“The Blemmyes outnumbered us; they soon surrounded us before and behind, on the right side and on the left, for they jumped and climbed from rock to rock like mountain goats and then shot down their reed-arrows from above.  Three or four touched me, and one pierced my hair and remained hanging in it with the feather at the end of the shaft.

“How the battle went elsewhere I cannot tell you, for the blood mounted to my head, and I was only conscious that I myself snorted and shouted like a madman and wrestled with the heathen now here and now there, and more than once lifted my axe to cleave a skull.  At the same time I saw a part of our men turn to fly, and I called them back with furious words; then they turned round and followed me again.

“Once, in the midst of the struggle, I saw Miriam too, clinging pale and trembling to a rock and looking on at the fight.  I shouted to her to leave the spot, and go back to my father, but she stood still and shook her head with a gesture—­a gesture so full of pity and anguish—­I shall never forget it.  With hands and eyes she signed to me that my father was dead, and I understood; at least I understood that some dreadful misfortune had happened.  I had no time for reflection, for before I could gain any certain information by word of mouth, a captain of the heathen had seized me, and we came to a life and death struggle before Miriam’s very eyes.  My opponent was strong, but I showed the girl—­who had often taunted me for being a weakling because I obeyed my father in everything—­that I need yield to no one.  I could not have borne to be vanquished before her and I flung the heathen to the ground and slew him with my axe.  I was only vaguely conscious of her presence, for during my severe struggle I could see nothing but my adversary.  But suddenly I heard a loud scream, and Miriam sank bleeding close before me.  While I was kneeling over his comrade one of the Blemmyes had crept up to me, and had flung his lance at me from a few paces off.  But Miriam—­Miriam—­”

“She saved you at the cost of her own life,” said Petrus completing the lad’s sentence, for at the recollection of the occurrence his voice had failed and his eyes overflowed with tears.

Hermas nodded assent, and then added softly:  “She threw up her arms and called my name as the spear struck her.  The eldest son of Obedianus punished the heathen that had done it, and I supported her as she fell dying and took her curly head on my knees and spoke her name; she opened her eyes once more, and spoke mine softly and with indescribable tenderness.  I had never thought that wild Miriam could speak so sweetly, I was overcome with terrible grief, and kissed her eyes and her lips.  She looked at me once more with a long, wide-open, blissful gaze, and then she was dead.”

“She was a heathen,” said Dorothea, drying her eyes, “but for such a death the Lord will forgive her much.”