“Well, then, since I must, I will become a Christian.”

She looked at him sadly and answered: 

“It is not enough.  Do you remember what I told you far away in the village of the Essenes, that this is no matter of casting incense on an altar, but rather one of a changed spirit.  When you can say those words from your heart as well as with your lips, then, Marcus, I will listen to you, but unless God calls you this you can never do.”

“What then do you propose?” he asked.

“I?  I have not had time to think.  To go away, I suppose.”

“To Domitian?” he queried.  “Nay, forgive me, but a sore heart makes bitter lips.”

“I am glad you asked forgiveness for those words, Marcus,” she said quivering.  “What need is there to insult a slave?”

The word seemed to suggest a new train of thought to Marcus.

“Yes,” he said, “a slave—­my slave whom I have bought at a great price.  Well, why should I let you go?  I am minded to keep you.”

“Marcus, you can keep me if you will, but then your sin against your own honour will be greater even than your sin against me.”

“Sin!” he said, passionately.  “What sin?  You say you cannot marry me, not because you do not wish it, if I understand you right, but for other reasons which have weight, at any rate with you.  But the dead give no command as to whom you should love.”

“No, my love is my own, but if it is not lawful it can be denied.”

“Why should it be denied?” he asked softly and coming towards her.  “Is there not much between you and me?  Did not you, brave and blessed woman that you are, risk your life for my sake in the Old Tower at Jerusalem?  Did you not for my sake stand there upon the gate Nicanor to perish miserably?  And I, though it be little, have I not done something for you?  Have I not so soon as your message reached me, journeyed here to Rome, at the cost, perhaps, of what I value more than life—­my honour?”

“Your honour?” she asked.  “Why your honour?”

“Because those who have been taken prisoner by the enemy and escaped are held to be cowards among the Romans,” he answered bitterly, “and it may be that such a lot awaits me.”

“Coward!  You a coward, Marcus?”

“Aye.  When it is known that I live, that is what my enemies will call me who lived on for your sake, Miriam—­for the sake of a woman who denies me.”

“Oh!” she said, “this is bitter.  Now I remember and understand what Gallus meant.”

“Then will you still deny me?  Must I suffer thus in vain?  Think, had it not been for you I could have stayed afar until the thing was forgotten, that is, if I still chose to live; but now, because of you, things are thus, and yet, Miriam—­you deny me,” and he put his arms about her and drew her to his breast.

She did not struggle, she had no strength, only she wrung her hands and sobbed, saying: