Presently the door opened and Julia appeared, followed by two veiled figures. He raised his hands to bless her, then checked himself. “Daughter, who are these?” he said. “Declare yourselves,” said Julia, and at her bidding Miriam and Nehushta unveiled. At the sight of Miriam’s face the bishop started, then turned to study that of her companion. “Who vouches for this woman?” he asked. “I vouch for myself,” answered Nehushta, “seeing that I am a Christian who received baptism a generation since at the hands of the holy John, and who stood to pay the price of faith in the arena at Cæsarea.” “Is this so?” asked the bishop of Miriam. “It is so,” she answered. “This Libyan was the servant of my grandmother. She nursed both my mother and myself, and many a time has saved my life. Have no fear, she is faithful.” “Your pardon,” said the bishop with a grave smile and addressing Nehushta, “but you who are old will know that the Christian who entertains strangers sometimes entertains a devil.” Then he lifted up his hands and blessed them, greeting them in the name of their Master. “So, maid Miriam,” he said, still smiling, “it would seem that I was no false prophet, and though you walked in the Triumph and were sold in the slave-ring—for this much I have heard—still the Angel of the Lord went with you.” “Father, he went with me,” she answered, “and he leads me here.” Then they told him all the tale, and how Miriam sought a refuge from Domitian. He looked at her, stroking his long beard. “Is there anything you can do?” he asked. “Anything useful, I mean? But perhaps that is a foolish question, seeing that women—especially those who are well-favoured—do not learn a trade.” “I have learnt a trade,” answered Miriam, flushing a little. “Once I was held of some account as a sculptor; indeed I have heard that your Emperor Nero decreed divine honours to a bust from my hand.” The bishop laughed outright. “The Emperor Nero! Well, the poor madman has gone to his own place, so let us say no more of him. But I heard of that bust; indeed I saw it; it was a likeness of Marcus Fortunatus, was it not, and in its fashion a great work? But our people do not make such things; we are artisans, not artists.” “The artisan should be an artist,” said Miriam, setting her mouth. “Perhaps, but as a rule he isn’t. Do you think that you could mould lamps?” “There is nothing I should like better, that is if I am not forced to copy one pattern,” she added as an afterthought. “Then,” said the bishop, “I think, daughter, that I can show you how to earn a living, where none are likely to seek for you.”