmed and helpless, and cannot
attempt escape. Now, if the Roman lives and can stand, why should we
not open that door and thrust him through it?"

"But the Jews might see us and discover the secret of the hiding-place
of the Essenes, whom they would kill because they have hidden food."

"Once we were the other side of the door, they could never come at
them, even if they have time to try," answered Nehushta. "Before ever
they could burst the door the stone trap beneath can be closed and the
roof of the stair that leads to it let down by knocking away the props
and flooded in such a fashion that a week of labour would not clear it
out again. Oh! have no fear, the Essenes know and have guarded against
this danger."

Miriam threw her arms about the neck of Nehushta and kissed her.

"We will try, Nou, we will try," she whispered, "and if we fail, why
then we can die with him."

"To you that prospect may be pleasing, but I have no desire to die
with the lord Marcus," answered Nehushta drily. "Indeed, although I
like him well, were it not for your sake I should leave him to his
chance. Nay, do not answer or give way to too much hope. Remember,
perhaps he is dead, as he seems to be."

"Yes, yes," said Miriam wildly, "we must find out. Shall we go now?"

"Aye, while there is still a little light, for these steps are
breakneck in the dark. No, do you follow me."

So on they glided down the ancient, darksome stairway, where owls
hooted and bats flittered in their faces. Now they were at the last
flight, which descended to a little recess set at right angles to the
steps and flush with the floor of the basement, for once the door of
the stairway had opened here. Thus a person standing on the last stair
could not be seen by any in the tower. They reached the step and
halted. Then very stealthily Nehushta went on to her hands and knees
and thrust her head forward so that she could look into the base of
the tower. It was dark as the grave, only a faint gleam of starlight
reflected from his armour showed where Marcus lay, so close that she
could touch him with her hand. Also almost opposite to her the gloom
was relieved by a patch of faint grey light. Here it was that the wall
had been broken in, for Nehushta could see the shadows of the sentries
crossing and recrossing before the ragged opening.

She leant yet lower towards Marcus and listened. He was not dead, for
he breathed. More, she heard him stir his hand and thought that she
could see it move upwards towards his wounded head. Then she drew
back.

"Lady," she whispered, "he lives, and I think he is awake. Now you
must do the rest as your wit may teach you how, for if I speak to him
he will be frightened, but your voice he may remember if he has his
senses."

At these words all her doubts and fears seemed to vanish from Miriam's
heart, her hand grew steady and her brain clear, for Nature told her
that if she wished to save her lover she would need both clear brain
and steady hand. The timid, love-racked girl was transformed into a
woman of iron will and purpose. In her turn she kneeled and crept a
little forward from the stair, so that her face hung over the face of
Marcus. Then she spoke in a soft whisper.

"Marcus, awake and listen, Marcus; but I pray of you do not stir or
make a noise. I am Miriam, whom once you knew."

At this name the dim form beneath her seemed to quiver, and the lips
muttered, "Now I know that I am dead. Well, it is better than I hoped
for. Speak on, sweet shade of Miriam."

"Nay, Marcus, you are not dead, you are only wounded and I am not a
spirit, I am a woman, that woman whom once you knew down by the banks
of Jordan. I have come to save you, I and Nehushta. If you will obey
what I tell you, and if you have the strength to stand, we can guide
you into a secret place where the Essenes are hidden, who for my sake
will take care of you until you are able to return to the Romans. If
you do not escape I fear that the Jews will crucify you."

"By Bacchus, so do I," said the whisper beneath, "and that will be
worse than being beaten by Caleb. But this is a dream, I know it is a
dream. If it were Miriam I should see her, or be able to touch her. It
is but a dream of Miriam. Let me dream on," and he turned his head.

Miriam thought for a moment. Time was short and it was necessary to
make him understand. Well, it was not difficult. Slowly she bent a
little lower and pressed her lips upon his.

"Marcus," she went on, "I kiss you now to show you that I am no dream
and how needful it is that you should be awakened. Had I light I could
prove to you that I am Miriam by your ring which is upon my fingers
and your pearls which are about my neck."

"Cease," he answered, "most beloved, I was weak and wandering, now I
know that this is not a dream, and I thank Caleb who has brought us
together again, against his wish, I think. Say, what must I do?"

"Can you stand?" asked Miriam.

"Perhaps. I am not sure. I will try."

"Nay, wait. Nehushta, come hither; you are stronger than I. Now, while
I unlatch the secret door, do you lift him up. Be swift, I hear the
guard stirring without."

Nehushta glided forward and knelt by the wounded man, placing her arms
beneath him.

"Ready," she said. "Here is the iron."

Miriam took it, and stepping to the wall, felt with her fingers for
the crack, which in that darkness it took time to find. At length she
had it, and inserting the thin hooked iron, lifted the hidden latch
and pulled. The stone door was very heavy and she needed all her
strength to move it. At last it began to swing.

"Now," she said to Nehushta, who straightened herself and dragged the
wounded Marcus to his feet.

"Quick, quick!" said Miriam, "the guards enter."

Supported by Nehushta, Marcus took three tottering steps and reached
the open door. Here, on its very threshold indeed, his strength failed
him, for he was wounded in the knee as well as in the head. Groaning,
"I cannot," he fell to the ground, dragging the old Libyan with him,
his breastplate clattering loud against the stone threshold. The
sentry without heard the sound and called to a companion to give him
the lantern. In an instant Nehushta was up again, and seizing Marcus
by his right arm, began to drag him through the opening, while Miriam,
setting her back against the swinging stone to keep it from closing,
pushed against his feet.

The lantern appeared round the angle of the broken masonry.

"For your life's sake!" said Miriam, and Nehushta dragged her hardest
at the heavy, helpless body of the fallen man. He moved slowly. It was
too late; if that light fell on him all was lost. In an instant Miriam
took her resolve. With an effort she swung the door wide, then as
Nehushta dragged again she sprang forward, keeping in the shadow of
the wall. The Jew who held the lantern, alarmed by the sounds within,
entered hastily and, catching his foot against the body of a dead man
who lay there, stumbled so that he fell upon his knee. In her hand
Miriam held the key, and as the guard regained his feet, but not
before its light fell upon her, she struck with it at the lamp,
breaking and extinguishing it.

Then she turned to fly, for, as she knew well, the stone would now be
swinging on its pivot.

