“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 Caesar’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.”