“Why are you so good to me?” asked Miriam.

“Why?  Oh! for several reasons.  First, you were the friend of a comrade of mine who often talked of you, but who now is dead.  Secondly, you were a sick and helpless thing whom I chanced to rescue in the great slaughter, and who ever since has been my companion; and thirdly—­yes, I will say it, though I do not love to talk of that matter, I had a daughter, who died, and who, had she lived, would have been of about your age.  Your eyes remind me of hers—­there, is that not enough?

“But now for the story.  Stay.  I will tell you what I know of it.  Marcus, he whom they called The Fortunate, but whose fortune has deserted him, was in love with you—­like the rest of us.  Often he talked to me of you in Rome, where we were friends after a fashion, though he was set far above me, and by me sent to you that letter which I delivered here in this garden, and the trinket that you wear about your neck, and if I remember right, with it a ring—­yes, it is upon your finger.  Well, I took note of you at the time and went my way to the war, and when I chanced to find you lately upon the top of the Gate Nicanor, although you were more like a half-burnt cinder than a fair maiden, I knew you again and carried you off to Caesar, who named you his slave and bade me take charge of you and deliver you to him in Rome.  Now I want to know how you came to be upon that gateway.”

So Miriam began and told him all her tale, while he listened patiently.  When she had done he rose and, limping round the little table, bent over and kissed her solemnly upon the brow.

“By all the gods of the Romans, Greeks, Christians, Jews, and barbarian nations, you are a noble-hearted woman,” he said, “and that kiss is my tribute to you.  Little wonder that puppy, Marcus, is called The Fortunate, since, even when he deserved to die who suffered himself to be taken alive, you appeared to save him—­to save him, by Venus, at the cost of your own sweet self.  Well, most noble traitress, what now?”

“I ask that question of you, Gallus.  What now?  Marcus, whom you should call no ill name, and who was overwhelmed through no fault of his own, fighting like a hero, has vanished——­”

“Across the Styx, I fear me.  Indeed that would be best for him, since no Roman must be taken prisoner and live.”

“Nay, I think not, or at the least I hope he lives.  My servant, Nehushta, would nurse him for my sake, and for my sake the Essenes, among whom I dwelt, would guard him, even to the loss of their own lives.  Unless his wound killed him I believe that Marcus is alive to-day.”

“And if that is so you wish to communicate with him?”

“What else, Gallus?  Say, what fate will befall me when I reach Rome?”

“You will be kept safe till Titus comes.  Then, according to his command, you must walk in his Triumph, and after that, unless he changes his mind, which is not likely, since he prides himself upon never having reversed a decree, however hastily it was made, or even added to or taken from a judgment, you must, alas! be set up in the Forum and sold as a slave to the highest bidder.”