Alas! her chance had gone, for the man, stretching out his arm, caught
her about the middle and held her fast, shouting loudly for help.
Miriam struggled, she battered him with the iron and dragged at him
with her left hand, but in vain, for in that grip she was helpless as
a child who fights against its nurse. While she fought thus she heard
the dull thud of the closing stone, and even in her despair rejoiced,
knowing that until Marcus was beyond its threshold it could not be
shut. Ceasing from her useless struggle she gathered the forces of her
mind. Marcus was safe; the door was shut and could not be opened from
the further side until another iron was procured; the guard had seen
nothing. But her escape was impossible. Her part was played, only one
thing remained for her to do--keep silence and his secret.

Men bearing lights were rushing into the tower. Her right hand, which
held the iron, was free, and lest it should tell a tale she cast the
instrument from her towards that side of the deserted place which she
knew was buried deep in fallen stones, fragments of rotted timber and
dirt from the nests of birds. Then she stood still. Now they were upon
her, Caleb at the head of them.

"What is it?" he cried.

"I know not," answered the guard. "I heard a sound as of clanking
armour and ran in, when some one struck the lantern from my hand, a
strong rascal with whom I have struggled sorely, notwithstanding the
blows that he rained upon me with his sword. See, I hold him fast."

They held up their lights and saw a beautiful, dishevelled maid, small
and frail of stature, whereon they laughed out loud.

"A strong thief, truly," said one. "Why, it is a girl! Do you summon
the watch every time a girl catches hold of you?"

Before the words died upon the speaker's lips, another man called out,
"The Roman! The Prefect has gone! Where is the prisoner?" and with a
roar of wrath they began to search the place, as a cat searches for
the mouse that escapes her. Only Caleb stood still and stared at the
girl.

"Miriam!" he said.

"Yes, Caleb," she answered quietly. "This is a strange meeting, is it
not? Why do you break in thus upon my hiding-place?"

"Woman," he shouted, mad with anger, "where have you hidden the
Prefect Marcus?"

"Marcus?" she answered; "is he here? I did not know it. Well, I saw a
man run from the tower, perhaps that was he. Be swift and you may
catch him."

"No man left the tower," answered the other sentry. "Seize that woman,
she has hidden the Roman in some secret place. Seize her and search."

So they caught Miriam, bound her and began running round and round the
wall. "Here is a staircase," called a man, "doubtless he has gone up
it. Come, friends."

Then taking lights with them, they mounted the stairs to the very top,
but found no one. Even as they came down again a trumpet blew and from
without rose the sound of a mighty shouting.

"What happens now?" said one.

As he spoke an officer appeared in the opening of the tower.

"Begone," he cried. "Back to the Temple, taking your prisoner with
you. Titus himself is upon us at the head of two fresh legions, mad at
the loss of his Prefect and so many of his soldiers. Why! where is the
wounded Roman, Marcus?"

"He has vanished," answered Caleb sullenly. "Vanished"--here he
glanced at Miriam with jealous and vindictive hate--"and in his place
has left to us this woman, the grand-daughter of Benoni, Miriam, who
strangely enough was once his love."

"Is it so?" said the officer. "Girl, tell us what you have done with
the Roman, or die. Come, we have no time to lose."

"I have done nothing. I saw a man walk past the sentries, that is
all."

"She lies," said the officer contemptuously. "Here, kill this
traitress."

A man advanced lifting his sword, and Miriam, thinking that all was
over, hid her eyes while she waited for the blow. Before it fell,
however, Caleb whispered something to the officer which caused him to
change his mind.

"So be it," he said. "Hold your hand and take this woman with you to
the Temple, there to be tried by her grandfather, Benoni, and the
other judges of the Sanhedrim. They have means to cause the most
obstinate to speak, whereas death seals the lips forever. Swift, now,
swift, for already they are fighting on the market-place."

So they seized Miriam and dragged her away from the Old Tower, which
an hour later was taken possession of by the Romans, who destroyed it
with the other buildings.



CHAPTER XVI

THE SANHEDRIM

The Jewish soldiers haled Miriam roughly through dark and tortuous
streets, bordered by burnt-out houses, and up steep stone slopes deep
with the débris of the siege. Indeed, they had need to hasten, for,
lit with the lamp of flaming dwellings, behind them flowed the tide of
war. The Romans, driven back from this part of the city by that day's
furious sally, under cover of the night were re-occupying in
overwhelming strength the ground that they had lost, forcing the Jews
before them and striving to cut them off from their stronghold in the
Temple and that part of the Upper City which they still held.

The party of Jews who had Miriam in their charge were returning to the
Temple enclosure, which they could not reach from the north or east
because the outer courts and cloisters of the Holy House were already
in possession of the Romans. So it happened that they were obliged to
make their way round by the Upper City, a long and tedious journey.
Once during that night they were driven to cover until a great company
of Romans had marched past. Caleb wished to attack them, but the other
captains said that they were too few and weary, so they lay hid for
nearly three hours, then went on again. After this there were other
delays at gates still in the hands of their own people, which one by
one were unbolted to them. Thus it was not far from daylight when at
length they passed over a narrow bridge that spanned some ravine and
through massive doors into a vast dim place which, as Miriam gathered
from the talk of her captors, was the inner enclosure of the Temple.
Here, at the command of that captain who had ordered her to be slain,
she was thrust into a small cell in one of the cloisters. Then the men
in charge of her locked the door and went away.

Sinking exhausted to the floor, Miriam tried to sleep, but could not,
for her brain seemed to be on fire. Whenever she shut her eyes there
sprang up before them visions of some dreadful scene which she had
witnessed, while in her ears echoed now the shouts of the victors, now
the pitiful cry of the dying, and now again the voice of the wounded
Marcus calling her "Most Beloved." Was this indeed so, she wondered?
Was it possible that he had not forgotten her during those years of
separation when there must have been so many lovely ladies striving to
win him, the rich, high-placed Roman lord, to be their lover or their
husband? She did not know, she could not tell: perhaps, in such a
plight, he would have called any woman who came to save him his Most
Beloved, yes, even old Nehushta, and even then and there she smiled a
little at the thought. Yet his voice rang true, and he had sent her
the ring, the pearls and the letter, that letter which, although she
knew every word of it, she still carried hidden in the bosom of her
robe. Oh! she believed that he did love her, and, believing, rejoiced
with all her heart that it had pleased God to allow her to save his
life, even at the cost of her own. She had forgotten. There was his
wound--he might die of it. Nay, surely he would not die. For her sake,
the Essenes who knew him would treat him well, and they were skilful
healers; also, what better nurse than Nehushta could be found? Ah!
poor Nou, how she would grieve over her. What sorrow must have taken
hold of her when she heard the rock door shut and found that her
nursling was cut off and captured by the Jews.

