At length Caleb stood at the head of the stairs, which were both steep, narrow, and in the dark hard to climb. Before him, at the end of a rickety landing, a small ill-fitting door stood ajar. There was light within the room beyond, and from it came a sound of voices. Caleb crept up to the door and listened, for as the floor below was untenanted he knew that none could see him. Bending down he looked through the space between the door and its framework and his heart stood still. There, standing full in the lamplight, clothed in a pure white robe, for her rough working dress lay upon a stool beside her, was Miriam herself, her elbow leaning on the curtained window-place. She was talking to Nehushta, who, her back bent almost double over a little charcoal fire, was engaged in cooking their supper. “Think,” she was saying, “only think, Nou, our last night in this hateful city, and then, instead of that stifling workshop and the terror of Domitian, the open sea and the fresh salt wind and nobody to fear but God. _Luna!_ Is it not a beautiful name for a ship? I can see her, all silver——” “Peace,” said Nehushta. “Are you mad, girl, to talk so loud? I thought I heard a sound upon the stairs just now.” “It is only the rats,” answered Miriam cheerfully, “no one ever comes up here. I tell you that were it not for Marcus I could weep with joy.” Caleb crept back to the head of the stairs and down several steps, which he began to re-ascend noisily, grumbling at their gloom and steepness. Then, before the women even had time to shut the door, he thrust it wide and walked straight into the room. “Your pardon,” he began, then added quietly, “Why, Miriam, when we parted on the gate Nicanor, who could have foretold that we should live to meet again here in a Roman attic? And you, Nehushta. Why, we were separated in the fray outside the Temple walls, though, indeed, I think that I saw you in a strange place some months ago, namely, the slave-ring on the Forum.” “Caleb,” asked Miriam in a hollow voice, “what is your business here?” “Well, Miriam, it began with a desire for a replica of this lamp, which reminds me of a spot familiar to my childhood. Do you remember it? Now that I have found who is the lamp’s maker——” “Cease fooling,” broke in Nehushta. “Bird of ill-omen, you have come to drag your prey back to the shame and ruin which she has escaped.” “I was not always called thus,” answered Caleb, flushing, “when I rescued you from the house at Tyre for instance, or when I risked my life, Miriam, to throw you food upon the gate Nicanor. Nay, I come to save you from Domitian——”