“Yes, yes,” replied the aggrieved Stephanus, “but how will that benefit my master? You put it in her name. Well, it is no affair of mine, and at least this accursed basket is much lighter.” Now they were at the side door of the house, which Stephanus was unlocking with his key. “Quick,” said Nehushta, “I hear footsteps.” The door opened and they passed in, but at that moment one went by them, pausing to look until the door closed again. “Who was that?” asked Stephanus nervously. “He whom they called Demetrius, the merchant of Alexandria, but whom once I knew by another name,” answered Nehushta in a slow voice while Stephanus barred the door. They walked through the archway into an antechamber lit by a single lamp, leaving Stephanus still occupied with his bolts and chains. Here with a sudden motion Nehushta threw off her cloak and tore the veil from her brow. In another instant, uttering a low, crooning cry, she flung her long arms about Miriam and began to kiss her again and again on the face. “My darling,” she moaned, “my darling.” “Tell me what it all means, Nou,” said the poor girl faintly. “It means that God has heard my prayers and suffered my old feet to overtake you in time, and provided the wealth to preserve you from a dreadful fate.” “Whose wealth? Where am I?” asked Miriam. Nehushta made no answer, only she unstrapped the basket from Miriam’s back and unclasped the cloak from about her shoulders. Then, taking her by the hand, she led her into a lighted passage and thence through a door into a great and splendid room spread with rich carpets and adorned with costly furniture and marble images. At the end of this room was a table lighted by two lamps, and on the further side of this table sat a man as though he were asleep, for his face was hidden upon his arms. Miriam saw him and clung to Nehushta trembling. “Hush!” whispered her guide, and they stood still in the shadow. The man lifted his head so that the light fell full upon it, and Miriam saw that it was Marcus. Marcus grown older and with a patch of grey hair upon his temple where the sword of Caleb had struck him, very worn and tired-looking also, but still Marcus and no other. He was speaking to himself. “I can bear it no longer,” he said. “Thrice have I been to the gate and still no sign. Doubtless the plan has miscarried and by now she is in the palace of Domitian. I will go forth and learn the worst,” and he rose from the table. “Speak to him,” whispered Nehushta, pushing Miriam forward. She advanced into the circle of the lamplight, but as yet Marcus did not see her, for he had gone to the window-place to find a cloak that lay there. Then he turned and saw her. Before him in her robe of white, the soft light shining on her gentle loveliness, stood Miriam. He stared at her bewildered. “Do I dream?” he said. “Nay, Marcus,” she answered in her sweet voice, “you do not dream. I am Miriam.”