Joshua drew himself into securer, position on the camel and shook its harness.

“Love!” he said with a frown.  “The evilest tie and the strongest between Israel and Mizraim!”

“Nay,” Caleb protested, “thou hast loved.”

“A daughter of Israel,” the warrior answered bluntly.  “Dost thou follow me into Goshen, Caleb?”

“Nay, we go on to Tanis, where we shall join Moses and Aaron who lie there awaiting the Pharaoh’s summons.”

“The parting shall not be long between thee and me, then.  Peace to thee, Caleb.  To Miriam, greeting and peace.”

The warrior urged his camel and, rounding the stela-guarding soldier who had stood within ear-shot of the narrative, he was gone in a long undulating swing up the road that led to Pa-Ramesu.

Caleb gazed after him until he was only a tall shape like the stroke of a pen in the distance.  Then the mild Israelite looked longingly at the Egyptian, and finally returned to the litters.  These in a moment were shouldered by the bearers and moved out up the road toward Tanis.  Caleb walked before them, dotting every other footprint with the point of his staff.  He sighed gustily and sank his bearded chin on his breast.

The soldier turned his head as soon as the attendant had passed and gazed at the litters.

The Hebrew bearers of the foremost were four in number, dressed in the garb of serving-men to noble Israel.  The hangings of blue linen had been thrust aside and within was the semi-recumbent figure of a woman.  One knee was drawn up, the hands clasped behind the head, but the majesty of the august countenance belied the youth of the posture.  The eyes of the woman met those of the Egyptian and lighted with recognition.  She lowered her arms and crossed the left to the shoulder of the right.  It was the old attitude of deference from Israel to Atsu.  A dusky red dyed the man’s cheeks and he touched his knee in response.

The litter of Miriam passed.

The next was a light frame of jungle bamboo, borne by a pair of young men.  Its sides were latticed, with the exception of two small window-like openings on either side.  These were hung with white linen, but the drapings had been put aside to admit the morning air.

The soldier looked and the shock of recognition drew him a pace away from the stela.

The head of a young girl, partly turned from him, was framed in the small window.  The wimple had been thrown back and a single tress of golden hair had escaped across the forehead.  The countenance was unhappy, but beautiful for all its misery.  The lids were heavy, as if weighted down with sorrow; the cheeks were pallid, the lips colorless and pathetically drooped.  A white hand, resting on the slight frame of the small opening, was tightly clenched.

The picture was one of weary despair.

The soldier, blanched and shaken, took a step forward as if to speak, but some realization brought him back to rigid attention against the stela.