Of all that were spoken there in the garden, Caleb, the watcher, could catch no word.  The speakers did not raise their voices and they stood at a distance, so that although he craned his head forward as far as he dared in the shadow of the trees, sharp and trained as they were, naught save a confused murmur reached his ears.  But if these failed him, his eyes fed full, so that he lost no move or gesture.  It was a passionate love scene, this was clear, for Nehushta stood at a little distance with her back turned, while the pair poured out their sweet speeches to each other.  Then at length, as he had expected, came the climax.  Yes, oh! shameless woman—­they were embracing.  A mist fell upon Caleb’s eyes, in which lights flashed like red-hot swords lifting and smiting, the blood drummed in his ears as though his raging, jealous heart would burst.  He would kill that Roman now on the spot.  Miriam should never kiss him more—­alive.

Already Caleb had drawn the short-sword from its hiding-place in his ample robe; already he had stepped out from the shadow of the trees, when of a sudden his reason righted itself like a ship that has been laid over by a furious squall, and caution came back to him.  If he did this that faithless guardian, Nehushta, who without doubt had been bought with Roman gold, would come to the assistance of her patron and thrust her dagger through his back, as she well could do.  Or should he escape that dagger, one or other of them would raise the Essenes on him, and he would be given over to justice.  He wished to slay, not to be slain.  It would be sweet to kill the Roman, but if he himself were laid dead across his body, leaving Miriam alive to pass to some other man, what would he be advantaged?  Presently they must cease from their endearments; presently his enemy would return as he had come, and then he might find his chance.  He would wait, he would wait.

Look, they had parted; Miriam was gliding back to the house, and Marcus came towards him, walking like a man in his sleep.  Only Nehushta stood where she was, her eyes fixed upon the ground as though she were reasoning with herself.  Still like a man in a dream, Marcus passed him within touch of his outstretched hand.  Caleb followed.  Marcus opened the door, went out of it, and pulled it to behind him.  Caleb caught it in his hand, slipped through and closed it.  A few paces down the wall—­eight or ten perhaps—­was another door, by which Marcus entered the garden of the guest-house.  As he turned to shut this, Caleb pushed in after him, and they were face to face.

“Who are you?” asked the Roman, springing back.

Caleb, who by now was cool enough, closed the door and shot the bolt.  Then he answered, “Caleb, the son of Hilliel, who wishes a word with you.”

“Ah!” said Marcus, “the very man, and, as usual, unless the light deceives me, in an evil humour.  Well, Caleb the son of Hilliel, what is your business with me?”