een Israel and Mizraim!"

"Nay," Caleb protested, "thou hast loved."

"A daughter of Israel," the warrior answered bluntly. "Dost thou
follow me into Goshen, Caleb?"

"Nay, we go on to Tanis, where we shall join Moses and Aaron who lie
there awaiting the Pharaoh's summons."

"The parting shall not be long between thee and me, then. Peace to
thee, Caleb. To Miriam, greeting and peace."

The warrior urged his camel and, rounding the stela-guarding soldier
who had stood within ear-shot of the narrative, he was gone in a long
undulating swing up the road that led to Pa-Ramesu.

Caleb gazed after him until he was only a tall shape like the stroke of
a pen in the distance. Then the mild Israelite looked longingly at the
Egyptian, and finally returned to the litters. These in a moment were
shouldered by the bearers and moved out up the road toward Tanis.
Caleb walked before them, dotting every other footprint with the point
of his staff. He sighed gustily and sank his bearded chin on his
breast.

The soldier turned his head as soon as the attendant had passed and
gazed at the litters.

The Hebrew bearers of the foremost were four in number, dressed in the
garb of serving-men to noble Israel. The hangings of blue linen had
been thrust aside and within was the semi-recumbent figure of a woman.
One knee was drawn up, the hands clasped behind the head, but the
majesty of the august countenance belied the youth of the posture. The
eyes of the woman met those of the Egyptian and lighted with
recognition. She lowered her arms and crossed the left to the shoulder
of the right. It was the old attitude of deference from Israel to
Atsu. A dusky red dyed the man's cheeks and he touched his knee in
response.

The litter of Miriam passed.

The next was a light frame of jungle bamboo, borne by a pair of young
men. Its sides were latticed, with the exception of two small
window-like openings on either side. These were hung with white linen,
but the drapings had been put aside to admit the morning air.

The soldier looked and the shock of recognition drew him a pace away
from the stela.

The head of a young girl, partly turned from him, was framed in the
small window. The wimple had been thrown back and a single tress of
golden hair had escaped across the forehead. The countenance was
unhappy, but beautiful for all its misery. The lids were heavy, as if
weighted down with sorrow; the cheeks were pallid, the lips