Linton sat silent for a moment. Then he leaned forward, and as he did so one hand closed upon and held her own. "I think we have it here in this inscription:—
"The hours are found around the Cross, and while 'tis fine,
The time is measured by a moving line,
But if the sky be clouded, mark the loss
Of hours not ruled by shadows from the Cross."
"Ah! The Cross! The Cross!" sighed Zenobia.
Linton repeated the word in a pondering and half-puzzled tone, raising his hat with instinctive reverence. "I feel more than ever that this place is not new to me," he added, rising and looking round with wondering eyes.
"And I, too, have the same persistent sense of memory," half whispered Zenobia. "There is a tradition that perhaps explains my dream—do you know it?—that in the days of the Romans there was a heathen temple here, where we are sitting, and that an early convert to Christianity, a sculptor of great skill, erected a cross upon its threshold."
"And the sculptor was put to death! I have read it, or did I dream it?" He turned and looked down upon the city, as if seeking some clue or inspiration. "There was a priestess," he said slowly, "a priestess...."
Zenobia had risen to her feet. "A priestess of the Temple of Sul. Yes! she, too, was put to death. They buried her alive." She pressed the backs of her hands to her brow; her gaze assumed an almost tragic intensity. "She had listened to the sculptor. They found her kneeling by the Cross, and in the Temple of Sul the sacred fire had gone out...."
She paused. Each looked into the other's eyes. A flash of inspiration came to both of them.
"Your face," she said, "is the face of the sculptor in my dream."