At first she thought that
this figure must be a corpse thrust here out of the way of the living,
it was so stirless. But corpses do not sigh as this man seemed to do.
Who could he be, she wondered? A prisoner like herself, left to die, as,
perhaps, she would be left to die? The light grew a little. Surely there
was something familiar about the shape of that white head. She crept
nearer, thinking that she might be able to help this old man who was
so sick and suffering. Now she could see his face and the hand that lay
upon his breast. They were those of a living skeleton, for the bones
stood out, and over them the yellow skin was drawn like shrivelled
parchment; only the deep sunk eyes still shone round and bright. Oh! she
knew the face. It was that of Theophilus the Essene, a past president
of the order indeed, who had been her friend from earliest childhood and
the master who taught her languages in those far-off happy years which
she spent in the village by the Dead Sea. This Theophilus she had found
dwelling with the Essenes in their cavern home, and none of them had
welcomed her more warmly. Some ten days ago, against the advice of
Ithiel and others, he had insisted on creeping out to take the air and
gather news in the city.
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