"Titus with a mighty host draws
near to Jerusalem from Caesarea."
"There is no joy in that tale," replied Miriam, "for it means that the
Holy City will be besieged and taken."
"Nay, but among that host is one who, if all the stories are true," and
again he glanced at her face, "would rather take you than the city."
"Who?" she said, pressing her hands against her heart and turning redder
than the lamplight.
"One of Titus' prefects of horse, the noble Roman, Marcus, whom in
byegone days you knew by the banks of Jordan."
Now the red blood fled back to Miriam's heart, and she turned so faint
that had not the wall been near at hand she would have fallen.
"Marcus?" she said. "Well, he swore that he would come, yet it will
bring him little nearer me;" and she turned and sought her chamber.
So Marcus had come. Since he sent the letter and the ring that was upon
her hand, and the pearls which were about her throat, she had heard no
more of him. Twice she had written and forwarded the writings by the
most trusty messenger whom she could find, but whether they reached him
she did not know. For more than two years the silence between them had
been that of death, till, indeed, at times she thought that he must be
dead.
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