Happy, indeed, was it for Miriam that she could not witness what had
chanced at the further side of that block of stone; that she could not
see Nehushta beating at it with her hands and striving to thrust her
thin fingers to the latch which she had no instrument to lift, until
the bones were stripped of skin and flesh. That she could not hear
Marcus, come to himself again, but unable to rise from off his knees,
cursing and raving with agony at her loss, and because she, the tender
lady whom he loved, for his sake had fallen into the hands of the
relentless Jews. Yes, that she could not hear him cursing and raving
in his utter helplessness, till at length the brain gave in his
shattered head, and he fell into a fevered madness, that for many
weeks was unpierced by any light of reason or of memory. All this, at
least, was spared to her.

Well, the deed was done and she must pay the price, for without a
doubt they would kill her, as they had a right to do, who had saved a
Roman general from their clutches. Or if they did not, Caleb would,
Caleb whose bitter jealousy, as her instinct told her, had turned his
love to hate. Never would he let her live to fall, perchance, as his
share of the Temple spoil, into the hands of the Roman rival who had
escaped him.

It was not too great a price. Because of the birth doom laid upon her,
even if he sought it, and fortune brought them back together again,
she could never be a wife to Marcus. And for the rest she was weary,
sick with the sight and sound of slaughter and with the misery that in
these latter days, as her Lord had prophesied, was come upon the city
that rejected him and the people who had slain Him, their Messiah.
Miriam wished to die, to pass to that home of perfect and eternal
peace in which she believed; where, mayhap, it might be given to her
in reward of her sufferings, to watch from afar over the soul of
Marcus, and to make ready an abode for it to dwell in through all the
ages of infinity. The thought pleased her, and lifting his ring, she
pressed it to her lips which that very night had been pressed upon his
lips, then drew it off and hid it in her hair. She wished to keep that
ring until the end, if so she might. As for the pearls, she could not
hide them, and though she loved them as his gift--well, they must go
to the hand of the spoiler, and to the necks of other women, who would
never know their tale.

This done Miriam rose to her knees and began to pray with the vivid,
simple faith that was given to the first children of the Church. She
prayed for Marcus, that he might recover and not forget her, and that
the light of truth might shine upon him; for Nehushta, that her sorrow
might be soothed; for herself, that her end might be merciful and her
awakening happy; for Caleb, that his heart might be turned; for the
dead and dying, that their sins might be forgiven; for the little
children, that the Lord of Pity would have pity on their sufferings;
for the people of the Jews, that He would lift the rod of His wrath
from off them; yes, and even for the Romans, though for these, poor
maid, she knew not what petition to put up.

Her prayer finished, once more Miriam strove to sleep and dozed a
little, to be aroused by a curious sound of feeble sighing, which
seemed to come from the further side of the cell. By now the dawn was
streaming through the stone lattice work above the doorway, and in its
faint light Miriam saw the outlines of a figure with snowy hair and
beard, wrapped in a filthy robe that had once been white. At first she
thought that this figure must be a corpse thrust here out of the way
of the living, it was so stirless. But corpses do not sigh as this man
seemed to do. Who could he be, she wondered? A prisoner like herself,
left to die, as, perhaps, she would be left to die? The light grew a
little. Surely there was something familiar about the shape of that
white head. She crept nearer, thinking that she might be able to help
this old man who was so sick and suffering. Now she could see his face
and the hand that lay upon his breast. They were those of a living
skeleton, for the bones stood out, and over them the yellow skin was
drawn like shrivelled parchment; only the deep sunk eyes still shone
round and bright. Oh! she knew the face. It was that of Theophilus the
Essene, a past president of the order indeed, who had been her friend
from earliest childhood and the master who taught her languages in
those far-off happy years which she spent in the village by the Dead
Sea. This Theophilus she had found dwelling with the Essenes in their
cavern home, and none of them had welcomed her more warmly. Some ten
days ago, against the advice of Ithiel and others, he had insisted on
creeping out to take the air and gather news in the city. Then he was
a stout and hale old man, although pale-faced from dwelling in the
darkness. From that journey he had not returned. Some said that he had
fled to the country, others that he had gone over to the Romans, and
yet others that he had been slain by some of Simon's men. Now she
found him thus!

Miriam came and bent over him.

"Master," she said, "what ails you? How came you here?"

He turned his hollow, vacant eyes upon her face.

"Who is it that speaks to me thus gently?" he asked in a feeble voice.

"I, your ward, Miriam."

"Miriam! Miriam! What does Miriam in this torture-den?"

"Master, I am a prisoner. But speak of yourself."

"There is little to say, Miriam. They caught me, those devils, and
seeing that I was still well-fed and strong, although sunk in years,
demanded to know whence I had my food in this city of starvation. To
tell them would have been to give up our secret and to bring doom upon
the brethren, and upon you, our guest and lady. I refused to answer,
so, having tortured me without avail, they cast me in here to starve,
thinking that hunger would make me speak. But I have not spoken. How
could I, who have taken the oath of the Essenes, and been their ruler?
Now at length I die."

"Oh! say not so," said Miriam, wringing her hands.

"I do say it and I am thankful. Have you any food?"

"Yes, a piece of dried meat and barley bread, which chanced to be in
my robe when I was captured. Take them and eat."

"Nay, Miriam, that desire has gone from me, nor do I wish to live,
whose days are done. But save the food, for doubtless they will starve
you also. And, look, there is water in that jar, they gave it me to
make me live the longer. Drink, drink while you can, who to-morrow may
be thirsty."

For a time there was silence, while the tears that gathered in
Miriam's eyes fell upon the old man's face.

"Weep not for me," he said presently, "who go to my rest. How came you
here?"

She told him as briefly as she might.

"You are a brave woman," he said when she had finished, "and that
Roman owes you much. Now I, Theophilus, who am about to die, call down
the blessing of God upon you, and upon him also for your sake, for
your sake. The shield of God be over you in the slaughter and the
sorrow."

Then he shut his eyes and either could not or would not speak again.

