At length the old woman came to summon Miriam to her midday meal, and led her, not to her own tent, but to that which was pitched to serve as an eating-place for the captain, Gallus. As she went she saw knots of soldiers gathered across her path as though to intercept her, and turned to fly, for the sight of them brought back the terrors of the siege. “Have no fear of them,” said the old woman, smiling. “Ill would it go here with him who dared to lift a finger against their Pearl-Maiden.” “Pearl-Maiden! Why?” asked Miriam. “That is what they call you, because of the necklace that was upon your breast when you were captured, which you wear still. As for why—well, I suppose because they love you, the poor sick thing they nursed. They have heard that you are better and gather to give you joy of it; that is all.” Sure enough, the words were true, for, as Miriam approached, these rough legionaries cheered and clapped their hands, while one of them, an evil-looking fellow with a broken nose, who was said to have committed great cruelties during the siege, came forward bowing and presented her with a handful of wild-flowers, which he must have collected with some trouble, since, at this season of the year they were not common. She took them, and being still weak, burst into tears. “Why should you treat me thus,” she asked, “who am, as I understand, but a poor captive?” “Nay, nay,” answered a sergeant, with an uncouth oath. “It is we who are your captives, Pearl-Maiden, and we are glad, because your mind has come to you, though, seeing how sweet you were without it, we do not know that it can better you very much.” “Oh! friends, friends,” began Miriam, then once more broke down. Meanwhile, hearing the disturbance Gallus had come from his tent and was hobbling towards them, when suddenly he caught sight of the tears upon Miriam’s face and broke out into such language as could only be used by a Roman officer of experience. “What have you been doing to her, you cowardly hounds?” he shouted. “By Cæsar and the Standards, if one of you has even said a word that she should not hear, he shall be flogged until the bones break through his skin,” and his very beard bristling with wrath, Gallus uttered a series of the most fearful maledictions upon the head of that supposed offender, his female ancestry, and his descendants. “Your pardon, captain,” said the sergeant, “but _you_ are uttering many words that no maiden should hear.” “Do you dare to argue with me, you foul-tongued camp scavenger?” shouted Gallus. “Here, guard, lash him to that tree! Fear not, daughter; the insult shall be avenged; we shall teach his dirty tongue to sing another tune,” and again he cursed him, naming him by new names. “Oh! sir, sir,” broke in Miriam, “what are you about to do? This man offered me no insult, none of them offered me anything except kind words and flowers.” “Then how is it that you weep?” asked Gallus suspiciously.