“Are you certain, son?” asked Cyril.  “Does not this gashed and gory cheek deceive you?”

“Draw that hand of his from beneath the cloak,” answered Marcus.  “If I am right the first finger will lack a joint.”

Cyril obeyed and held up the stiffening hand.  It was as Marcus had said.

“Caught in his own snare!” repeated Marcus.  “Well, though I knew he hated me, and more than once we have striven to slay each other in battle and private fight, never would I have believed that Caleb the Jew would sink to murder.  He is well repaid, the treacherous dog!”

“Judge not, that ye be not judged,” answered Cyril.  “What do you know of how or why this man came by his death?  He may have been hurrying here to warn you.”

“Against his own paid assassins!  No, father, I know Caleb better, only he was viler than I thought.”

Then they carried the body into the house and took counsel what they should do.  While they reasoned together, for every path seemed full of danger, there came a knock upon the archway door.  They hesitated, not knowing whether it would be safe to open, till the knock was repeated more loudly.

“I will go, lord,” said Stephanus, “for why need I fear, who am of no account to any one?”

So he went, presently to return.

“What was it?” asked Marcus.

“Only a young man, who said that he had been strictly charged by his master, Demetrius the Alexandrian merchant, to deliver a letter at this hour.  Here is the letter.”

“Demetrius, the Alexandrian merchant,” said Marcus as he took it.  “Why, under that name Caleb who lies there dead passed in Rome.”

“Read the letter,” said Cyril.

So Marcus cut the silk, broke the seal, and read: 

“To the noble Marcus,

“In the past I have worked you evil and often striven to take your life.  Now it has come to my ears that Domitian, who hates you even worse than I do, if for less reason, has laid a plot to murder you on the threshold of your own house.  Therefore, by way of amends for that evidence which I gave against you that stained the truth, since no braver man ever breathed than you are, Marcus, it has come into my mind to visit the Palace Fortunate wrapped in such a cloak as you Roman captains wear.  There, before you read this letter, perhaps we shall meet again.  Still, mourn me not, Marcus, nor speak of me as generous, or noble, since Miriam is dead, and I who have followed her through life desire to follow her through death, hoping that there I may find a kinder fortune at her hands, or if not, forgetfulness.  You who will live long, must drink deep of memory—­a bitterer cup.  Marcus, farewell.  Since die I must, I would that it had been in open fight beneath your sword, but Fate, who has given me fortune, but no true favour, appoints me to the daggers of assassins that seek another heart.  So be it.  You tarry here, but I travel to Miriam.  Why should I grumble at the road?