Her voice had in it that note of calm endurance which belongs to those who have suffered. Judith, observing her in the strong sunlight, thought she had never looked so frail.
“To-day and to-morrow and the day after will I wait,” went on Sarah, “and then—” she put her hand over her heart—“then if they come not, I will know he hath not found them and I think I cannot wait longer.”
Judith was startled out of her own sad musings. “It is the first time I have heard thee hint at surrender,” she said, reproachfully. “Nay, but be of good courage. What if they should come later?”
“If they come after I am gone,” was the answer, the worn hand still over the tired heart, “tell them I waited as long as I could, as long as the pain would let me. Tell Eli that I say his faithfulness hath never let me feel the lack of a son, and tell Miriam that no one could take her place, but that thou, like a dear, elder daughter, hath filled a corner in my heart all thine own.”
Judith stared incredulously. “Thou canst not mean—” she began, but Sarah went on, unheeding the interruption:
“Strange that the maiden I could not welcome should have been my stay and comfort these five years and more! And tell Benjamin, my beloved—”
Judith brushed away the tears: “Oh but thou dost not know the wrong—”
Sarah was shading her eyes with her hand: “What meaneth that cloud of dust in the valley?”
“Sheep,” declared Judith with a careless glance. “Why, if I had ever known that thou hast even thought of me kindly—and thou couldst not if thou knewest—”
“A flock of sheep larger, yea, twice as large as Benjamin tended,” commented Sarah. “See, the shepherd turneth them aside into the old sheepfold which hath not seen the like since the Syrians swooped down upon us so long ago. And a band of horsemen and a chariot! Thinkest thou the king’s messengers come this way? But why the flock escorted by soldiers?”