Miriam drank of the pitcher of water, for her thirst was great.
Crouched at the side of the old Essene, she watched him till at length
the door opened, and two gaunt, savage-looking men entered, who went
to where Theophilus lay and kicked him brutally.

"What would you now?" he said, opening his eyes.

"Wake up, old man," cried one of them. "See, here is flesh," and he
thrust a lump of some filthy carrion to his lips. "Smell it, taste
it," he went on, "ah! is it not good? Well, tell us where is that
store of food which made you so fat who now are so thin, and you shall
have it all, yes, all, all."

Theophilus shook his head.

"Bethink you," cried the man, "if you do not eat, by sunrise to-morrow
you will be dead. Speak then and eat, obstinate dog, it is your last
chance."

"I eat not and I tell not," answered the aged martyr in a voice like a
hollow groan. "By to-morrow's sunrise I shall be dead, and soon you
and all this people will be dead, and God will have judged each of us
according to his works. Repent you, for the hour is at hand."

Then they cursed him and smote him because of his words of ill-omen,
and so went away, taking no notice of Miriam in the corner. When they
had gone she came forward and looked. His jaw had fallen. Theophilus
the Essene was at peace.

Another hour went by. Once more the door was opened and there appeared
that captain who had ordered her to be killed. With him were two Jews.

"Come, woman," he said, "to take your trial."

"Who is to try me?" Miriam asked.

"The Sanhedrim, or as much as is left of it," he answered. "Stir now,
we have no time for talking."

So Miriam rose and accompanied them across the corner of the vast
court, in the centre of which the Temple rose in all its glittering
majesty. As she walked she noticed that the pavement was dotted with
corpses, and that from the cloisters without went up flames and smoke.
They seemed to be fighting there, for the air was full of the sound of
shouting, above which echoed the dull, continuous thud of battering
rams striking against the massive walls.

They took her into a great chamber supported by pillars of white
marble, where many starving folk, some of them women who carried or
led hollow-cheeked children, sat silent on the floor, or wandered to
and fro, their eyes fixed upon the ground as though in aimless search
for they knew not what. On a daïs at the end of the chamber twelve or
fourteen men sat in carved chairs; other chairs stretched to the right
and left of them, but these were empty. The men were clad in
magnificent robes, which seemed to hang ill upon their gaunt forms,
and, like those of the people in the hall, their eyes looked scared
and their faces were white and shrunken. These were all who were left
of the Sanhedrim of the Jews.

As Miriam entered one of their number was delivering judgment upon a
wretched starving man. Miriam looked at the judge. It was her
grandfather, Benoni, but oh! how changed. He who had been tall and
upright was now drawn almost double, his teeth showed yellow between
his lips, his long white beard was ragged and had come out in patches,
his hand shook, his gorgeous head-dress was awry. Nothing was the same
about him except his eyes, which still shone bright, but with a
fiercer fire than of old. They looked like the eyes of a famished
wolf.

"Man, have you aught to say?" he was asking of the prisoner.

"Only this," the prisoner answered. "I had hidden some food, my own
food, which I bought with all that remained of my fortune. Your hyæna-
men caught my wife, and tormented her until she showed it them. They
fell upon it, and, with their comrades, ate it nearly all. My wife
died of starvation and her wounds, my children died of starvation, all
except one, a child of six, whom I fed with what remained. Then she
began to die also, and I bargained with the Roman, giving him jewels
and promising to show him the weak place in the wall if he would
convey the child to his camp and feed her. I showed him the place, and
he fed her in my presence, and took her away, whither I know not. But,
as you know, I was caught, and the wall was built up, so that no harm
came of my treason. I would do it again to save the life of my child,
twenty times over, if needful. You murdered my wife and my other
children; murder me also if you will. I care nothing."

"Wretch," said Benoni, "what are your miserable wife and children
compared to the safety of this holy place, which we defend against the
enemies of Jehovah? Lead him away, and let him be slain upon the wall,
in the sight of his friends, the Romans."

"I go," said the victim, rising and stretching out his hands to the
guards, "but may you also all be slain in the sight of the Romans, you
mad murderers, who, in your lust for power, have brought doom and
agony upon the people of the Jews."

Then they dragged him out, and a voice called--"Bring in the next
traitor."

Now Miriam was brought forward. Benoni looked up and knew her.

"Miriam?" he gasped, rising, to fall back again in his seat, "Miriam,
you here?"

"It seems so, grandfather," she answered quietly.

"There is some mistake," said Benoni. "This girl can have harmed none.
Let her be dismissed."

The other judges looked up.

"Best hear the charge against her first?" said one suspiciously, while
another added, "Is not this the woman who dwelt with you at Tyre, and
who is said to be a Christian?"

"We do not sit to try questions of faith, at least not now," answered
Benoni evasively.

"Woman, is it true that you are a Christian?" queried one of the
judges.

"Sir, I am," replied Miriam, and at her words the faces of the
Sanhedrim grew hard as stones, while someone watching in the crowd
hurled a fragment of marble at her.

"Let it be for this time," said the judge, "as the Rabbi Benoni says,
we are trying questions of treason, not of faith. Who accuses this
woman, and of what?"

A man stepped forward, that captain who had wished to put Miriam to
death, and she saw that behind him were Caleb, who looked ill at ease,
and the Jew who had guarded Marcus.

"I accuse her," he said, "of having released the Roman Prefect,
Marcus, whom Caleb here wounded and took prisoner in the fighting
yesterday, and brought into the Old Tower, where he was laid till we
knew whether he would live or die."

"The Roman Prefect, Marcus?" said one. "Why, he is the friend of
Titus, and would have been worth more to us than a hundred common men.
Also, throughout this war, none has done us greater mischief. Woman,
if, indeed, you let him go, no death can repay your wickedness. Did
you let him go?"

"That is for you to discover," answered Miriam, for now that Marcus
was safe she would tell no more lies.

"This renegade is insolent, like all her accursed sect," said the
judge, spitting on the ground. "Captain, tell your story, and be
brief."

He obeyed. After him that soldier was examined from whose hand Miriam
had struck the lantern. Then Caleb was called and asked what he knew
of the matter.

"Nothing," he answered, "except that I took the Roman and saw him laid
in the tower, for he was senseless. When I returned the Roman had
gone, and this lady Miriam was there, who said that he had escaped by
the doorway. I did not see them together, and know no more."

"That is a lie," said one of the judges roughly. "You told the captain
that Marcus had been her lover. Why did you say this?"

