a bowl of hot pottage and a warm cake for thee, Naomi. Eat all
of it," she commanded. "And talk not to me of robbers. In truth, there
are as many robbers in the khan at Bethlehem as upon the length of
Jerusalem highway. The caravan to Egypt will pay for straw for six
camels and ten mules, will they, when I myself counted no less than
twenty animals in their train? Jacob, bring hither the leader of the
caravan that I may talk with him. Robbers, indeed! Robbers!"

Aunt Miriam's red cheeks and flashing eyes boded ill for the leader of
the caravan for Egypt.

Naomi ate her lentil pottage and munched her cake leisurely in a quiet
corner, but she had long finished her meal when Aunt Miriam was at last
satisfied and ready to start.

The bullock cart stood loaded with baskets piled high with great bunches
of purple grapes. Over them were spread the dewy green leaves of the
vine to protect the fruit from the sun and to keep it fresh and moist.

Aunt Miriam, with a sigh of relief, settled herself in place in the
front of the cart. Naomi was tucked into a comfortable corner between
two great brown baskets of woven rushes. Jacob, standing at the cattle's
head, cracked his long whip, the animals strained forward, the cart
wheels creaked and turned, and they were off for Jerusalem.

CHAPTER III

THE TRIP TO JERUSALEM

The road to Jerusalem stretched white and hot in the blazing sunshine.
The deep blue sky was without a cloud, and the insects, hidden in the
roadside grass, hummed in the heat.

A cloud of dust in the distance told that the three Roman soldiers who,
only a moment ago, it seemed, had galloped past the slowly moving ox
cart, were nearing their destination, the Holy City. Naomi had watched
the glitter of their helmets and the flashing of their bright lances
with the same interest she had given to a string of melancholy gray
camels led along the road by a country lad in his cool white tunic and
broad red leather belt.

Everything was interesting this morning to Naomi. She stared at the
dusty gray olive-trees, the shabby scrub oaks, the low-branched
sycamores as if she had not been familiar with them all her life. To-day
the birds seemed to dart about more swiftly and to utter sweeter songs
as they flew. The few sheep she spied nibbling the sparse grass on the
rocky hillsides were surely whiter than those at home. The field
flowers, with faces upturned to the bright sun, glowed with splendid
color. The who