“I am well repaid,” answered Caleb gravely.  “For me this has been a fortunate day, who on it have sunk the great Syrian galley and rescued the woman—­whom I love.”

“Oath or no oath,” broke in Benoni, bethinking him of what he had promised in the past, “the life you saved is yours, and if I have my way you shall take her and such of her heritage as remains.”

“Is this a time to speak of such things?” said Miriam, looking up.  “See yonder,” and she pointed to the scene in progress on the seashore.  “They drive our friends and servants into the sea and drown them,” and once more she began to weep.

Caleb sighed.  “Cease from useless tears, Miriam.  We have done our best and it is the fortune of war.  I dare not send out the boats again even if the mariners would listen to my command.  Nehushta, lead your lady to the cabin and strip her of these wet garments lest she take cold in this bitter wind.  But first, Benoni, what is your mind?”

“To go to my cousin Mathias, the high priest at Jerusalem,” answered the old man, “who has promised to give me shelter if in these days any can be found.”

“Nay,” broke in Nehushta, “sail for Egypt.”

“Where also they massacre the Jews by thousands till the streets of Alexandria run with their blood,” replied Caleb with sarcasm; adding, “Well, to Egypt I cannot take you who must bring this ship to those who await her on this side of Joppa, whence I am summoned to Jerusalem.”

“Whither and nowhere else I will go,” said Benoni, “to share in my nation’s death or triumph.  If Miriam wills it, I have told her she can leave me.”

“What I have said before I say again,” replied Miriam, “that I will never do.”

Then Nehushta took her to the cabin, and presently the oars began to beat and the great galley stood out of the harbour, till in the silence of the sea the screams of the victims and the shouts of the victors died away, and as night fell naught could be seen of Tyre but the flare from the burning houses of the slaughtered Jews.

Save for the sobs and cries of the fugitives who had lost their friends and goods the night passed in quiet, since, although it was winter, the sea was calm and none pursued their ship.  At daybreak she anchored, and coming from the cabin with Nehushta, in the light of the rising sun Miriam saw before her a ridge of rocks over which the water poured, and beyond it a little bay backed by a desolate coast.  Nehushta also saw and sighed.

“What is this place?” asked Miriam.

“Lady, it is the spot where you were born.  On yonder flat rock lay the vessel, and there I burned her many years ago.  See those blackened timbers half buried in the sand upon the beach; doubtless they are her ribs.”

“It is strange that I should return hither, and thus, Nou,” said Miriam sighing.

“Strange, indeed, but mayhap there is a meaning in it.  Before you came in storm to grow to womanhood in peace; now, perchance, you come on a peaceful sea to pass through womanhood in storm.”