"Because years ago by Jordan she, who is a sculptor, graved a likeness
of him in stone," answered Caleb.

"Are artists always the lovers of those whom they picture, Caleb?"
asked Benoni, speaking for the first time.

Caleb made no answer, but one of the Sanhedrim, a sharp-faced man,
named Simeon, the friend of Simon, the son of Gioras, the Zealot, who
sat next to him, cried, "Cease this foolishness; the daughter of Satan
is beautiful; doubtless Caleb desires her for himself; but what has
that to do with us?" though he added vindictively, "it should be
remembered against him that he is striving to hide the truth."

"There is no evidence against this woman, let her be set free,"
exclaimed Benoni.

"So we might expect her grandfather to think," said Simeon, with
sarcasm. "Little wonder that we are smitten with the Sword of God when
Rabbis shelter Christians because they chance to be of their house,
and when warriors bear false witness concerning them because they
chance to be fair. For my part I say that she is guilty, and has
hidden the man away in some secret place. Otherwise why did she dash
the light from the soldier's hand?"

"Mayhap to hide herself lest she should be attacked," answered
another, "though how she came in the tower, I cannot guess."

"I lived there," said Miriam. "It was bricked up until yesterday and
safe from robbers."

"So!" commented that judge, "you lived alone in a deserted tower like
a bat or an owl, and without food or water. Then these must have been
brought to you from without the walls, perhaps by some secret passage
that was known to none, down which you loosed the Prefect, but had no
time to follow him. Woman, you are a Roman spy, as a Christian well
might be. I say that she is worthy of death."

Then Benoni rose and rent his robes.

"Does not enough blood run through these holy courts?" he asked, "that
you must seek that of the innocent also? What is your oath? To do
justice and to convict only upon clear, unshaken testimony. Where is
this testimony? What is there to show that the girl Miriam had any
dealings with this Marcus, whom she had not seen for years? In the
Holy Name I protest against this iniquity."

"It is natural that you should protest," said one of his brethren.

Then they fell into discussion, for the question perplexed them
sorely, who, although they were savage, still wished to be honest.

Suddenly Simeon looked up, for a thought struck him.

"Search her," he said, "she is in good case, she may have food, or the
secret of food, about her, or," he added--"other things."

Now two hungry-looking officers of the court seized Miriam and rent
her robe open at the breast with their rough hands, since they would
not be at the pains of loosening it.

"See," cried one of them, "here are pearls, fit wear for so fine a
lady. Shall we take them?"

"Fool, let the trinkets be," answered Simeon angrily. "Are we common
thieves?"

"Here is something else," said the officer, drawing the roll of
Marcus's cherished letter from her breast.

"Not that, not that," the poor girl gasped.

"Give it here," said Simeon, stretching out his lean hand.

Then he undid the silk case and, opening the letter, read its first
lines aloud. "'To the lady Miriam, from Marcus the Roman, by the hand
of the Captain Gallus.' What do you say to that, Benoni and brethren?
Why, there are pages of it, but here is the end: 'Farewell, your ever
faithful friend and lover, Marcus.' So, let those read it who have the
time; for my part I am satisfied. This woman is a traitress; I give my
vote for death."

"It was written from Rome two years ago," pleaded Miriam; but no one
seemed to heed her, for all were talking at once.

"I demand that the whole letter be read," shouted Benoni.

"We have no time, we have no time," answered Simeon. "Other prisoners
await their trial, the Romans are battering our gates. Can we waste
more precious minutes over this Nazarene spy? Away with her."

"Away with her," said Simon the son of Gioras, and the others nodded
their heads in assent.

Then they gathered together discussing the manner of her end, while
Benoni stormed at them in vain. Not quite in vain, however, for they
yielded something to his pleading.

"So be it," said their spokesman, Simon the Zealot. "This is our
sentence on the traitress--that she suffer the common fate of traitors
and be taken to the upper gate, called the Gate Nicanor, that divides
the Court of Israel from the Court of Women, and bound with the chain
to the central column that is over the gate, where she may be seen
both of her friends the Romans and of the people of Israel whom she
has striven to betray, there to perish of hunger and of thirst, or in
such fashion as God may appoint, for so shall we be clean of a woman's
blood. Yet, because of the prayer of Benoni, our brother, of whose
race she is, we decree that this sentence shall not be carried out
before the set of sun, and that if in the meanwhile the traitress
elects to give information that shall lead to the recapture of the
Roman prefect, Marcus, she shall be set at liberty without the gates
of the Temple. The case is finished. Guards, take her to the prison
whence she came."

So they seized Miriam and led her thence through the crowd of
onlookers, who paused from their wanderings and weary searching of the
ground to spit at or curse her, and thrust her back into her cell and
to the company of the cold corpse of Theophilus the Essene.

Here Miriam sat down, and partly to pass the time, partly because she
needed it, ate the bread and dried flesh which she had left hidden in
the cell. After this sleep came to her, who was tired out and the
worst being at hand, had nothing more to fear. For four or five hours
she rested sweetly, dreaming that she was a child again, gathering
flowers on the banks of Jordan in the spring season, till, at length,
a sound caused her to awake. She looked up to see Benoni standing
before her.

"What is it, grandfather?" she asked.

"Oh! my daughter," groaned the wretched old man, "I am come here at
some risk, for because of you and for other reasons they suspect me,
those wolf-hearted men, to bid you farewell and to ask your pardon."

"Why should you ask my pardon, grandfather? Seeing things as they see
them, the sentence is just enough. I am a Christian, and--if you would
know it--I did, as I hope, save the life of Marcus, for which deed my
own is forfeit."

"How?" he asked.

"That, grandfather, I will not tell you."

"Tell me, and save yourself. There is little chance that they will
take him, since the Jews have been driven from the Old Tower."

"The Jews might re-capture the tower, and I will not tell you. Also,
the lives of others are at stake, of my friends who have sheltered me,
and who, as I trust, will now shelter him."

"Then you must die, and by this death of shame, for I am powerless to
save you. Yes, you must die tied to a pinnacle of the gateway, a
mockery to friend and foe. Why, if it had not been that I still have
some authority among them, and that you are of my blood, girl though
you be, they would have crucified you upon the wall, serving you as
the Romans serve our people."

"If it pleases God that I should die, I shall die. What is one life
among so many tens of thousands? Let us talk of other things while we
have time."

