“Yes, yes, wife, and as it happens, more than you think, since Vespasian, being gracious and pleased with my report, has granted me half-pay for all my life, to say nothing of a gratuity and a share of the spoil, whatever that may bring.  Still I grieve, who can never hope to lift spear more.”

“Grieve not, for thus I would have had it, Gallus.  But what of this maid?”

“Well, I made my report about her, as I was bound to do, and at first Domitian, Caesar’s son, being curious to see her, prompted Vespasian to order that she should be brought to the palace.  Almost Caesar spoke the word, then a thought seemed to strike him and he was silent, whereon I said that she had been very sick and still needed care and nursing, and that if it was his will, my wife could tend her until such time as Titus Caesar, whose spoil she was, might arrive.  Again Domitian interrupted, but Vespasian answered, ’The Jewish maid is not your slave, Domitian, or my slave.  She is the slave of your brother, Titus.  Let her bide with this worthy officer until Titus comes, he being answerable in his person and his goods that she shall then be produced before him, she or proof of her death.’  Then, waving his hand to show that the matter was done with, he went on to speak of other things, demanding details of the capture of the Temple and comparing my list of the vessels and other gear with that which was furnished by the treasurer, into whose charge I handed them yesternight.  So, Maid Miriam, till Titus comes you are safe.”

“Yes,” answered Miriam with a sigh, “till Titus comes.  But after that—­what?”

“The gods alone know,” he said impatiently.  “Meanwhile, since my head is on it, I must ask your word of you that you will attempt no flight.”

“I give it, Gallus,” she answered smiling, “who would die rather than bring evil on you or yours.  Also, whither should I fly?”

“I know not.  But you Christians find many friends:  the rats themselves have fewer hiding-places.  Still, I trust you, and henceforth you are free, till Titus comes.”

“Aye,” repeated Miriam, “—­till Titus comes.”

So for hard upon six months, till midsummer, indeed, Miriam dwelt in the house of Gallus and his wife, Julia.  She was not happy, although to them she became as a daughter.  Who could be happy even in the sunshine of a peaceful present, that walked her world between two such banks of shadow?  Behind was the shadow of the terrible past; in front, black and forbidding, rose the shadow of the future, which might be yet more terrible, the future when she would be the slave of some man unknown.  Sometimes walking with Julia, humbly dressed and mingling with the crowd, her head-dress arranged to hide her face as much as might be, she saw the rich lords of Rome go by in chariots, on horseback, in litters, all sorts and conditions of them, fat, proud men with bold eyes; hard-faced statesmen or lawyers; war-worn, cruel-looking captains; dissolute youths with foppish dress and perfumed hair, and shuddering, wondered whether she was appointed to any one of these.  Or was it, perhaps, to that rich and greasy tradesman, or to yon low-born freedman with a cunning leer?  She knew not, God alone knew, and in Him must be her trust.