The dusk settled down over the valley. Deborah came in like a phantom from the camp-fires with the evening meal, and the pair sat down together to eat, Rachel silent, Deborah thoughtful. "Another Egyptian comes to govern Masaarah," the old woman observed. "Agistas departed but now, leaving the camp in charge of the under-drivers." "It makes little odds with us--this change of taskmasters, Deborah--be he Agistas or any other Egyptian. They are masters and we continue to be slaves," Rachel answered after a little silence. "Nay, art thou losing spirit?" Deborah asked with animation. "How shall the elders keep of good heart if the young surrender?" "I despair not," the girl protested. "I did but remark this thing; and I have spoken truly, have I not?" "Even so. But this evening there must be more recognition in thee of thy lot since it overflows in words. I, too, have spoken truly, have I not?" Rachel smiled. "It may be," she said. When they had supped, they went out before the tent to get the cooling air. It was Deborah again that first broke the silence. "Elias is smitten with blindness from the stone-dust," she said absently. "For all time?" Rachel asked anxiously. "Nay, if he could but rest them and bathe them in the proper simples." "Alas--" Rachel began, but she checked herself hurriedly. "He was my father's servant," she said instead--"the last living one. Jehovah spare him. One by one they fall, until I shall be utterly without tie to prove I once had kindred." Deborah looked at the girl fixedly for a moment. Then she put up her hand and leaned on the soft young shoulder. "Am I not left?" she asked. Rachel passed her arm about the bowed figure, with some compunction for her complaint. "My mother's friend!" she exclaimed lovingly. "I know she died in peace, remembering that I was left to thy care." "I mind me," she continued after a little silence, "how tender and frail she was. Thou wast as a strong tree beside her. I seem to myself to be mighty compared to my memory of her." Deborah took the white hand that lay across her shoulder. "Thou art like to thy father. Thy mother was black-eyed and fragile--born to the soft life of a princess. Misfortune was her death, though she struggled to live for thee. Praise God that thou art like to thy father, else thou hadst died in thine infancy." "Nay, hath my lot been sterner than the portion of all Israel?" "Of a surety, thou canst guess it, for are there many of thy tribe like thee--without a kinsman?" Rachel shook her head, and the old woman continued absently: "Of thy mother's family there were four, but they died of the heavy labor. Thy father, Maai, surnamed the Compassionate, was the eldest of six. They were mighty men, tawny like the lion and as bold--worthy sons of Judah! But there is none left--not one." "Ten!" Rachel exclaimed, "and not one remaineth!" "Aye, and they died as though they were plague-smitten--in pairs and singly, in a little space."