“Lady!  In the Name of Christ, where are you, lady?” asked Nehushta in a piercing whisper, and the echoes of the gallery answered—­“Where are you, lady?”

Just then Marcus awoke.

“What has chanced?  What place is this, Miriam?” he asked.

“This has chanced,” answered Nehushta in the same awful voice.  “We are in the passage leading to the vaults; Miriam is in the hands of the Jews in the Old Tower, and the door is shut between us.  Accursed Roman! to save your life she has sacrificed herself.  Without doubt she sprang from the door to dash the lantern from the hand of the Jew, and before she could return again it had swung home.  Now they will crucify her because she rescued you—­a Roman.”

“Don’t talk, woman,” broke in Marcus savagely, “open the door.  I am still a man, I can still fight, or,” he added with a groan, remembering that he had no sword, “at the least I can die for her.”

“I cannot,” gasped Nehushta.  “She had the iron that lifts the secret latch.  If you had kept your sword, Roman, it might perhaps have served, but that has gone also.”

“Break it down,” said Marcus.  “Come, I will help.”

“Yes, yes, Roman, you will help to break down three feet of solid stone.”

Then began that hideous scene whereof something has been said.  Nehushta strove to reach the latch with her fingers.  Marcus, standing upon one foot, strove to shake the stone with his shoulder, the black, silent stone that never so much as stirred.  Yet they worked madly, their breath coming in great gasps, knowing that the work was in vain, and that even if they could open the door, by now it would be to find Miriam gone, or at the best to be taken themselves.  Suddenly Marcus ceased from his labour.

“Lost!” he moaned, “and for my sake.  O ye gods! for my sake.”  Then down he fell, his harness clattering on the rocky step, and lay there, muttering and laughing foolishly.

Nehushta ceased also, gasping:  “The Lord help you, Miriam, for I cannot.  Oh! after all these years to lose you thus, and because of that man!” and she glared through the darkness towards the fallen Marcus, thinking in her heart that she would kill him.

“Nay,” she said to herself, “she loved him, and did she know it might pain her.  Better kill myself; yes, and if I were sure that she is dead this, sin or no sin, I would do.”

As she sat thus, helpless, hopeless, she saw a light coming up the stair towards them.  It was borne by Ithiel.  Nehushta rose and faced him.

“Praise be to God! there you are at length,” he said.  “Thrice have I been up this stair wondering why Miriam did not come.”

“Brother Ithiel,” answered Nehushta, “Miriam will come no more; she is gone, leaving us in exchange this man Marcus, the Roman prefect of Horse.”

“What do you mean?  What do you mean?” he gasped.  “Where is Miriam?”

“In the hands of the Jews,” she answered.  Then she told him all that story.