“Mother,” she said, “it is the people we met yesterday, the people who nursed Marius, with a letter from him.”
Together they glanced at the few words in the letter from Marius, commending the fugitives to the care of his father and mother. In a few minutes Damaris and Lucia received the strangers in the atrium. Miriam asked to see Damaris apart, and few words of explanation were needed between them.
“My husband purchased these captives on the coast of Gaul,” she said. “They are noble. They were taken by pirates. They are Christians. They are good. Lady, save them from becoming slaves in the household of the Emperor. One of his people has seen them, and is coming, I fear, to purchase them to-day.”
“It must not be,” said Damaris. “What would you have us do?”
“Ransom them, purchase them, lady; make them your own. They belong to your Christ!”
“You are not Christian?” Damaris asked courteously.
“My family are of the tribe of Judah—of the family of your Christ. Christians robbed us of all, of our only child. But I believe your Christ was good.”
Damaris looked into the dark, sad, Oriental eyes and read much there. After a moment’s pause she took Miriam’s hand.
“You have pity on these captives,” she said tenderly, “as your great prophets commanded you; you know the heart of a captive. You have pity on this maiden for the sake of your own dead maiden child.”
“Our daughter is not dead,” exclaimed Miriam, with a tremulous voice. “But she is a captive, perhaps a slave, we know not where. We search for her year after year. We pray for her night and day. There is One Who lives and hears.”