“Your welcome? Why, you were his friend, and Titus is faithful to his friends.” “Aye, but perhaps not to those who have been taken prisoner by the enemy. Towards the commencement of the siege that happened to a man I knew. He was captured with a companion. The companion the Jews slew, but as he was about to be beheaded upon the wall, this man slipped from the hands of the executioner, and leaping from it escaped with little hurt. Titus gave him his life, but dismissed him from his legion. Why should I fare better?” “That you were taken was no fault of yours, who were struck senseless and overwhelmed.” “Maybe, but would that avail me? The rule, a good rule, is that no Roman soldier should yield to an enemy. If he is captured while insensible, then on finding his wits he must slay himself, as I should have striven to do, had I awakened to find myself in the hands of the Jews. But things fell out otherwise. Still, I tell you, Nehushta, that had it not been for Miriam, I should not have turned my face to Rome, at any rate until I had received pardon and permission from Titus.” “What then are your plans, lord Marcus?” “To go to my own house near the Baths of Agrippa. The Triumph must pass there, and if Miriam is among the captives we shall see her. If not, then either she is dead or already sold, or perchance given as a present to some friend of Cæsar’s.” Now they ceased talking, for the people were so many that they could only force their way through the press riding one after the other. Thus, Nehushta following Marcus, they crossed the Tiber and passed through many streets, decorated, most of them, for the coming pageant, till at length Marcus drew rein in front of a marble mansion in the Via Agrippa. “A strange home-coming,” he muttered. “Follow me,” and he rode round the house to a side-entrance. Here he dismounted and knocked at the small door for some time without avail. At length it was opened a little way, and a thin, querulous voice, speaking through the crack, said: “Begone, whoever you are. No one lives here. This is the house of Marcus, who is dead in the Jewish war. Who are you that disturb me?” “The heir of Marcus.” “Marcus has no heir, unless it be Cæsar, who doubtless will take his property.” “Open, Stephanus,” said Marcus, in a tone of command, at the same time pushing the door wide and entering. “Fool,” he added, “what kind of a steward are you that you do not know your master’s voice?” Now he who had kept the door, a withered little man in a scribe’s brown robe, peered at this visitor with his sharp eyes, then threw up his hands and staggered back, saying: “By the spear of Mars! it is Marcus himself, Marcus returned from the dead! Welcome, my lord, welcome.” Marcus led his horse through the deep archway, and when Nehushta had followed him into the courtyard beyond, returned, closed and locked the door. “Why did you think me dead, friend?” he asked.