"What is there to talk of, Miriam, save misery, misery, misery?" and
again he groaned. "You were right, and I have been wrong. That Messiah
of yours whom I rejected, yes, and still reject, had at least the gift
of prophecy, for the words that you read me yonder in Tyre will be
fulfilled upon this people and city, aye, to the last letter. The
Romans hold even the outer courts of the Temple; there is no food
left. In the upper town the inhabitants devour each other and die, and
die till none can bury the dead. In a day or two, or ten--what does it
matter?--we who are left must perish also by hunger and the sword. The
nation of the Jews is trodden out, the smoke of their sacrifices goes
up no more, and the Holy House that they have builded will be pulled
stone from stone, or serve as a temple for the worship of heathen
gods."

"Will Titus show no mercy? Can you not surrender?" asked Miriam.

"Surrender? To be sold as slaves or dragged a spectacle at the wheels
of Cæsar's triumphal car, through the shouting streets of Rome? No,
girl, best to fight it out. We will seek mercy of Jehovah and not of
Titus. Oh! I would that it were done with, for my heart is broken, and
this judgment is fallen on me--that I, who, of my own will, brought my
daughter to her death, must bring her daughter to death against my
will. If I had hearkened to you, you would have been in Pella, or in
Egypt. I lost you, and, thinking you dead, what I have suffered no man
can know. Now I find you, and because of the office that was thrust
upon me, I, even I, from whom your life has sprung, must bring you to
your doom."

"Grandfather," Miriam broke in, wringing her hands, for the grief of
this old man was awful to witness, "cease, I beseech you, cease.
Perhaps, after all, I shall not die."

He looked up eagerly. "Have you hope of escape?" he asked. "Perchance
Caleb----"

"Nay, I know naught of Caleb, except that there is still good in his
heart, since at the last he tried to save me--for which I thank him.
Still, I had sooner perish here alone, who do not fear death in my
spirit, whatever my flesh may fear, than escape hence in his company."

"What then, Miriam? Why should you think----?" and he paused.

"I do not think, I only trust in God and--hope. One of our faith, now
long departed, who foretold that I should be born, foretold also that
I should live out my life. It may be so--for that woman was holy, and
a prophetess."

As she spoke there came a rolling sound like that of distant thunder,
and a voice without called:

"Rabbi Benoni, the wall is down. Tarry not, Rabbi Benoni, for they
seek you."

"Alas! I must begone," he said, "for some new horror is fallen upon
us, and they summon me to the council. Farewell, most beloved Miriam,
may my God and your God protect you, for I cannot. Farewell, and if,
by any chance, you live, forgive me, and try to forget the evil that,
in my blindness and my pride, I have brought upon yours and you, but
oh! most of all upon myself."

Then he embraced her passionately and was gone, leaving Miriam
weeping.



CHAPTER XVII

THE GATE OF NICANOR

Another two hours went by, and the lengthening shadows cast through
the stonework of the lattice told Miriam that the day was drawing to
its end. Suddenly the bolts were shot and the door opened.

"The time is at hand," she said to herself, and at the thought her
heart beat fast and her knees trembled, while a mist came before her
eyes, so that she could not see. When it passed she looked up, and
there before her, very handsome and stately, though worn with war and
hunger, stood Caleb, sword in hand and clad in a breast plate dinted
with many blows. At the sight, Miriam's courage came back to her; at
least before him she would show no fear.

"Are you sent to carry out my sentence?" she asked.

He bowed his head. "Yes, a while hence, when the sun sinks," he
answered bitterly. "That judge, Simeon, who ordered you to be
searched, is a man with a savage heart. He thought that I tried to
save you from the wrath of the Sanhedrim; he thought that I----"

"Let be what he thought," interrupted Miriam, "and, friend Caleb, do
your office. When we were children together often you tied my hands
and feet with flowers, do you remember? Well, tie them now with cords,
and make an end."

"You are cruel," he said, wincing.

"Indeed! some might have thought that you are cruel. If, for instance,
they had heard your words in that tower last night when you gave up my
name to the Jews and linked it with another's."

"Oh! Miriam," he broke in in a pleading voice, "if I did this--and in
truth I scarcely know what I did--it was because love and jealousy
maddened me."

"Love? The love of the lion for the lamb! Jealousy? Why were you
jealous? Because, having striven to murder Marcus--oh! I saw the fight
and it was little better, for you smote him unawares, being fully
prepared when he was not--you feared lest I might have saved him from
your fangs. Well, thanks be to God! I did save him, as I hope. And
now, officer of the most merciful and learned Sanhedrim, do your
duty."

"At least, Miriam," Caleb went on, humbly, for her bitter words,
unjust as they were in part, seemed to crush him, "at least, I strove
my best for you to-day--after I found time to think."

"Yes," she answered, "to think that other lions would get the lamb
which you chance to desire for yourself."

"More," he continued, taking no note. "I have made a plan."

"A plan to do what?"

"To escape. If I give the signal on your way to the gate where I must
lead you, you will be rescued by certain friends of mine who will hide
you in a place of safety, while I, the officer, shall seem to be cut
down. Afterwards I can join you and under cover of the night, by a way
of which I know, we will fly together."

"Fly? Where to?"

"To the Romans, who will spare you because of what you did yesterday--
and me also."

"Because of what /you/ did yesterday?"

"No--because you will say that I am your husband. It will not be true,
but what of that?"

"What of it, indeed?" asked Miriam, "since it can always become true.
But how is it that you, being one of the first of the Jewish warriors,
are prepared to fly and ask the mercy of your foes? Is it because----"

"Spare to insult me, Miriam. You know well why it is. You know well
that I am no traitor, and that I do not fly for fear."

"Yes," she answered, in a changed tone, for his manly words touched
her, "I know that."

"It is for you that I fly, for your sake I will eat this dirt and
crown myself with shame. I fly that for the second time I may save
you."

"And in return you demand--what?"

"Yourself."

"That I will not give, Caleb. I reject your offer."

"I feared it," he answered huskily, "who am accustomed to such
denials. Then I demand this, for know that if once you pass your word
I may trust it: that you will not marry the Roman Marcus."

"I cannot marry the Roman Marcus any more than I can marry you,
because neither of you are Christians, and as you know well it is laid
upon me as a birth duty that I may take no man to husband who is not a
Christian."

"For your sake, Miriam," he answered slowly, "I am prepared to be
baptised into your faith. Let this show you how much I love you."

