“The money is given to the poor,” interposed Ithiel.
“Would it be rude to ask at what price?”
“Sometimes,” replied Ithiel with pride, “travellers have given me as much as a silver shekel.[*] Once indeed, for a group of camels with their Arabian drivers, I received four shekels; but that took my niece three months to do.”
[*] About 2s. 6d. of English money.
“A shekel! Four shekels!” said Marcus in a voice of despair; “I will buy them all—no, I will not, it would be robbery. And this bust?”
“That, sir, is not for sale; it is a gift to my uncle, or rather to my uncles, to be set up in their court-room.”
An idea struck Marcus. “I am here for a few weeks,” he said. “Tell me, lady, if your uncle Ithiel will permit it, at what price will you execute a bust of myself of the same size and quality?”
“It would be dear,” said Miriam, smiling at the notion, “for the marble costs something, and the tools, which wear out. Oh, it would be very dear!” This she repeated, wondering what she could ask in her charitable avarice. “It would be——” yes, she would venture it—“fifty shekels!”
“I am poor enough,” replied Marcus quietly, “but I will give you two hundred.”
“Two hundred!” gasped Miriam. “It is absurd. I could never accept two hundred shekels for a piece of stonework. Then indeed you might say that you had fallen among thieves on the banks of Jordan. No. If my uncles will permit it and there is time, I will do my poor best for fifty—only, sir, I advise you against it, since to win that bad likeness you must sit for many weary hours.”