They were fruitless; still, had any thought of it there was meaning in
them. On Nehushta's finger, as it chanced, shone a ring which Miriam
ought to know, seeing that for some years she had worn it on her own.
It would seem that she did know it, at any rate her bosom and neck grew
red and a spasm passed across her face which even the falling hair did
not suffice to hide.
The ring told Miriam that Marcus lived and that Nehushta was his
messenger. This suspense at least was ended.
Now the door-keeper called a warning and the buyers flocked from the
building. Outside, the auctioneer, a smooth-faced, glib-tongued man, was
already mounting the rostrum. Calling for silence he began his speech.
On this evening of festival, he said, he would be brief. The lots he had
to offer to the select body of connoisseurs he saw before him, were the
property of the Imperator Titus, and the proceeds of the sale, it was
his duty to tell them, would not go into Caesar's pocket, but were to be
equally divided between the poor of Rome and deserving soldiers who
had been wounded or had lost their health in the war, a fact which must
cause every patriotic citizen to bid more briskly. These lots, he might
say, were unique, being nothing else than the fifteen most beautiful
girls, believed all of them to be of noble blood, among the many
thousands who had been captured at the sack of Jerusalem, the city of
the Jews, especially selected to adorn the great conqueror's Triumph.
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