“More fit for a sale of dogs,” said one, “after sunset when everybody is tired out, than for that of one of the fairest women who ever stood upon the block.”

“Pshaw,” answered the other, “the whole thing is a farce.  Domitian is in a hurry, that’s all, so the auction must be held to-night.”

“He means to buy her?”

“Of course.  I am told that his factor, Saturius, has orders to go up to a thousand sestertia if need be,” and he nodded towards a quiet man dressed in a robe of some rich, dark stuff, who stood in a corner of the place watching the company.

“A thousand sestertia!  For one slave girl!  Ye gods! a thousand sestertia!”

“The necklace goes with her, that is worth something, and there is property at Tyre.”

“Property in Tyre,” said the other, “property in the moon.  Come on, let us look at something a little less expensive.  As I wish to keep my head on my shoulders, I am not going to bid against the prince in any case.”

“No, nor anyone else either.  I expect he will get his fancy pretty cheap after all.”

Then the two men moved away, and a minute afterwards Nehushta found that it was her turn to approach Miriam.

“Here comes a curious sort of buyer,” said one of the attendants.

“Don’t judge the taste of the fruit by the look of the rind, young man,” answered Nehushta, and at the sound of that voice for the first time Pearl-Maiden lifted her head, then dropped it quickly.

“She is well enough,” Nehushta said aloud, “but there used to be prettier women when I was young; in fact, though dark, I was myself,” a statement at which those within hearing, noting her gaunt and aged form bent beneath the heavy basket, tittered aloud.  “Come, lift up your head, my dear,” she went on, trying to entice the captive to consent by encouraging waves of her hand.

They were fruitless; still, had any thought of it there was meaning in them.  On Nehushta’s finger, as it chanced, shone a ring which Miriam ought to know, seeing that for some years she had worn it on her own.

It would seem that she did know it, at any rate her bosom and neck grew red and a spasm passed across her face which even the falling hair did not suffice to hide.

The ring told Miriam that Marcus lived and that Nehushta was his messenger.  This suspense at least was ended.

Now the door-keeper called a warning and the buyers flocked from the building.  Outside, the auctioneer, a smooth-faced, glib-tongued man, was already mounting the rostrum.  Calling for silence he began his speech.  On this evening of festival, he said, he would be brief.  The lots he had to offer to the select body of connoisseurs he saw before him, were the property of the Imperator Titus, and the proceeds of the sale, it was his duty to tell them, would not go into Caesar’s pocket, but were to be equally divided between the poor of Rome and deserving