Then over the tortured, famished city down fell
the welcome night. To none was it more welcome than to Miriam, for with
it came a copious dew which seemed to condense upon the gilded spike of
her marble pillar, whence it trickled so continually, that by licking
a little channel in the marble, she was enabled, before it ceased, to
allay the worst pangs of her thirst. This dew gathered upon her hair,
bared neck and garments, so that through them also she seemed to take
in moisture and renew her life. After this she slept a while, expecting
always to be awakened by some fresh conflict. But on that night none
took place, the fight was for the morrow. Meanwhile there was peace.
Miriam dreamed in her uneasy sleep, and in this dream many visions came
to her. She saw this sacred hill of Moriah, whereon the Temple stood, as
it had been in the beginning, a rugged spot clothed with ungrafted carob
trees and olives, and inhabited, not of men, but by wild boars and the
hyaenas that preyed upon their young. Almost in its centre lay a huge
black stone. To this stone came a man clad in the garb of the Arabs of
the desert, and with him a little lad whom he bound upon the stone as
though to offer him in sacrifice. Then, as he was about to plunge a
knife into his heart, a glory shone round the place, and a voice cried
to him to hold his hand.
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