Like Caleb, he satisfied himself of the truth of the matter by an interview with the captain of the Imperatrix. Then with a sorrowful heart he departed to the prison near the Temple of Mars. Here the warden told him that Marcus wished to see no one, but answering “Friend, my business will not wait,” he pushed past the man and entered the room beyond. Marcus was standing up in the centre of it, in his hand a drawn sword of the short Roman pattern, which, on catching sight of his visitor, he cast upon the table with an exclamation of impatience. It fell beside a letter addressed to “The Lady Miriam in Tyre. To be given into her own hand.”
“Peace be with you,” said the bishop, searching his face with his quiet eyes.
“I thank you, friend,” answered Marcus, smiling strangely, “I need peace, and—seek it.”
“Son,” asked the bishop, “what were you about to do?”
“Friend,” answered Marcus, “If you desire to know, I was about to fall upon my sword. One more minute and I should have been dead. They brought it me with the cloak and other things. It was thoughtful of them, and I guessed their meaning.”
Cyril lifted the sword from the table and cast it into a corner of the room.
“God be thanked,” he said, “Who led my feet here in time to save you from this sin. Why, because it has pleased Him to take her life, should you seek to take your own?”
“Her life?” said Marcus. “What dreadful words are these. Her life! Whose life?”
“The life of Miriam. I came to tell you. She is drowned upon the seas with all her company.”
For a moment Marcus stood swaying to and fro like a drunken man. Then he said: