He had reluctantly described in brief, disconnected sentences his meeting with the lepers, though he believed he had done his best for the welfare of these unfortunates.  All of his warrior comrades had uttered a word of praise; but when he paused she whose approval he valued above aught else, pointed to a portion of the camp and said sadly:  “They are of our blood, and our God is theirs.  The lepers in Zoan, Pha-kos and Phibeseth followed the others at a certain distance, and their tents are pitched outside the camp.  Those in Succoth—­there are not many—­will also be permitted to go forth with us; for when the Lord promised the people the Land for which they long, He meant lofty and lowly, poor and humble, and surely also the hapless ones who must now remain in the hands of the foe.  Would you not have done better to separate the Hebrews from the Egyptians, and guide those of our own blood to us?”

The warrior’s manly pride rebelled and his answer sounded grave and stern:  “In war we must resolve to sacrifice hundreds in order to save thousands.  The shepherds separate the scabby sheep to protect the flock.”

“True,” replied Miriam eagerly; “for the shepherd is a feeble man, who knows no remedy against contagion; but the Lord, who calls all His people, will suffer no harm to arise from rigid obedience.”

“That is a woman’s mode of thought,” replied Hosea; “but what pity dictates to her must not weigh too heavily in the balance in the councils of men.  You willingly obey the voice of the heart, which is most proper, but you should not forget what befits you and your sex.”

A deep flush crimsoned Miriam’s cheeks; for she felt the sting contained in this speech with two-fold pain because it was Hosea who dealt the thrust.  How many pangs she had been compelled to endure that day on account of her sex, and now he, too, made her feel that she was not his peer because she was a woman.  In the presence of the stones Hur had gathered, and on which her hand now rested, he had appealed to her verdict, as though she were one of the leaders of the people, and now he abruptly thrust her, who felt herself inferior to no man in intellect and talent, back into a woman’s narrow sphere.

But he, too, felt his dignity wounded, and her bearing showed him that this hour would decide whether he or she would have the mastery in their future union.  He stood proudly before her, his mien stern in its majesty—­never before had he seemed so manly, so worthy of admiration.  Yet the desire to battle for her insulted womanly dignity gained supremacy over every other feeling, and it was she who at last broke the brief, painful silence that had followed his last words, and with a composure won only by the exertion of all her strength of will, she began: 

“We have both forgotten what detains us here so late at night.  You wished to confide to me what brings you to your people and to hear, not what Miriam, the weak woman, but the confidante of the Lord decides.”