“True,” replied Miriam eagerly; “for the shepherd is a feeble man, who knows no remedy against contagion; but the Lord, who calls all His people, will suffer no harm to arise from rigid obedience.”

“That is a woman’s mode of thought,” replied Hosea; “but what pity dictates to her must not weigh too heavily in the balance in the councils of men.  You willingly obey the voice of the heart, which is most proper, but you should not forget what befits you and your sex.”

A deep flush crimsoned Miriam’s cheeks; for she felt the sting contained in this speech with two-fold pain because it was Hosea who dealt the thrust.  How many pangs she had been compelled to endure that day on account of her sex, and now he, too, made her feel that she was not his peer because she was a woman.  In the presence of the stones Hur had gathered, and on which her hand now rested, he had appealed to her verdict, as though she were one of the leaders of the people, and now he abruptly thrust her, who felt herself inferior to no man in intellect and talent, back into a woman’s narrow sphere.

But he, too, felt his dignity wounded, and her bearing showed him that this hour would decide whether he or she would have the mastery in their future union.  He stood proudly before her, his mien stern in its majesty—­never before had he seemed so manly, so worthy of admiration.  Yet the desire to battle for her insulted womanly dignity gained supremacy over every other feeling, and it was she who at last broke the brief, painful silence that had followed his last words, and with a composure won only by the exertion of all her strength of will, she began: 

“We have both forgotten what detains us here so late at night.  You wished to confide to me what brings you to your people and to hear, not what Miriam, the weak woman, but the confidante of the Lord decides.”

“I hoped also to hear the voice of the maiden on whose love I rely,” he answered gloomily.

“You shall hear it,” she replied quickly, taking her hand from the stones.  “Yet it may be that I cannot agree with the opinion of the man whose strength and wisdom are so far superior to mine, yet you have just shown that you cannot tolerate the opposition of a woman, not even mine.”

“Miriam,” he interrupted reproachfully, but she continued still more eagerly:  “I have felt it, and because it would be the greatest grief of my life to lose your heart, you must learn to understand me, ere you call upon me to express my opinion.”

“First hear my message.”

“No, no!” she answered quickly.  “The reply would die upon my lips.  Let me first tell you of the woman who has a loving heart, and yet knows something else that stands higher than love.  Do you smile?  You have a right to do so, you have so long been a stranger to the secret I mean to confide. . . .”

“Speak then!” he interrupted, in a tone which betrayed how difficult it was for him to control his impatience.