had
failed and his eyes overflowed with tears.

Hermas nodded assent, and then added softly: "She threw up her arms and
called my name as the spear struck her. The eldest son of Obedianus
punished the heathen that had done it, and I supported her as she fell
dying and took her curly head on my knees and spoke her name; she opened
her eyes once more, and spoke mine softly and with indescribable
tenderness. I had never thought that wild Miriam could speak so sweetly,
I was overcome with terrible grief, and kissed her eyes and her lips. She
looked at me once more with a long, wide-open, blissful gaze, and then
she was dead."

"She was a heathen," said Dorothea, drying her eyes, "but for such a
death the Lord will forgive her much."

"I loved her dearly," said Marthana, "and will lay my sweetest flowers on
her grave. May I cut some sprays from your blooming myrtle for a wreath?"

"To-morrow, to-morrow, my child," replied Dorothea. "Now go to rest; it
is already very late."

"Only let me stay till Antonius and Jethro come back," begged the girl.

"I would willingly help you to find your son," said Hermas, "and if you
wish I will go to Raithu and Klysma, and enquire among the fishermen. Had
the centurion--" and as he spoke the young soldier looked down in some
embarrassment, "had the centurion found his fugitive wife of whom he was
in pursuit with Talib, the Amalekite, before he died?"

"Sirona has not yet reappeared," replied Petrus, and perhaps--but just
now you mentioned the name of Paulus, who was so dear to you and your
father. Do you know that it was he who so shamelessly ruined the domestic
peace of the centurion?"

"Paulus!" cried Hermas. "How can you believe it?"

"Phoebicius found his sheepskin in his wife's room," replied Petrus
gravely. "And the impudent Alexandrian recognized it as his own before us
all and allowed the Gaul to punish him. He committed the disgraceful deed
the very evening that you were sent off to gain intelligence."

"And Phoebicius flogged him?" cried Hermas beside himself. "And the poor
fellow bore this disgrace and your blame, and all--all for my sake. Now I
understand what he meant! I met him after the battle and he told me that
my father was dead. When he parted from me, he said he was of all sinners
the greatest, and that I should hear it said down in the oasis. But I
know better; he is great-hearted and good, and I will not bear that he
should be disgraced and slandered for my