“And we,” she said proudly, “rise to life eternal.”

“It may be so, lady, it may be so; but let us talk of something more cheerful,” and he sighed.  “At present, I hold that nothing is eternal—­except perhaps such art as yours.”

“Which will be forgotten in the first change of taste, or crumbled in the first fire.  But see, he is awake.  Come here, my master, and work this nostril, for it is beyond me.”

The old artist advanced and looked at the bust with admiration.

“Maid Miriam,” he said, “I used to have some skill in this art, and I taught you its rudiments; but now, child, I am not fit to temper your clay.  Deal with the nostril as you will; I am but a hodman who bears the bricks, you are the heaven-born architect.  I will not meddle, I will not meddle; yet perhaps——­” and he made a suggestion.

“So?” said Miriam, touching the clay with her tool.  “Oh, look! it is right now.  You are clever, my master.”

“It was always right.  I may be clever, but you have genius, and would have found the fault without any help from me.”

“Did I not say so?” broke in Marcus triumphantly.

“Sir,” replied Miriam, “you say a great deal, and much of it, I think, you do not mean.  Please be silent; at this moment I wish to study your lips, and not your words.”

So the work went on.  They did not always talk, for soon they found that speech is not necessary to true companionship.  Once Miriam began to sing, and since she discovered that her voice pleased Marcus and soothed the slumbers of the elders, she sang often; quaint, sad songs of the desert and of the Jordan fishermen.  Also she told him tales and legends, and when she had done Nehushta told others—­wild stories of Libya, some of them very dark and bloody, others of magic, black or white.  Thus these afternoons passed happily enough, and the clay model being finished, after the masons among the brethren had rough hewn it for her, Miriam began to fashion it in marble.

There was one, however, for whom these days did not pass happily—­Caleb.  From the time that he had seen Miriam walking side by side with Marcus he hated the brilliant-looking Roman in whom, his instinct warned him, he had found a dangerous rival.  Oh, how he hated him!  So much, indeed, that even in the moment of first meeting he could not keep his rage and envy in his heart, but suffered them to be written on his face, and to shine like danger signals in his eyes, which, it may be remembered, Marcus did not neglect to note.

Of Miriam Caleb had seen but little lately.  She was not angry with him, since his offence was of a nature which a woman can forgive, but in her heart she feared him.  Of a sudden, as it were, the curtain had been drawn, and she had seen this young man’s secret spirit and learned that it was a consuming fire.  It had come home to her that every word he spoke was true, that he who was orphaned and not