IN THE MOUNTAINS. The time is evening; the place is a rocky pass between Bethel and Michmash. At the mouth of a cave which commands a view of the approach from the westward, are seated two men, in one of whom we may recognize Shallum, the quondam wine-seller of Jerusalem. “Well, comrade,” he is saying to his companion, “this business is not quite to my liking. It is all very well when we can relieve a Greek merchant, or, better still, a Syrian tax-gatherer, of his money-bags; but I hate robbing our own people. That poor fellow to-day, for instance, who was taking home his wages—he had been wood-cutting, he said, in Bashan—it really went to my heart to take the money from him.” The companion whom he addressed was a rough, savage-looking fellow, who certainly did not look as if he would feel very much for Shallum’s scruples. He had followed, indeed, the robber’s trade, it may be said, from his childhood, as his fathers had followed it before him, almost since the days of the Captivity. He now broke out into a loud, mocking laugh. “Ah! my friend Shallum,” he said, “you are a great deal too soft and tender-hearted. But then you are new to the business; when you have been at it as long as I have, you won’t have these scruples. Now, mark what I say; and if we are to be good friends, don’t let me hear any more of this nonsense. You are a stout fellow and a man of your hands; and as for myself, well, I rather think that a novice like you could hardly have come across a better teacher. I don’t doubt that we shall do very well together; and when we have made a little money, I shan’t blame you if you give up the business and become what they call an honest man. For myself, the ‘honest man’ line does not suit me—it is not in my blood, you know. But, meanwhile, if we are to work together, we must agree. Now, all is fish that comes to our net. Of course, I don’t mean the people about here—our neighbours, you know. We must not touch them; on the contrary, they must have a share of what we make. As long as they are our friends we are safe. But all strangers are lawful booty. And mind—for I see that you are a little wroth about this—mind, it is only dead men who tell no tales.” Benjamin’s words of wisdom—the more experienced of the two robbers was named Benjamin—were interrupted by an exclamation from his companion. “Hush!” he cried, “I hear a sound of voices from the pass.” The two men listened; Shallum was evidently right. A party of travellers were approaching from the west. “We are in luck,” said Benjamin; “it is not often that we do business so late in the day.” As he spoke the leaders of the party emerged into sight. “Shoot, Shallum!” said Benjamin; “strike one of those fellows down and we shall have the whole party in confusion.” “Nay, Benjamin; I hear the voices of women and children; and see—God wither my hand if I shoot at such helpless people as these.”