"I cannot answer you nay, my daughter. But you shall tell it all to Bethuel. Is it not enough for the moment that Deborah has found favor with her kinsman, and that his life shall be for hers whether she go or stay? Aye, you have Miriam's face. Know you, my child, that when you were born your father pledged me that you should become the bride of my Josiah, whom the Lord so soon after took from me. Since the same plague struck down the lad and his mother, Ben Aaron has lived a lonely life, overlooking this Sea of Death, for so it seemed fitting for one with a desolate heart, and no wife nor child to cheer it. The Lord has sent you to me, my child. No other angel have I seen on this barren peak. Let Bethuel say why I should not go with you." If care and kindly purpose could have recuperated the strength of the traveller, the hands of Adah and Zillah would have taken away all aches. But ablution in the water cooled by filtering through the coarse clay jars, and the savory supper, only allayed her excitement. As she began to rest she for the first time began to realize how utterly wearied she was. She begged Ben Aaron that she might sleep until the morning; in the meantime he and Bethuel should consider the answer he was to give. The news Deborah had brought spread like fire in the brambles throughout the little colony, for such it was rather than a single household. Scores of herdsmen that night gathered in the great central chamber. This was built of unhewn and unmortared stones, the débris of the storm-shattered crags about the summit of Masada. It was the supper hour. Great pots steamed with the parched corn boiling in milk. Two whole goats, only the entrails having been removed, were being roasted on great wooden spits over the fire in the centre of the room. The savor of their flesh, mingled with the smoke, poured through the opening in the roof. This was an incense pleasing, if not to the gods, surely to the thousands of rooks collected upon the dried mud interlaced with sticks which made the roof. Around the great chamber were sheds, from which came the lowing of cattle and the cries of the milkers. Without could be heard the clattering of wooden shoes on the rocks as the herdsmen clambered up from a lower plateau where the sheep were folded for the night. Bethuel was closeted with his master in an adjacent room. The noise of the feasters ceased until each one threw himself down in his blanket upon the earthen floor. Then the voices of Ben Aaron and his chief broke the stillness. The debate had evidently been serious, for Bethuel exclaimed: