“I know naught save this—they are _false_ witnesses. Until the day when the accusation was first made, I had never seen them—I know them not. Orien Fez I _have_ seen before; and I believe that enmity, which has nothing to do with my religion or thine, has made him bring this false charge against me.” “Thou standest alone, woman, and mere assertions cannot avail. These witnesses are truthful believers—but thou, we know not what thou art.” “She is a woman who, during the fifteen years I have ministered in the synagogue of Tangiers, has remained constant in the worship of the God of her fathers,” hurriedly exclaimed the venerable priest, almost weeping, who had come to listen with all a father’s affection and fear, while the daughter of his heart was on trial. “I am a true woman,” added the sweet voice of Myrrah. “From whence shall I bring evidence to satisfy you that I lie not? Are not the words of my people always set at naught? You will not believe me, yet have I ever remained faithful to my God—none other have I ever professed to serve.” “Thou knowest the punishment awarded to those guilty of sin such as this of which thou art accused—it is death, death of torture—to be burned at the stake, and the body to be scattered to the winds of heaven. Confess now—it is not too late; mercy may yet extend a pardoning hand; profess anew thy faith in Mahomet; _repeat_ thy belief, ‘There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet!’” There was a moment’s pause, a silence like that in the halls of death, then Myrrah said slowly, “Thou dost urge me to speak that which my lips have never yet spoken—that which they dare not speak; wouldst thou have me declare my faith, that thy prophet is a _false_ prophet? Wouldst thou have me say, that to the God of Abraham _alone_ I bend my knee and my heart?” A murmur of surprise and indignation went up from the Moors who were gathered there, while the voice of many a Jew was heard in earnest declaration, “Pasha, she is innocent—she is innocent.” Raguel looked with mournful approval on his child as she spoke so undauntedly; but boldly as her avowal was made, Myrrah dared not look upon the father, nor on that other, dearer to her than life—Othniel. The pasha was silent, he dreaded the utterance of the awful sentence. Few who had witnessed his mode of conducting criminal cases, had suspected there was a particle of feeling in the bloody-minded man; but now he paused, and looked with sorrowful interest on the prisoner, and his voice trembled, when at last he said, “Death, then, can alone await thee! Consider this. Thou art young, and I need not say thou art very beautiful. Thy marriage garments are comely—the robes of life befit thee well. Canst thou falter in the choice between life and awful death, joy and the lonely grave?” “My child! my child!” cried Raguel, “God is merciful! He will forgive thee! Do not choose death—can I live without thee? Myrrah! Myrrah, _live_!”