Jerusalem crowns a massive ridge of rock. To the eye of the inhabitant this was a projecting portion of the very foundation of the earth; to his faith it was the symbol of the eternity of the Jewish religion. The rock is not, however, as solid as it seems. For ages it has served as the quarry from which the builders of walls and fortresses, pavements and palaces, have taken their material, leaving little more than the shell of the dome which first attracted the worshipful gaze of Abraham as he journeyed up from the south country. The rock of Moriah may then be taken as a symbol of the hollow formality into which the religion of Israel has at times degenerated. In the time of our story there were, beneath the streets and houses of the city, long labyrinthine passages that were unlighted except by the occasional lantern of an explorer or prowler, and vast chambers where no sound, save of some cautious footstep, had echoed since the click of the hammer of the Phœnician stone-cutter in the days of Hiram, the royal friend of Solomon, whose Tyrian artisans built the Temple. In the flight of Deborah and Caleb, the lad led the way first to the upper cellar of the house of Elkiah. The floor of this was laid in well-squared blocks of white marble, cornered with smaller blocks in black, making an artistic pattern which could be discerned in the dim light that now fell upon it. In ancient times this cellar floor had been the pavement of an upper court, and opened to the full daylight; for Jerusalem had been again and again destroyed and rebuilt upon its own ruins. Passing through this cellar the fugitives struck a series of winding stone steps which brought them to a sub-cellar. Here the darkness was dense. Caleb stood a moment with his hands extended, as if possessing eyes in his finger-tips. "I have it. The air comes this way. I can feel it as it oozes up from the cracks about the loose trap-door, as easily as you, Deborah, could see the light around window shutters. Here is the trap. The stone tilts. It is hung on an iron bar. The big end of the stone rests on a rim, and is enough heavier to prevent the other end from sinking when one steps on it, but not heavier than you and I can lift. Uriah and I have often opened it, and he is no stronger than I am. Your fingers here, Deborah." As the stone was tilted there came up a stream of damp, chilly air, which, Caleb said, was "the breath of the thousand toads and bats that live in the crannies below." The blind boy leaped unhesitatingly into the black depths. "It's smooth here, sister. The old Phœnicians swept up all their stone chips before they went home. I could run barefoot here without stubbing my toe." Deborah let herself cautiously down into the darkness. "Ah," said she, as she felt the solid level beneath her feet, "if we could only trust God as easily as I can trust my child!"