the best that would take time."

"Yes, time and thought."

"And would you wait that time? Such beauty and such sweetness as are
yours will not lack for suitors."

"I shall wait. I have told you that I love you; no other man will be
anything to me. I shall wed no other man."

"You give all and take nothing; it is not just."

"It is as God has willed. If it pleases God to touch your heart and to
preserve us both alive, then in days to come our lives may be one life.
Otherwise they must run apart till perchance we meet--in the eternal
morning."

"Oh, Miriam, I cannot leave you thus! Teach me as you will."

"Nay, go, Marcus, and teach yourself. Am I a bait to win your soul? The
path is not so easy, it is very difficult. Fare you well!"

"May I write to you from Rome?" he asked.

"Yes, why not, if by that time you should care to write, who then will
have recovered from this folly of the desert and an idle moon?"

"I shall write and I shall return, and we will talk of these matters;
so, most sweet, farewell."

"Farewell, Marcus, and the love of God go with you."

"What of your love?"

"My love is with you ever who have won my heart."

"Then, Miriam, at least I have not lived in vain. Remember this always,
that much as I may worship you, I honour you still more," and kneeling
before her he kissed first her hand, and next the hem of her robe. Then
he turned and went.

That night, watching from the roof of her house by the light of the full
moon, Miriam saw Marcus ride away at the head of his band of soldiers.
On the crest of a little ridge of ground outside the village he halted,
leaving them to go on, and turning his horse's head looked backward.
Thus he stood awhile, the silver rays of the moon shining on his bright
armour and making him a point of light set between two vales of shadow.
Miriam could guess whither his eyes were turned and what was in his
heart. It seemed to her, even, that she could feel his loving thought
play upon her and that with the ear of his spirit he could catch the
answer of her own. Then suddenly he turned and was lost in the gloom of
the night.

Now that he was gone, quite gone, Miriam's courage seemed to leave her,
and leaning her head upon the parapet she wept tears that were soft but
very bitter. Suddenly a hand was laid upon her shoulder and a voice,
that of old Nehushta, spoke in her ear.

"Mourn not," it said, "since him whom you lose in the night you may find
again