Five hundred feet distant, in the beleaguered Nazarene settlement, a woman stood in her doorway to pray, that the earthen roof might not be between her supplication and the Master in Heaven. She saw the microscopic figure on the pylon of the Temple, but daily a priest came there to worship the sun. She saw the figure lift and extend its arms, presently, but that was part of the idolatrous ritual, she thought. She dropped her eyes to the crucifix in her hands and her lips moved slowly. At that instant, at her feet, as a thunderbolt strikes from the clouds, an arrow plunged half its length into the hard sand, and leaned, quivering strongly toward the tiny shape on the summit of the pylon. The Nazarene woman dropped her crucifix and shrieked. The slow fisher-husband appeared beside her, and, seeing the fallen cross, picked it up with fumbling fingers, muttering an exclamation of remonstrance. "Look!" the Nazarene woman cried, pointing to the half-buried bolt, still quivering. The fisherman gazed at it. "Whence came it?" he asked. The trembling woman shook her head and clasped and unclasped her hands. "An affront from the heathen," the man said. "It was despatched to murder thee. The Lord's hand stayed it; blessed be His name!" He plucked the arrow with an effort from the sand, and looked at it. "It is a witness of the Master's care; let us take it to the pastor," he suggested. The trembling woman followed her husband as he stepped into the street and raised her eyes to give thanks. She saw that the figure on the summit of the pylon was gone. The two found the leader of their flock, sitting outside an overcrowded house, bending over a half-finished basket of reeds. Beside him was one complete; at the other hand were his working materials. "Greeting, children, in Christ's name," he said. "Greeting, lord; praise to God in the highest!" The Nazarene woman dropped to her knees, and her husband, extending the arrow in agitation, stumbled through their story. "May His name be glorified for ever," the woman murmured at the end. But the pastor took the arrow and examined it. It was uncommon; the story was uncommon, and he believed that there was more than a wanton attempt at murder in its coming. The bolt was tipped with a pointed flint, and feathered with three long, delicate papyrus cases, one dark, two white. The pastor felt of one of the white feathers, and presently ripped it off the shaft. It opened in his hand. Within was lettering. After a little puzzled study of it, he shook his head and put it down. He loosened the other from the transparent gum and opened it. Written in another hand were the following words in Greek: "To the Nazarene to whom this cometh: "Deliver the arrow unto the young Jew, Marsyas, who dwells among you, but is not of your number." The pastor took up the arrow and the papyrus and arose at once.