“Is it so indeed? Well, the more reason that I should make haste to follow her. Begone and leave me to do the deed alone,” and he stepped towards the sword.
Cyril set his foot upon the shining blade.
“What is this madness?” he asked. “If you did not know of Miriam’s death, why do you desire to kill yourself?”
“Because I have lost more than Miriam. Man, they have robbed me of my honour. By the decree of Titus, I, Marcus, am branded as a coward. Yes, Titus, at whose side I have fought a score of battles—Titus, from whom I have warded many a blow—has banished me from Rome.”
“Tell me of this thing,” said Cyril.
So Marcus told him all. Cyril listened in silence, then said sternly:
“Is it for this that you would kill yourself? Is your honour lessened by a decree based upon false evidence, and given for reasons of policy? Do you cease to be honourable because others are dishonourable, and would you—a soldier—fly from the battle? Now, indeed, Marcus, you show yourself a coward.”
“How can I live on who am so shamed?” he asked passionately. “My friends knew that I could not live, and that is why they wrapped a sword in yonder cloak and sent it me. Also Miriam, you say, is dead.”
“Satan sent it to you, Marcus, desiring to fashion of your foolish pride a ladder down which you might climb to hell. Cast aside this base temptation which wears the mask of false honour; face your trouble like a man, and conquer it by innocence—and faith.”
“Miriam! What of Miriam?”