With black despair raging in his breast, he, Caleb, had seen Miriam knocked down to the mysterious basket-laden stranger whom none could recognise.  He had seen her depart together with the auctioneer and a servant, also basket-laden, to the office of the receiving house, whither he had attempted to follow upon some pretext, only to be stopped by the watchman.  After this he hung about the door until he saw the auctioneer appear alone, when it occurred to him that the purchaser and the purchased must have departed by some other exit, perhaps in order to avoid further observation.  He ran round the building to find himself confronted only by the empty, star-lit spaces of the Forum.  Searching them with his eyes, for one instant it seemed to him that far away he caught sight of a little knot of figures climbing a black marble stair in the dark shadow of some temple.  He sped across the open space, he ran up the great stair, to find at the head of it a young man in whom he recognised the auctioneer’s clerk, gazing along a wide street as empty as was the stair.

The rest is known to us.  He followed, and twice perceived the little group of dark-robed figures hurrying round distant corners.  Once he lost them altogether, but a passer-by on his road to some feast told him courteously enough which way they had gone.  On he ran almost at hazard, to be rewarded in the end by the sight of them vanishing through a narrow doorway in the wall.  He came to the door and saw that it was very massive.  He tried it even, it was locked.  Then he thought of knocking, only to remember that to state his business would probably be to meet his death.  At such a place and hour those who purchased beautiful slaves might have a sword waiting for the heart of an unsuccessful rival who dared to follow them to their haunts.

Caleb walked round the house, to find that it was a palace which seemed to be deserted, although he thought that he saw light shining through one of the shuttered windows.  Now he knew the place again.  It was here that the procession had halted and one of the Roman soldiers who had committed the crime of being taken captive escaped the taunts of the crowd by hurling himself beneath the wheel of a great pageant car.  Yes, there was no doubt of it, for his blood still stained the dusty stones and by it lay a piece of the broken distaff with which, in their mockery, they had girded the poor man.  They were gentle folk, these Romans!  Why, measured by this standard, some such doom would have fallen upon his rival, Marcus, for Marcus also was taken prisoner—­by himself.  The thought made Caleb smile, since well he knew that no braver soldier lived.  Then came other thoughts that pressed him closer.  Somewhere in that great dead-looking house was Miriam, as far off from him as though she were still in Judaea.  There was Miriam—­and who was with her?  The new-found lord who had spent two thousand sestertia on her purchase?  The thought of it almost turned his brain.