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.