"It does not show that you love the faith, Caleb, nor if you did love
it could I love you. Jew or Christian, I cannot be your wife."

He turned his face to the wall and for a while was silent. Then he
spoke again.

"Miriam, so be it. I will still save you. Go, and marry Marcus, if you
can, only, if I live, I will kill him if I can, but that you need
scarcely fear, for I do not think that I shall live."

She shook her head. "I will not go, who am weary of flights and
hidings. Let God deal with me and Marcus and you as He pleases. Yet I
thank you, and am sorry for the unkind words I spoke. Oh! Caleb,
cannot you put me out of your mind? Are there not many fairer women
who would be glad to love you? Why do you waste your life upon me?
Take your path and suffer me to take mine. Yet all this talk is
foolishness, for both are likely to be short."

"Yours, and that of Marcus the Roman, and my own are all one path,
Miriam, and I seek no other. As a lad, I swore that I would never take
you, except by your own wish, and to that oath I hold. Also, I swore
that if I could I would kill my rival, and to that oath I hold. If he
kills me, you may wed him. If I kill him, you need not wed me unless
you so desire. But this fight is to the death, yes, whether you live
or die, it is still to the death as between me and him. Do you
understand?"

"Your words are very plain, Caleb, but this is a strange hour to
choose to speak them, seeing that, for aught I know, Marcus is already
dead, and that within some short time I shall be dead, and that death
threatens you and all within this Temple."

"Yet we live, Miriam, and I believe that for none of the three of us
is the end at hand. Well, you will not fly, either with me or without
me?"

"No, I will not fly."

"Then the time is here, and, having no choice, I must do my duty,
leaving the rest to fate. If, perchance, I can rescue you afterwards,
I will, but do not hope for such a thing."

"Caleb, I neither hope nor fear. Henceforth I struggle no more. I am
in other hands than yours, or those of the Jews, and as They fashion
the clay so shall it be shaped. Now, will you bind me?"

"I have no such command. Come forth if it pleases you, the officers
wait without. Had you wished to be rescued, I should have taken the
path on which my friends await us. Now we must go another."

"So be it," said Miriam, "but first give me that jar of water, for my
throat is parched."

He lifted it to her lips and she drank deeply. Then they went. Outside
the cloister four men were waiting, two of them those doorkeepers who
had searched her in the morning, the others soldiers.

"You have been a long while with the pretty maid, master," said one of
them to Caleb. "Have you been receiving confession of her sins?"

"I have been trying to receive confession of the hiding-place of the
Roman, but the witch is obstinate," he answered, glaring angrily at
Miriam.

"She will soon change her tune on the gateway, master, where the
nights are cold and the day is hot for those who have neither cloaks
for their backs nor water for their stomachs. Come on, Blue Eyes, but
first give me that necklet of pearls, which may serve to buy a bit of
bread or a drink of wine," and he thrust his filthy hand into her
breast.

Next instant a sword flashed in the red light of the evening to fall
full on the ruffian's skull, and down he went dead or dying.

"Brute," said Caleb with an angry snarl, "go to seek bread and wine in
Gehenna. The maid is doomed to death, not to be plundered by such as
you. Come forward."

The companions of the fallen man stared at him. Then one laughed, for
death was too common a sight to excite pity or surprise, and said:

"He was ever a greedy fellow. Let us hope that he has gone where there
is more to eat."

Then, preceded by Caleb, they marched through the long cloisters,
passed an inner door, turned down more cloisters on the right, and,
following the base of the great wall, came to its beautiful centre
gate, Nicanor, that was adorned with gold and silver, and stood
between the Court of Women and the Court of Israel. Over this gateway
was a square building, fifty feet or more in height, containing store
chambers and places where the priests kept their instruments of music.
On its roof, which was flat, were three columns of marble, terminated
by gilded spikes. By the gate one of the Sanhedrim was waiting for
them, that same relentless judge, Simeon, who had ordered Miriam to be
searched.

"Has the woman confessed where she hid the Roman?" he asked of Caleb.

"No," he answered, "she says that she knows nothing of any Roman."

"Is it so, woman?"

"It is so, Rabbi."

"Bring her up," he went on sternly, and they passed through some stone
chambers to a place where there was a staircase with a door of cedar-
wood. The judge unlocked it, locking it again behind them, and they
climbed the stairs till they came to another little door of stone,
which, being opened, Miriam found herself on the roof of the gateway.
They led her to the centre pillar, to which was fastened an iron chain
about ten feet in length. Here Simeon commanded that her hands should
be bound behind her, which was done. Then he brought out of his robe a
scroll written in large letters, and tied it on to her breast. This
was the writing on the scroll:

"Miriam, Nazarene and Traitress, is doomed here to die as God shall
appoint, before the face of her friends, the Romans."

Then followed several signatures of members of the Sanhedrim,
including that of her grandfather, Benoni, who had thus been forced to
show the triumph of patriotism over kinship.

This done the end of the chain was made fast round her middle and
riveted with a hammer in such fashion that she could not possibly
escape its grip. Then all being finished the men prepared to leave.
First, however, Simeon addressed her:

"Stay here, accursed traitress, till your bones fall piecemeal from
that chain," he said, "stay, through storm and shine, through light
and darkness, while Roman and Jew alike make merry of your sufferings,
which, if my voice had been listened to, would have been shorter, but
more cruel. Daughter of Satan, go back to Satan and let the Son of the
carpenter save you if he can."

"Spare to revile the maid," broke in Caleb furiously, "for curses are
spears that fall on the heads of those that throw them."

"Had I my will," answered the Rabbi, "a spear should fall upon your
head, insolent, who dare to rebuke your elders. Begone before me, and
be sure of this, that if you strive to return here it shall be for the
last time. More is known about you, Caleb, then you think, and perhaps
you also would make friends among the Romans."

Caleb made no answer, for he knew the venom and power of this Zealot
Simeon, who was the chosen friend and instrument of the savage John of
Gischala. Only he looked at Miriam with sad eyes, and, muttering "You
would have it so, I can do no more. Farewell," left her to her fate.

