“One thing is certain,” replied her great-uncle: “that you shall not go out to seek him, nor must you tell him of your hiding-place, since soon or late this might mean that all of us would be destroyed, if only for the sake of the food which we have hoarded.” Miriam asked if she could not send a message. He answered: “No, since none would dare to take it.” In the end, however, after she had pleaded with him long and earnestly, it was agreed that she should write the words, “I am safe and well, but in a place that I must not tell you of,” and sign her name upon a piece of parchment. This letter Ithiel, who purposed to creep out into the city that evening disguised as a beggar, to seek for tidings, said he would take, and, if might be, bribe some soldier to deliver it to Benoni at the house of the high priest, if he were there. So Miriam wrote the letter, and at nightfall Ithiel and another brother departed, taking it with them. On the following morning they returned, safe, but with a dreadful tale of the slaughters in the city and in the Temple courts, where the mad factions still fought furiously. “Your tidings, my uncle?” said Miriam, rising to meet him. “Does he still live?” “Be of good comfort,” he answered. “Benoni reached the house of Mathias in safety, and Caleb also, and now they are sheltering within the Temple walls. This much I had from one of the high priest’s guards, who, for the price of a piece of gold I gave him, swore that he would deliver the letter without fail. But, child, I will take no more, for that soldier eyed me curiously and said it was scarcely safe for beggars to carry gold.” Miriam thanked him for his goodness and his news, saying that they lifted a weight from her heart. “I have other tidings that may perhaps make it lighter still,” went on the old man, looking at her sideways. “Titus with a mighty host draws near to Jerusalem from Cæsarea.” “There is no joy in that tale,” replied Miriam, “for it means that the Holy City will be besieged and taken.” “Nay, but among that host is one who, if all the stories are true,” and again he glanced at her face, “would rather take you than the city.” “Who?” she said, pressing her hands against her heart and turning redder than the lamplight. “One of Titus’ prefects of horse, the noble Roman, Marcus, whom in byegone days you knew by the banks of Jordan.” Now the red blood fled back to Miriam’s heart, and she turned so faint that had not the wall been near at hand she would have fallen. “Marcus?” she said. “Well, he swore that he would come, yet it will bring him little nearer me;” and she turned and sought her chamber.