Benoni took it and read. It was worded thus:
“To Marcus, the son of Emilius, the captain, in the name of Cæsar, greetings. Hereby we command you, should you in your discretion think fit, to seize the person of Benoni, the Jewish merchant, a dweller in Tyre, and to convey him as a prisoner to Rome, there to answer charges which have been laid against him, with the particulars of which you are acquainted, which said particulars you will find awaiting you in Rome, of having conspired with certain other Jews, to overthrow the authority of Cæsar in this his province of Judæa.
“(Signed) Gessius Florus, Procurator.”
Benoni having read sank back upon his couch, gasping, his white face livid with surprise and fear. Then a thought seemed to strike him. Seizing the paper he tore it into fragments.
“Now, Roman,” he said, “where is your warrant?”
“In my pocket,” answered Marcus; “that which I showed you was but a copy. Nay, do not ring, do not touch that bell. See this,” and he drew a silver whistle from his robe. “Outside your gate stand fifty soldiers. Shall I sound it?”
“Not so,” answered Benoni. “I will swear the oath, though indeed it is needless. Why should you suppose that I could wish to force this maid into any marriage, or to work her evil on account of matters of her faith?”
“Because you are a Jew and a bigot. You gave her father and her mother to a cruel death, why should you spare her? Also you hate me and all my people; why, then, should you not favour my rival, although he is a murderer whose life I have twice spared at the prayer of Miriam? Swear now.”
So Benoni lifted his hand and swore a solemn oath that he would not force his granddaughter, Miriam, to marry Caleb, or any other man; and that he would not betray the secret of her faith, or persecute her because of it.
“It is not enough,” said Marcus. “Write it down and sign.”