“What was it?” asked Marcus.
“Only a young man, who said that he had been strictly charged by his master, Demetrius the Alexandrian merchant, to deliver a letter at this hour. Here is the letter.”
“Demetrius, the Alexandrian merchant,” said Marcus as he took it. “Why, under that name Caleb who lies there dead passed in Rome.”
“Read the letter,” said Cyril.
So Marcus cut the silk, broke the seal, and read:
“To the noble Marcus,
“In the past I have worked you evil and often striven to take your life. Now it has come to my ears that Domitian, who hates you even worse than I do, if for less reason, has laid a plot to murder you on the threshold of your own house. Therefore, by way of amends for that evidence which I gave against you that stained the truth, since no braver man ever breathed than you are, Marcus, it has come into my mind to visit the Palace Fortunate wrapped in such a cloak as you Roman captains wear. There, before you read this letter, perhaps we shall meet again. Still, mourn me not, Marcus, nor speak of me as generous, or noble, since Miriam is dead, and I who have followed her through life desire to follow her through death, hoping that there I may find a kinder fortune at her hands, or if not, forgetfulness. You who will live long, must drink deep of memory—a bitterer cup. Marcus, farewell. Since die I must, I would that it had been in open fight beneath your sword, but Fate, who has given me fortune, but no true favour, appoints me to the daggers of assassins that seek another heart. So be it. You tarry here, but I travel to Miriam. Why should I grumble at the road?
“Caleb.
“Written at Rome upon the night of my death.”
“A brave man and a bitter,” said Marcus when he had finished reading. “Know, my father, that I am more jealous of him now than ever I was in his life’s days. Had it not been for you and your preaching,” he added angrily, “when he came to seek Miriam, he would have found me at her side. But now, how can I tell?”