His tone was abstracted; now it became passionate: “But thinkest thou I would take so much from thee—from thee?”
Isaac spoke soothingly: “Peradventure not for my sake, Benjamin, but for Rachel—whom we both love!”
The shepherd looked up quickly. “Love?” he queried, his mood changing to contempt. “But the other maiden more.”
Isaac laughed. “The other maiden—” All at once he became serious. “Thou wilt understand when I tell thee—” but a glance at his companion’s forbidding countenance caused him to shut his lips in a grimness which was not lost in their short resting time, nor in the several miles which they traveled, nor even in Damascus itself. Only once was there speech between them and that was as they entered the city gates.
It was Benjamin who broke the silence. “Thou hast told me of Rachel, but not of my sister. Take me, therefore, first to Miriam that I may know for myself how she fareth.”
Isaac bent his head stiffly. “It is well,” he said, and led the way to the largest and most magnificent dwelling the shepherd had ever beheld.
To her mistress, Miriam spoke Syrian as far as possible; to Milcah, either Syrian or the speech of Israel, more often a mixture of the two, but to Milcah’s mother it was joy unspeakable to use only her native tongue. Unfortunately, this pleasure was not to last. The feeble strength waned fast, and one morning Miriam ran swiftly to Milcah, imploring her to hasten to the invalid. She herself sped to the gatekeeper.
“Do thou send to the barracks and there leave word that Isaac come home as soon as he arriveth in Damascus. His mother—”
For reply the gatekeeper pointed to the street. In company with two others he was just dismounting. The gate was opened for them and a breathless little figure, tense with excitement, rushed into his arms, unmindful of his companions.