Thus it came about that Miriam dwelt in quiet, occupying herself much with her art of modelling and going abroad but little, since it was scarcely safe for her, the grandchild of the rich Jew merchant, to show her face in the streets.  Though she was surrounded by every luxury, far more than she needed, indeed, this lack of liberty irked her who had been reared in the desert, till at times she grew melancholy and would sit for hours looking on the sea and thinking.  She thought of her mother who had sat thus before her; of her father, who had perished beneath the gladiators’ swords; of the kindly old men who had nurtured her, and of the sufferings of her brothers and sisters in the faith in Rome and at Jerusalem.  But most of all she thought of Marcus, her Roman lover, whom, strive as she would, she could never forget—­no, not for a single hour.  She loved him, that was the truth of it, and between them there was a great gulf fixed, not of the sea only, which ships could sail, but of that command which the dead had laid upon her.  He was a pagan and she was a Christian, and they might not wed.  By now, too, it was likely that he had forgotten her, the girl who took his fancy in the desert.  At Rome there were many noble and lovely women—­oh! she could scarcely bear to think of it.  Yet night by night she prayed for him, and morn by morn his face arose before her half-awakened eyes.  Where was he?  What was he doing?  For aught she knew he might be dead.  Nay, for then, surely, her heart would have warned her.  Still, she craved for tidings, and alas! there were none.

At length tidings did come—­the best of tidings.  One day, wearying of the house, with the permission of her grandfather, and escorted by servants, Miriam had gone to walk in the gardens that he owned to the north of that part of the city on the mainland, which was called Palaetyrus.  They were lovely gardens, well watered and running down to the sea-edge, and in them grew beautiful palms and other trees, with fruitful shrubs and flowers.  Here, when they had roamed a while, Miriam and Nehushta sat down upon the fallen column of some old temple and rested.  Suddenly they heard a footstep, and Miriam looked up to see before her a Roman officer, clad in a cloak that showed signs of sea-travel, and, guiding him, one of Benoni’s servants.

The officer, a rough but kindly looking man of middle age, bowed to her, asking in Greek if he spoke to the lady Miriam, the granddaughter of Benoni the Jew, she who had been brought up among the Essenes.

“Sir, I am she,” answered Miriam.

“Then, lady, I, who am named Gallus, have an errand to perform”; and drawing from his robe a letter tied with silk and sealed, and with the letter a package, he handed them to her.

“Who sends these?” she asked, hope shining in her eyes, “and whence come they?”

“From Rome, lady, as fast as sails could waft them and me.  And the sender is the noble Marcus, called the Fortunate.”