By a happy stroke of fortune--the hand of God, Vashti called it--Eleazar’s sword had passed through the ribs of Crispus without injuring the vital parts. His seeming death was a swoon due to loss of blood, a loss so great that a few more drops might have ended the matter. There was life in him, however--faint it might be--but still life, life that with due care might be preserved. And so--for they durst not call in a physician, lest the truth should become known to the outside world--she and her mother, who had some knowledge of the healing art, had dressed his wounds and carried him to this chamber. Vashti smiled sweetly when Crispus murmured his gratitude. “Now, I pray the gods that the Zealots may not discover this, your kindness to me.” Then she told him of Metilius’ base appeal for life, a story to which Crispus listened with scorn. “Rightly named Metilius--little coward!” said he. “What became of him?” “The Zealots dismissed him with contempt.” “What a life his will be! He’ll never dare show his face among Romans again.” He attempted to raise himself, but, as on the previous day, found that he was too weak to do so. “How long am I to lie here?” he said with something like a groan. “Till your lost blood be made good.” “When will that be?” And though pre-informed by her mother that Crispus’ return to vigor was likely to be a matter of weeks, Vashti replied with a cheerful smile, “Not many days hence,” justifying herself by the knowledge that to put a patient in a desponding mood is to retard his recovery. Vashti’s mother was named Miriam, an elderly dame, so hard and sour of visage, that Crispus could but wonder how she came to have a daughter so fair and graceful. He formed a somewhat adverse opinion of Miriam. True, she visited his chamber every day; but, as he could plainly see, her inquiries as to his progress were merely perfunctory; in spite of the fact that he was the son of the great Roman Legate of Syria, she looked upon him as an encumbrance--nay, more, as a positive danger, in view of Zealot rule, a person to be got rid of at the earliest opportunity; and Crispus inwardly chafed at being unable to oblige her in this respect. A Jewess of the orthodox, narrow-minded type, she was out of sympathy with Vashti’s ideals; and Crispus mentally blessed the late Hyrcanus in that he was of a different character from his wife, and had given his daughter an Hellenic as well as an Hebraic training. The dissimilitude betwixt mother and daughter had become accentuated of late owing to Vashti’s conversion to Christianity. When questioned on this last matter, Vashti acknowledged, striving the while to hide her tears, that the change of faith had caused Miriam to become strangely hard and cold. It was perhaps this growing spirit of estrangement on the part of Miriam that caused Vashti to find a solace in the companionship of Crispus, who, though a heathen, seemed more in sympathy with her than her own Judaic mother.