“Yes, where there is such love as ours. Of course I cannot help wishing sometimes that we were one in our faith, especially for the sake of the child.” “But you are one in your faith!” exclaimed the Princess, with surprise. “Have you not become a Jewess? By your own confession you had no cherished belief to renounce at the time of your apostasy—excuse the word.” Patricia sighed, but was silent, scarcely liking to give voice to her thoughts. They had just passed through the Jaffa gate on the road to Bethlehem, and the magnificent view attracted their attention. Wild mountains stretched above them, varied by occasional vineyards and olive plantations; and a bend in the road disclosed that which was said to be Rachel’s tomb. The stone streets of Bethlehem were so narrow that the carriage occupied almost all the available space. Their destination was, of course, the Church of the Nativity, which stands at the upper end of the market-place. Passing through the low and narrow doorway, they descended to the sacred crypt, where about fifty exquisite lamps hung from the roof. On the pavement below one of the altars a metal star had been let into the rock; it indicated the exact spot where the Holy Babe was born. “This, I believe, is authentic,” said the Princess, as she bent down to read the Latin inscription on the star: “‘_Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est._’ Can you realise that this is the very cave—the outhouse of the khân—in which the greatest event recorded in history occurred? Is it not wonderful! The thought almost takes my breath away!” Had she been a pilgrim and emotional, she would have knelt and kissed the star. As it was, she stood by the altar with reverently bent head, her thoughts concentrated on the stupendous miracle which had been enacted there. In the adjoining church of the Latins the choir were singing vespers; and their voices, subdued by distance, rose and fell in pleasant rhythm; but within the cave itself there was silence, and the solemnity of the moment was undisturbed.