“A prince of Judah, or some other of one of the tribes, will come soon and claim my Tirzah, and ride away with her, to be the light of another house. What will then become of me?”
She answered with sobs.
“War is a trade,” he continued, more soberly. “To learn it thoroughly, one must go to school, and there is no school like a Roman camp.”
“You would not fight for Rome?” she asked, holding her breath.
“And you—even you hate her. The whole world hates her. In that, O Tirzah, find the reason of the answer I give you— Yes, I will fight for her, if, in return, she will teach me how one day to fight against her.”
“When will you go?”
Amrah’s steps were then heard returning.
“Hist!” he said. “Do not let her know of what I am thinking.”
The faithful slave came in with breakfast, and placed the waiter holding it upon a stool before them; then, with white napkins upon her arm, she remained to serve them. They dipped their fingers in a bowl of water, and were rinsing them, when a noise arrested their attention. They listened, and distinguished martial music in the street on the north side of the house.
“Soldiers from the Praetorium! I must see them,” he cried, springing from the divan, and running out.