So there in the red light of the sunset, with her hands bound, a
placard setting out her shame upon her breast, and chained like a wild
beast to the column of marble, Miriam was left alone. Walking as near
to the little battlement as the length of her chain would allow, she
looked down into the Court of Israel, where many of the Zealots had
gathered to catch sight of her. So soon as they saw her they yelled
and hooted and cast a shower of stones, one of which struck her on the
shoulder. With a little cry of pain she ran back as far as she could
reach on the further side of the pillar. Hence she could see the great
Court of Women, whence the Gate Nicanor was approached by fifteen
steps forming the half of a circle and fashioned of white marble. This
court now was nothing but a camp, for the outer Court of the Gentiles
having been taken by the Romans, their battering rams were working at
its walls.

Then the night fell, but brought no peace with it, for the rams smote
continually, and since they were not strong enough to break through
the huge stones of the mighty wall, the Romans renewed their attempt
to take them by storm in the hours of darkness. But, indeed, it was no
darkness, for the Jews lit fires upon the top of the wall, and by
their light drove off the attacking Romans. Again and again, from her
lofty perch, Miriam could see the scaling ladders appear above the
crest of the wall. Then up them would come long lines of men, each
holding a shield above his head. As the foremost of these scrambled on
to the wall, the waiting Jews rushed at them and cut them down with
savage shouts, while other Jews seizing the rungs of the ladder,
thrust it from the coping to fall with its living load back into the
ditch beneath. Once there were great cries of joy, for two standard-
bearers had come up the ladders carrying their ensigns with them. The
men were overpowered and the ensigns captured to be waved derisively
at the Romans beneath, who answered the insult with sullen roars of
rage.

So things went on till at length the legionaries, wearing of this
desperate fighting, took another counsel. Hitherto Titus had desired
to preserve all the Temple, even to the outer courts and cloisters,
but now he commanded that the gates, built of great beams of cedar and
overlaid with silver plates, should be fired. Through a storm of
spears and arrows soldiers rushed up to them and thrust lighted brands
into every joint and hinge. They caught, and presently the silver
plates ran down their blazing surface in molten streams of metal. Nor
was this all, for from the gates the fire spread to the cloisters on
either side, nor did the outworn Jews attempt to stay its ravages.
They drew back sullenly, and seated in groups upon the paving of the
Court of Women, watching the circle of devouring flame creep slowly
on. At length the sun rose. Now the Romans were labouring to
extinguish the fire at the gateway, and to make a road over the ruins
by which they might advance. When it was done at last, with shouts of
triumph the legionaries, commanded by Titus himself and accompanied by
a body of horsemen, advanced into the Court of Women. Back before them
fled the Jews, pouring up the steps of the Gate Nicanor, on the roof
of which Miriam was chained to her pinnacle. But of her they took no
note, none had time to think, or even to look at a single girl bound
there on high in punishment for some offence, of which the most of
them knew nothing. Only they manned the walls to right and left, and
held the gateway, but to the roof where Miriam was they did not climb,
because its parapet was too low to shelter them from the arrows of
their assailants.

The Romans saw her, however, for she perceived that some of his
officers were pointing her out to a man on horseback, clad in splendid
armour, over which fell a purple cloak, whom she took to be Titus
himself. Also one of the soldiers shot an arrow at her which struck
upon the spiked column above her head and, rebounding, fell at her
feet. Titus noted this, for she saw the man brought before him, and by
his gestures gathered that the general was speaking to him angrily.
After this no more arrows were shot at her, and she understood that
their curiosity being stirred by the sight of a woman chained upon a
gateway, they did not wish to do her mischief.

Now the August sun shone out from a cloudless sky till the hot air
danced above the roofs of the Temple and the pavings of the courts,
and the thousands shut within their walls were glad to crowd into the
shadow to shelter from its fiery beams. But Miriam could not escape
them thus. In the morning and again in the afternoon she was able
indeed, by creeping round it, to take refuge in the narrow line of
shade thrown by the marble column to which she was made fast. At mid-
day, however, it flung no shadow, so for all those dreadful hours she
must pant in the burning heat without a drop of water to allay her
thirst. Still she bore it till at length came evening and its cool.

That day the Romans made no attack, nor did the Jews attempt a sally.
Only some of the lighter of the engines were brought into the Court of
Women, whence they hurled their great stones and heavy darts into the
Court of Israel beyond. Miriam watched these missiles as they rushed
by her, once or twice so close that the wind they made stirred her
hair. The sight fascinated her and took her mind from her own
sufferings. She could see the soldiers working at the levers and
pulleys till the strings of the catapult or the boards of the balista
were drawn to their places. Then the darts or the stones were set in
the groove prepared to receive it, a cord was pulled and the missile
sped upon its way, making an angry humming noise as it clove the air.
At first it looked small; then approaching it grew large, to become
small again to her following sight as its journey was accomplished.
Sometimes, the stones, which did more damage than the darts, fell upon
the paving and bounded along it, marking their course by fragments of
shattered marble and a cloud of dust. At others, directed by an evil
fate, they crashed into groups of Jews, destroying all they touched.
Wandering to and fro among these people was that crazed man Jesus, the
son of Annas, who had met them with his wild prophetic cry as they
entered into Jerusalem, and whose ill-omened voice Miriam had heard
again before Marcus was taken at the fight in the Old Tower. To and
fro he went, none hindering him, though many thrust their fingers in
their ears and looked aside as he passed, wailing forth: "Woe, woe to
Jerusalem! Woe to the city and the Temple!" Of a sudden, as Miriam
watched, he was still for a moment, then throwing up his arms, cried
in a piercing voice, "Woe, woe to myself!" Before the echo of his
words had died against the Temple walls, a great stone cast from the
Court of Women rushed upon him through the air and felled him to the
earth. On it went with vast bounds, but Jesus, the son of Annas, lay
still. Now, in the hour of the accomplishment of his prophecy, his
pilgrimage was ended.

All the day the cloisters that surrounded the Court of Women burned
fiercely, but the Jews, whose heart was out of them, did not sally
forth, and the Romans made no attack upon the inner Court of Israel.
At length the last rays of the setting sun struck upon the slopes of
the Mount of Olives, the white tents of the Roman camps, and the
hundreds of crosses, each bearing its ghastly burden, that filled the
Valley of Jehoshaphat and climbed up the mountain sides wherever space
could be found for them to stand. Then over the tortured, famished
city down fell the welcome night. To none was it more welcome than to
Miriam, for with it came a copious dew which seemed to condense upon
the gilded spike of her marble pillar, whence it trickled so
continually, that by licking a little channel in the marble, she was
enabled, before it ceased, to allay the worst pangs of her thirst.
This